Island Time

Looking down through the darkness from twenty-thousand feet, the lights shine bright orange seeming almost like a Light Bright flower design, maybe even a plumeria. It’s difficult to sleep on a plane, the constant hum of the engine, jostling of the seat from behind as a tall, too-big-for-his-seat man tries to find a more comfortable position, coughs, cries, mummers, barks of laughter, and a seat that reclines approximately two inches. For me anticipation is also keeping me awake, twenty-five years, a quarter of a century, a lifetime, and finally returning to one of the best times of my life.

My last flight to Hawaii I was eight years old, moving with my family from Frederick, Maryland. We flew in a 747 jet, ate full meals, and met the captain. The stewardess gave my brothers, sister and I all wings to pin on our shirts, and crayons and an airplane coloring book to keep us busy, which it did for approximately five minutes out of the seven hour flight. The patterned blue seats on the big jet were big enough I could curl my legs up, and I’m sure the constant lifting and lowering of the tray table significantly annoyed the gentleman seated to the front of me. The oldest of five, it was left to me to be an example, but how could I sit still with buttons to push, aisles to walk, and window shades to open and close? It had taken us weeks to get to this part of our trip, the part where we flew over the ocean, away from all our family, and moved to an island. From the time Dad received word we would be transferring with the Army to Hawaii, we prepared and looked forward to that moment.

Large moving trucks came, packers wrapped and boxed our belongings and car, and shipped them to Hawaii. We flew to Grandma and Grandpa Hutchen’s house in Idaho, and then to Grandpa and Grandma Burnside’s farm in Utah. Then on to San Francisco for a night where we nearly froze because our jackets were all packed. We were going to Hawaii, what did we need jackets for?

Now returning as a tourist not a resident, an adult not a child, I studied the best local places to eat (the Rainbow drive-in on Kanaina Avenue in Honolulu), where to stay, what beaches to visit (Kailua and Bellows beaches), and hikes. Pearl Harbor, snorkeling among the thousands of colorful fish in Hanauma Bay, experiencing the passion of the Polynesian Cultural Center, and basking in the sun on the sand, memories I wanted to now share with my husband Scott, and friends Ben and Trittica Nielson. I didn’t realize how the emotion of the place would at times overwhelm me as we toured places in my memory that were so changed, and at times completely gone

Not much to see in the darkness of our first night, but the humidity, sweet and spicy smell of the tropical air, and the sound of the waves beating the shore made me long for the sun to reveal the island. A gentle rain bathed the landscape throughout the night, but by morning tapered off. I rose early, eager for the day and put on my tennis shoes. Preparing for Hawaii, trying to lose a few pounds, I ran regularly, and one song on my MP3 player made me long for Hawaii like no other, “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” by a native Hawaiian, Israel Kamakawiwo'ole. Crazy as it may seem, some days my heart would ache with the emotion of the words and music, tears glistening in my eyes, sweat running down my face, my emotions tied up in the song.

Walking up hill away from our condo and away from the beach, I wanted to get to higher ground to really see the lay of the land. The jagged mountains rose up sharply in front of me, with green covered ridges angled and deep. Warm air and humidity felt like a blanket embracing me, making me feel welcome and at home, remembering the touch of the island. Birds chirped happy songs echoing my pleasure, and as I turned away from the mountains, I let my eyes sweep out to sea, reaching to the horizon. Only one thing more needed to complete my experience.

Close by, gnarled and twisted branches of a short tree brought back memories of my friend Michelle McGonagall and I running around Schofield Barracks, no shoes on, carrying a large brown paper grocery sack and looking for plumeria trees. My grandparents were coming and mom wanted to string leis. Plumeria trees brimming with flowers dotted the base. Climbing the trees and plucking the flowers, our fingers became sticky with nectar, the sweet smell of the flowers heady all around us. Now picking up a small perfect flower, five white petals with a burst of yellow in the middle, lifting it to my nose, breathing in the sweet scent I could believe I was back. In Hawaii the plumeria flower represents a bond between all that is good, perfection, and new life, and was precisely the gift to welcome me home.

Driving around Oahu, I wanted to show Scott and the Nielsons the Hawaii I loved and remembered, however, thirty years of tropical weather: pounding waves, high winds, driving rain, and sunshine, takes its toll on places. Trees become old in thirty years, old houses get older and are destroyed and replaced, landmarks seem different as an adult then they did as a child. Children don’t notice one place in relation to another, don’t drive and have no need of maps and roads and directions, get in the car, play with their siblings, complain to their parents about the length of time it takes to get to the desired destination, paying no attention to lefts, rights, or wheres. I would see landmarks as an adult that were completely mismatched with my child’s minds view.

On our drive to Pearl Harbor, I recognized a dried up swimming pool. