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Written by Ronny Esperas

I was a junior in high school when I first met Wally. He just finished a tour in Viet Nam. The first thing noticed about Wally was his size. He was a hulking of a human being, well over six feet-four inches about two hundred seventy pounds and not a ounce of fat on him. He had the most wonderful, warm personality. The one thing that impressed you the most was his love for his family. He was very proud of his heritage and the traditions of his family.

We were in a time when all young men our age began bonding together. We spend a lot of time playing basketball, volleyball, and football. The one thing everyone expected you to do well, if you were born and raised in Hawaii is surfing. Well, I am here to say not all of us that were born and raised in the islands learn to surf. Most of the time I went to the beach because all the wahines were there. Now Wally love to surf. He spent a lot of time at the beach. He was there almost every weekend. Since we lived in the city we went to places like Diamond Head, Kewalo Basin, Waikiki and most of the South Shore. Wally was from Hilo, Hawaii and he never surfed the north shore. Now my hometown is Wahiawa so I was familiar with the beaches on the north end of Oahu.

Metata had this 1927 model-T woody wagon that we packed our boards in and headed for the North Shore. Oh yes, we were playing the role. We were big time surfers with a woody wagon going to conquer the waves at the Pipeline. Now we all know Wally could surf and Kuipo was average. As for Metata and myself we were novices. We checked out Haleiwa and it was flat. We headed to the Pipeline and it was dead there too. We stopped at Waimea Bay and nothing was happening there. Then we headed to Pupukea and could not believe what we were seeing. The waves were breaking 12 to 15 feet with a slight off shore breeze. I have never surfed in any thing bigger than 8-foot waves. I was a little apprehensive as I looked out over the sets of waves coming in. Wally couldn't wait to get out there and he was the first to hit the water.

Kuipo, Metata and me hit the water at the same time. We managed to get through the white wash and approached the first wave. That's when I knew I was wrong, you see, these were not 12 to15 foot waves, they were 20 footers. The wave was already breaking and I flipped my board to dive under it. That's when felt the power of the wave. It picked me up and now I was headed toward shore. My board was ripped from my arms. There was nothing I could do except ride the white wash hoping I had enough air in my lungs. The wave pulled me in every direction as it tossed me around like a piece of cloth in a washing machine. I finally felt the bottom and kicked up to get air only to get knock down and thrown up on the beach. As I was getting up I looked to my left to see Kuipo spitting sand and water from his mouth. I turned to my right and saw Metata dragging only half his board up the beach.

I've heard many times about surf like this and you never know what it is like until you get caught in one. I had a little taste of how powerful Kanaloa "god of the ocean" can be and I didn't want to make him madder then he already was!

The question now was: Where was Wally? He was not on the beach. We looked out over the water. The waves were getting bigger and the wind also picked up. It was blowing hard enough to create a heavy mist above the waves. The sets of waves seem to go all the way to the horizon. The ocean looked ugly and angry. This was the beginning of a storm rolling in. The waves started to pound the shore so hard the sound was deafening. You could see as each wave hit the shore it took out tons of sands. I look out to the west and the sun was sitting on top of the mountain range. The sky was getting darker and grayer. It had been much clearer when we first got there. This whole scene was getting weird. I started to get worried because we still couldn't find Wally.

Then I saw him, a lone dark figure in a right hand stance with his arms way out from his sides. His hair stood straight back from the wind blowing across the wave. Now you could see how big the waves were by using Wally as a scale, they were 25 footers plus!

As I watched Wally work his way down and across this huge wave, I knew he was doing what most surfers only dream about. If I could take that moment in time and put it on canvas the caption would read: "The ancient gods welcoming home one of their sons"

Wally caught three more waves before he came in. He didn't jump up and down or did high fives or rambled about what he just did. He just said, "That was too tough for me." The expression on his face, however, said it all.

I have seen many things in my life and I have been to places where not many people have a chance to go to. I have had my fair share of fulfillment in what life has to offer. That day has been burned in my memory forever. I will always remember Wally as "The Biggest Kanaka I Ever Met In My Life".

Ronny Esperas' hometown is Wahiawa, Oahu.  He attended Stevenson Intermediate and Graduated from Roosevelt '66. He left the Islands in 1968. Eventually settling in Everett, Washington where he now lives. He makes it a point to go home every couple of years. "... soon I will come home for good" he says.

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Written by Daylynn Kyles

User Rating: 5 / 5

When I look back, there was so much stuff my Dad did for us kids. Till today, I still can outclass many men at building things. I'm not a Tita, but my dad didn't raise a dummy either. I learned to build things with my dad. I was his "tool girl". I still have a talent to figure wood projects out in my head, draw it on paper, and building it. We worked in the back yard or the garage together many times. He was so patient. He'd say "Daylynn go get me the Phillips screw driver" and I'd come back with the wrong one. He'd patiently send me back for the other one. I still build things with my dad.

Recently he flew to Oahu to help build a storage shed/kennel in my back yard. We're talking roof, rafters, doors, beams, the whole works. It came out PERFECT. I can't tell you the joy I feel when I work with him on a project. If anything broke in our house, it was Dad to the rescue. Toasters, blow dryers, everything, was repaired by my Dad. That poor man never had a son, but he sure made use of the fact that I was a tomboy! *smile* Dad is flying up in a week to build more things and repair things with me again. I can't wait.

One day, when I was about 8, my dad took me, the youngest daughter, fishing. We didn't go that often, maybe once a month.  My other sisters were real girly. They like stay home, brush their hair kinda girls. My mom would pack a small cooler with juice and sandwiches. My Dad would get the little tackle box ready. He would make sure the bamboo fishing poles fit in the car sticking out the back window. Then off we would go, down by Suisan, in the back, by the boat ramp. There would only be a few other people fishing along the edges of the water. Some more serious with serious looking fishing poles, some like us, with the good old bamboo poles, but they'd be drinking their beer. But it was just me and Dad in our own little world of fishing for "nothing".

We never did EVER catch anything. One time I was sitting under a tree busy catching A'ama crabs. I put bait down with fishing line attached. The crabs would hook onto the bait and I'd pull them into the bucket. I was a little freaked out by the crabs, but as long as they never touch me, I was okay. I let them go when we were done. But this time I was still in the "collection" stage. Suddenly I felt this tickling on my back. 'Cause I was playing with those darn crabs, I thought it was a crab on my back. Now that I look back, HOW CAN BE? But anyways, I started screaming at the top of my lungs and running in circles. My dad had put his pole over his shoulder and the tip of the bamboo pole had tickled my back. NO matter, everyone at the boat ramp was staring at us and my dad felt so embarrassed cause people were looking at him like I was getting beaten. He packed up, never said a word and we left. We never went fishing again.

I love my dad... We stuck to building things after that day. My Dad lives in Hilo on the Big Island. He is retired and his sole job is making my mom crazy because he's bored half the time and wants to keep rebuilding the house. He and my mom fly up to Oahu to visit with us at least 4 times a year. If I can plead, beg, sometimes it's more often than that. My daughters LOVE their grandpa. In fact, my older daughter goes to the Big Island every summer to stay at their home and get spoiled. When I was growing up, I thought my dad was the most militaristic person, so hell bent on being on time, doing things right. Now as I look back, I can see where he molded us, shaped us, into the good people his daughters are today. (If I may say so myself). I happen to be bringing up my girls with the same discipline and values my dad instilled in me.

I am originally from Kaumana, Hawaii near Hilo. I graduated from Hilo High ('83) I moved to Waimanalo with my husband, Paul in 1996. We love living on the Windward side. We have two daughters that I adore, Erica and Kendra. Together my husband and I raise, train, and show Rottweilers. We enjoy the sport of Schutzhund. I run two German Rottweiler clubs in Hawaii. I feel very lucky to have been raised in the Islands by such great parents.

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Written by Kamaka Brown

User Rating: 3 / 5

An AlohaWorld Forum Collaboration Edited by Kamaka Brown

When I was small, my fuddah used to tell me stories about the legendary Mongoose Man. Me and my kid bruddah used to stay awake long after we was supposed to be sleeping and talk about the latest episode my fuddah wen create as bedtime stories each night.

"He was one kolohe kid that ran away from home one day and was raised by one pack of mongoose in one Ewa Beach cane field," my fuddah started in with the story one nite. "Das how da buggah got his name."

"Actually, if you noticed" my fuddah said." he was very fast around chickens which comes from his early training in what is now known as "Da Mongoose Years". Legend has it that he fell into a taro patch one nite and got stuck. A kindly ole tutu man found him up to his okole in mud, cleaned him up and took him home."

"Hoo, dis going be good," I whispered to my bruddah. My bruddah licked his lips in anticipation of a great story.

"You see," my fuddah as just getting his second wind, "It was at this place and time he learned to wear clothes and speak pidgin instead of eating pigeons." My fuddah chuckled at his own joke.

"Unfortunately, his social skills were slow in developing." My fuddah took a deep breath. "One day while at Like Like Drive Inn, he sucked a whole bowl of saimin up his nose. This alienated him from his adopted family and got them banned from the restaurant."

"Left on his own, he found solace among a sordid band of misfits that populated an abandoned pool hall in Kalihi." We let our imagination create a dusty dark room with musty old pool tables and creaky wooden floors. The ghosts of men bending over the tables with their cue sticks, aiming at phantom pockets at the end of fading green felt.

"Although sometimes at odds with members of his new ohana, the Mongoose Man had finally found a home where he was accepted" My fuddah raised his hands to show some finality to his statement. All was good with the world. Mongoose Man lived happily ever after.

Nah ... we wasn't going let dat happen. So we bugged my fuddah until he gave in one nite. He came upstairs as me and bruddah was brushing our teeth getting ready for bed.

"I don't know if you guys know that sometimes the Mongoose Man did revert back to stealing eggs from chicken coops and scaring small children," Me and bruddah gave each uddah the look. Our fuddah had more Mongoose Man stories!

"Oh don't get me wrong," our fuddah said not missing a beat. It was like he had been telling the story all along. He scratched his head and sat in the wicker chair in the corner of the room.

"The Mongoose Man generally accepted his role as the Village Bad Boy which is a couple of steps above the Village Lolo, but that is another story." Our fuddah paused for effect. We knew he would tell stories about the Village Lolo at another time.

"Years later" my fuddah went on, "a number of letters and mail from individuals around the world who had recordings, writings, documents, video, petroglyphs, chants, songs, poems, yodelings, and other recollections of the fabled "Mongoose Chronicles."

"It certainly amazed everyone as reports poured in, how much of an influence this personality has had on folklore of the Islands." Our fuddah could see it in our eyes. We needed to hear more about the legend.

"Why, folks even created a Museum of Natural History of the Mongoose Chronicles." My fuddah said. "I would show you the papers but I left them at work."

"There was grassroots support to this initiative among the Mongoose Man's loyal supporters and athletic supporters." My fuddah continued.

"Soon there was a massive campaign to gather all the artifacts needed to create this awesome undertaking." My fuddah took a breathe, "Ok, in some cases overtaking ... but das one uddah story involving some limu kohu and an exotic dancer named Hanalei. Your muddah said I gotta wait until you guys are older to tell you that one." My fuddah chuckled under his breath.

"The museum committee has selected a Head Curator and was actively looking for Curators for other body parts." My fuddah stood up to emphasize the point. "Boys, dis was one big big job, dis museum."

We couldn't wait for our fuddah to get in from work the next evening to get going with the story. We knew he would ask us if we did our chores: "Yes, Daddy." He would ask if we did our homework: "Yes, Daddy."

"K boys, right after dinner when you finish wash da dishes" our fuddah promised. Man oh man, we wolfed down our dinner and dry cleaned dem dishes. Momma looked at us over the top of her reading classes and shook her head. "You filling their heads with opala!!" she said.

"Neva mind, Momma" our fuddah said, "it's good for the boys. They can tell their kids when we are gone about the Mongoose Man." Momma shook her head sum mo and went back to her sewing smiling ever so slightly.

Our fuddah signaled us into da palor. "One day I saw an article in the newspaper that said ancient ruins have been located in a Mililani cane field of a brewery fabled to be the location where Mongoose Beer was bottled by a secret society of barely sober brew masters."

"It was thought that most brew masters were Portagees. How ewa, items recovered from the site indicate Filipinos were present." My bruddah and I started to laugh.

"Eh no laugh," our fuddah was serious, "the discovery of three chicken fight rings in the rear of the brewery led to this conclusion and one sign that read "Black Dog Adobo Plate Lunch" in what is now thought to be an employee cafeteria." Our fuddah could not keep a straight face on that one and had to join in the laughter with us. Black Dog Adobo Plate Lunch!! Ai Carrumbah!

"Now boys," he got serious, "archeologist from the Bishop Museum participated in the dig in Mililani." My fuddah cleared his throat, "one thing is certain, Mongoose Beer was a potent mixture of hops, skips and jumps performed in a secret ceremony known only by a select few."

My bruddah got up from the bed and began hopping around on one foot making us all crack up. "You mean like dis?" he laughed.

My fuddah took out an old newspepah from underneath the coffee table. "Let me read you dis article from the Star Bulletin. It says: 'The ancient Mongoose Brewery, discovered in Mililani recently by Portagee excavation team, reports that most of the sample specimens found at the brewery were lost because the researchers drank 'em all up.'"

My bruddah and me looked at each other and rolled our eyes. Our fuddah thought he was fooling us by reading a fake article from one old newspepah. "Eh, if you no believe me, you can read the ress." he handed me the newspepah.

I began to read the article on the front page:

"Dateline: Wahiawa Pineapple Field somewhere outside Whitmore Village-

Responding to an alleged threat to harm the newly discovered archeological site and Museum building, ground forces from nearby Schofield Army base have established a strong perimeter around the site.

Armed with rubbah bullets, rubbah bands, and rubbah pants ( in case of accidents) these troops under the direction of Chief of Security and Captain of the Guard ( Right Guard and Left Guard in case of B.O) and are ready for any attempt to disturb or harm the site.

In a related story, the Kala Mung Kai Association of Baga'oong Producers have donated 5,000 jars of Baga'oong to the Portagee Airforce to provide arial support incase of attack. These jars will be used as non-lethal "kinda" smart bombs to ward off any sneaky attempts by any the mythical Mongoose Man or any of his friends to harm the findings at this historical site."

I was speechless. The stories my fuddah was telling us was true. There it was in the newspepah! (I learned later, my fuddah's friend, Clinton who worked in a print shop wen make the newspepah as one joke)

Many variations of the Mongoose Chronicles were told and retold throughout the years. Each time they were recounted, they were embellished just a little bit, just like each time someone heat up the day old stew they put little bit salt and small pinch chili peppah water!

Eh, one day you too might catch wind of a Mongoose Chronicle episode. No forget it all started in one tin roofed house in Waimea Valley along the river. We couldn't catch radio or TV signal in da valley, but we could catch the wonderful stories and tales told by our fuddah on sleepy evenings in the country while the buffo frogs croaked along the river bank.

"Boys," our fuddah was conjuring up anuddah one, "did I ever tell you guys about da time da Mongoose Man wen fight Palani, da king of da Menehune?"

We shook our heads No.

"No??" he said, "well, let me tell you wot happened ..."

"The Mongoose Chronicles" is a collaborative effort of old AlohaWorld Forum "regulars". All are "transplanted locals" now living in Oregon and California. Clinton, Mokihana and Kamaka all contributed to the "thread".

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Written by Helene Fernandez

User Rating: 5 / 5

Growing up with Grandma and Papa in the 70's was the best. Papa worked as a foreman for a steel or iron works company. Not too sure the name of the company. Grandma stayed at home and did the house stuff. Mom and Dad were divorced. Mom lived close by at the Circle Jade building in Kaimuki, across from the original W&M. She worked nights driving the Wiki-Wiki bus at the airport. Dad was a truck driver. So that's why my older sis, younger brother and myself lived with Grandma and Papa.

Grandma and Papa bought their house in Palolo Valley with cash. No such thing as 20% down payment and excellent credit. Just save money and buy one house. Papa built a stonewall on the side of the house. He stabilized the footing of the house by digging under the house, laying steel frames underground, and pouring concrete around the house. No such thing as getting "association approval". Papa did it because Palolo was known for its landslides. He told his neighbors to do the same, but they didn't. He also told the City and County that the stonewall they built alongside my Papa's wall was going to fall cause it wasn't built properly. The wall was weak and will eventually fall down he told them. But the C&C not going listen to one Hawaiian, they have educated men working on the job. We'll guess what! The next heavy storm, down went all the neighbors homes and the stone wall that the C&C built. My Grandma and Papa's house and stonewall was the only thing that withstood the landslide. My papa was one akamai Hawaiian.

We could see Papa in his 2-door Toyota Corolla station wagon coming down the hill coming home from work. By the way my Grandma had a yellow 4-door Toyota station wagon. Both cars bought new and paid with cash. No such thing as monthly payments. As soon Papa drove in the driveway, my job was to grab a glass and cold Primo from the fridge. My brother's job was to would turn on the radio to KCCN AM (no such thing as FM). My sister would bring out the plate sashimi and place his lucky strike cigarettes on the table. This ritual happened everyday like clockwork. We would all sit together on the table, Papa enjoying his beer and raw fish, Grandma with her journal and receipts for the day.

Grandma was Hawaiian-Chinese and kept the finances. She taped every receipt in her daily journal to keep track of spending. She was an amazing lady. Then we would eat dinner. We would speak only if we were spoken to. No talking at the table. We had to mind our manners at the table. You know the motto, "Eat whatever was put in front of you." Don't even try to make a face or sniff your food. A gesture like that would get you good lickens. When we were done eating ALL the food on our plate, we would say, "Excuse me from the table". Grandma or Papa would check our plate to see that we finished everything and say, "You're excused". We then washed our own plate and cup and retired to the parlor.

Now the trick is to instill the same values and discipline in today's world with our kids.

Of which, unfortunately, I had no luck.

The house is still the only house on the left hand side of the road. A green pasture occupies the area where houses once stood. C&C came back several more times to repair the ever falling stonewall. After years of continuous repairs they finally "got smart" and put up metal rails. Papa's stonewall is still standing strong and durable.

I am proud of my Grandma and Papa. They were hard working people, lived the American dream. They didn't need to make millions, live in the most extravagant area, have the biggest home, or felt the to need to keep up with the Jones' or Kaiser's. They lived the simple life. That's what I crave.

Helene Fernandez is originally from Kaimuki and Palolo, Oahu. She has lived in California and has recently moved to Las Vegas, Nevada. "I really miss seeing the ocean", she says.

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Written by Mokihana White

User Rating: 5 / 5

In ouah side yahd, up Mânoa Valley, get plenny kakaroaches. Anybody who wen live in Hawai'i know how bad dem buggahs stay. At night, all u gotta do is turn on da light an ho, alla kakaroaches run foah hide. In da cupboards, in da cracks in da flooah, in closets, everyweah! Dey so uglee an from small keiki days I stay sked of dem.

Dis one time, dey wen get so bad dat my mom an dad wen decide to get some kine kakaroach killah company foah come out an spray alla da yards foah kill da kakaroaches. By da time dey wen decide foah do dis, da kakaroaches was so bad dat no mattah how clean da hale, get plenny of dem ugalee buggahs all  ovah da place.

I wuz insai da hale, an da kakaroach assassins wuz doing deah job, killing dem buggahs all ovah da place. Dey had been working about one houah oa so. Den I wen go to da kitchen foah spock wat going on, cuz I could spock da yahd from deah. I hated dem kakaroaches, lemme tell u. Dey gimme da creeps!  So I like spock dem buggahs get killed.

I wen stand at da doah of da kitchen, but nevah wen pay attenshun to da fack  dat da electric cohd stay coming insai da hale. Was fah away from da yahd  anyways. But den, my worst nightmayah wen come true! Auwe!

Dis one bambucha size kamikaze kakaroach bombah wen come flyin insai da hale, chru dat pakanini opening in da doah, an wen fly down da back of my shirt! I wen let out one scream dat could be heard alla way to Waikîkî! Auwe, dat buggah stay crawling all ovah my back an I no could shake heem out! I stay hopping up an down, screaming da whole time, shaking my shirt, but dat buggah just kept crawling! Finally, just wen I tot I was going make, dat ting wen go out an onto da flooah. But I stay barefoot an no like step on heem foah kill um ... so I just wen leave dat room all kine wikiwiki, wen insai my room an close da door, an nevah wen come out foah long time, till my folks wen tell me alla kakaroaches stay gone. I tink my papa-san wen stomp dat buggah. Wuz terrible day, an even now, I get creepy crawlies jus tinkin about dat awful day.

Mokihana White was brought up in the Mânoa area on the Island of O'ahu. She attended Mânoa Elementary, Robert Louis Stevenson Junior High and University High School. She now lives in the Pacific Northwest with her husband and a menagerie of animals. They have a real estate appraisal business and live 15 miles southeast of Portland in Boring, Oregon.

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Written by Helene Fernandez

User Rating: 5 / 5

Forget about the evictions and all the media propaganda surrounding Sand Island in the 70's. I am unable to recollect the legalities of the time when my Grandparents lived at Sand Island, but camping out or "living" at Sand Island, from what I can remember, was the best!

Let it be known, Grandpa and Grandma Paio had an apartment on Waikamilo Rd. (Liberty Bakery was around the corner, the fresh bread was so ono), but chose to spend some of their days living in a wooden structure on the beach at Sand Island.

It was a fun ride to get to Grandma and Grandpa's "house". It was like 4-wheeling through a junkyard. Trash and wrecked cars were strewn along the bumpy dirt road. You could not see the beach area as you drove in, all I remember is - look for the leaning tower and we were almost there.

The days spent there were filled with adventure. My younger brother Matthew Boy, older sis U'i, cousins Hoku, and Van John, and myself played from sun up to sun down. We made friends or made trouble with the other kids. We swam, dug huge holes in the sand, watched the fishermen, and basically "ran wild", liked the kolohe kids we were.

The "Ice Man" as we called him, delivered ice. You know -- frozen water. The Ice Man would deliver ice to all of us living on the beach. I remember his white beard and mustache. Everyone that lived at Sand Island was family. From what I can remember, Grandma and Papa lived in wooden structures, with an out-house, and used a generator for power. The house faced the ocean. The beds were placed in the corner, cooking area was to the left, and the dining area/party table was an open area that looked out towards the beach.

Food always tasted the best at the beach. If we got hungry, Grandma Paio always had poi, Maui onion and Hawaiian salt on the table. My favorite was eating dried opae and poi. The opae was big enough to just dunk one in the poi and eat. Dinner was just as ono. Fish and poi, stew and poi, everything and poi. Sometimes we would eat crab and pipii (you had to dig out the meat with a safety pin).

In the evening was when the adults got to play. All the adults would get together to eat and drink. The ukulele and guitars would come out. They would sing and play music all night. I would fall asleep to the sounds of adults laughing, beautiful music, and the ocean in the background. It was an experience that I was fortunate to experience and will never forget.

Grandma and Papa Paio are in heaven now with all the other Hawaiians and having a big party. I can still hear the singing, "When the piggy no more ears, how can he hear..........."

Helene Fernandez is originally from Kaimuki and Palolo, Oahu. She graduated from Redemption Academy ('86) She has lived in California and has recently moved to Las Vegas, Nevada. She is married with a daughter.

Although Las Vegas has a lot of Hawaii transplants, nothing beats going home. I really miss seeing the ocean.

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Written by Kamaka Brown

User Rating: 5 / 5

It took us almost four hours on a two-lane road to get from Waimea to Palolo Valley in my father's '52 Plymouth. Most of the ride I spent sleeping in the large back seat of the sedan. My head began to nod as we drove past the undulating green waves of sugarcane with white tassels signaling in the wind. After that came the disciplined row after row of pineapple fields on both sides of Wahiawa.

Every now and then we would come up behind a lumbering pineapple laden truck huffing its way to the plant. Muttering under his breath, careful not to swear, my dad downshifted the Plymouth. We are talking about standard column shift here! Then came the swarms of black pineapple bugs hitting the windshield and errant ones flying into the car itself. Double clutching the old four-door clunker, Dad stomped the accelerator to the floor. The heaving engine responded with a wheeze and then a roar. We found ourselves overtaking the truck only to come up behind a convoy of army trucks from Schofield creeping along at the regulation speed of 25 mph.

That was my family and me on our way to visit my mom's sisters in Palolo. I was full of anticipation at playing with my City Cousins. How I admired them. They had such an exciting life. The city was full of lights and action. Cars honked their way along the avenues. Buses roared along the streets. You could go see 'wrassaling' at the Civic Auditorium. My Uncle Earl was a professional wrestler the "Sheik". His sons were always boasting about their father's victories. How I wanted so much to live in the city. Hoo da junk live in da sticks!!

And they had Television! Oh man, how amazing was that? I could eat my dinner and watch the T.V. Mickey Mouse Club! I was in love with Annette. Chubby Roland. Captain Honolulu. Even Filopino Fiesta! No laugh! No such thing in da sticks! Junk, no?

During the summertime, my City Cousins would be brought out to our place in the country. We lived along side the Waimea River. They joined me in Pirate games on the river. Hikes up to the falls and discoveries of caves and hidden trails were all part of a typical summer day in the country.

Mom cooked, baked ulu and goodies in our kerosene stove. That's right we didn't have electricity. A trip to Niimi Store on the highway at Pupukea was a necessity every couple of days to buy block ice for the "ice box" and kerosene for the lamps and stove.

How I envied my City Cousins with their bus riding adventure stories and "stuff" they saw on TV. I was actually ashamed of our humble lifestyle. I always thought the reason they were at the house for a couple of weeks in the country was punishment. I could imagine my Aunty saying: "Ok, just for THAT, you will spend two weeks in the country!" I mean why else would they come down? Hoo man, the city was so cool! I would trade places in a flash!

The summer months and breezy days meandered through our lives. It flowed through the years like the river moving slowly yet deliberately toward the bay. The sounds of buffo frogs echoing across the water at night blended with the crash of winter surf a half mile away. Our lives and the lives of those around us were destined to be irrevocably changed by events that would take place.

Statehood. The Viet Nam war. The assassination of John F. Kennedy. The Nixon years. The resurgence of Hawaiian Sovereignty. Events on Kahoolawe. Our music, our culture, our lifestyles, our language, our Island home forever changed.

I recently wrote and published a short story about life in Waimea Valley. One of my "city cousins" now living on the mainland sent me an email saying how much he enjoyed the story.

"You know what, Cuz?" he wrote, "The best memories I have of my youth was spending summer months at your house in the country. I can't tell you how we looked forward to being at the house. Thank you for sharing and bringing back those warm memories. I can still smell the breadfruit baking in the kerosene oven. I always envied your life in the country and wished I could trade places with you in a flash. There was always exciting things to do. Those days were the best."

How fascinating. Others treasured what I took for granted. Human nature deems that we overlook the gifts we have right in front of us. As a spiritual nature evolves we begin to develop an appreciation for who, what, and where we are. No matter what blessings we are entrusted with we learn to treasure them. It's apparent that when we do, the greatest rewards come.

Over the years, I have been doing just that: Recalling and re-appreciating my gifts. It would benefit us all if we would take the time to do just that. "Imagine" John Lennon sang. Just Imagine.

Kamaka Brown is a staff member on AlohaWorld. Originally from the North Shore of Oahu, he now resides in California. He is a published writer, motivational speaker, board certified trainer and professional comic. He makes annual trips to Honolulu for an ohana reunion each summer. It's there he reconnects with his "city cousins" now living around the world.

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Written by Ronny Esperas

I lived in a neighborhood where the corner market was the place that you came in contact with other people from the neighborhood. It was a place where everyone knew each other, not only by name, but they knew your kid's name, their mother's and father's, their grandparent's, their auntie's and uncle's. Everybody that went to this market knew everyone. Outside this market was a bench that people sat at and talk story all the time.

Now during my high school days, my friends and I were the local benchwarmers at this infamous corner market. We would sit there and pass the time away talking stories and waving at people as they drove by. Sometimes they would stop and talk story too. Before you know, it there was a whole bunch of people sitting by this bench and we'd all talked sum mo' stories. The best part of this time was when we'd make fun of people passing by or of each other, mostly of each other. We had some good times and I have many fond memories of many people who lived in this neighborhood.

Saturday always was the day that everyone would show up at the market. Of all the people who liked sitting at this bench; it was the older people that I love to sit and listen to. Their stories, no matter how sad or happy, always got my interest the most. One of my favorite people was Uncle Willy. Now he loved to drink a bit, so it wasn't unusual to see him feeling no pain before 12o'clock noon. He always told the funniest stories about his family. If they knew what he was telling us down at the bench, they would all freak-out. He would talk stink and making fun of one of his family members. They would drive by waving at him and yelling at him to go home. Uncle Willy would say; "there goes that dirty bugger now; boy if I was younger I'd kick his ass. Yeah, that's right, just keep on going, you dirty sucker!" We would tell him to calm down. "Uncle Willy, come and sit on the bench," we said as we all laughed with him.

Then there was Auntie Mary; she was absolutely the sweetest older woman that you could ever meet in your life. She would show up on a Sunday right after church. She would dress in her best Sunday outfit. In those days, it would be a soft flower print or an all-dark colored dress with long sleeves. And her hat had the whitest scarf that was the crowning of her outfit. She told her stories in a soft yet firm and comforting tone of voice that made you feel like she was talking to her own grandkids. Auntie Mary always talked about her younger days. She always wondered how things would have been; if she had done the things she had decided not to do. Things like what if she had married her sweetheart of so long ago. She was the first person that I heard quoted a statement; that I would hear many times throughout my life. "Be true to thyself". Every time I read, hear or see that statement, I think of Auntie Mary.

There was this bruddah that lived above Punchbowl his name was Hiram. He would stop at the market to buy beer on his way home. He worked construction and was always in his work clothes and drinking beer. That's the way we always saw him. We liked Hiram a lot. He was the coolest guy we knew. He had the reputation for being one of the baddest guys in the neighborhood. Often we'd hear that he was a guy you did not want mad at you. Now when I was in high school we called guys like Hiram "Mokes or Moks". I am not sure where this term came from but it was used as more of slang than anything else. This term would always be used in a conversation like this: "Hey, did you hear about the big fight at the Punahou School carnival? There was these drunk guys making trouble and one of them decided to pick on a group of Moks. Boy, did they pick on the wrong group of guys! I heard most of those drunk guys went to the hospital."

In spite of his reputation Hiram had a very funny personality. He would tell the funniest jokes and stories. He had us laughing all the time. One day he drove up to the market wearing a suit and tie. His hair was all VO-5ed. He was looking good as he got out of the car and came around in full view. It took everything we had to keep from bustin' out laughing. There he stood wearing this nice green suit with a button down collar white shirt, black pencil necktie, and wearing yellow rubber slippers.

Someone managed to say: "Hiram where you off to?"

He said: "I get this job interview I have to go to."

"But Hiram, didn't you forget something?" we said.

He checked himself out, looked down at his feet and said "Gunfunit, I forget to wash my feet!"

He jumped back into the car and drove off. We must have laughed a good ten minutes without stopping. Then here comes Hiram driving by waving at us with his right foot sticking out the passenger window. I guess he wanted to show us his washed feet. We were laughing so hard we were falling on the sidewalk. Til this day we still talk about those times with Hiram.

Every time I come home, I go down to the market park across the street. I think of Uncle Willy, Auntie Mary, Hiram and all the friends I made during that time. It's then I say to myself: "Brah, I am such a lucky guy to have had such great hanabuddah days."

Ronny Esperas' hometown is Wahiawa, Oahu.  He attended Stevenson Intermediate and Graduated from Roosevelt '66. He left the Islands in 1968. Eventually settling in Everett, Washington where he now lives. He makes it a point to go home every couple of years. "... soon I will come home for good" he says.

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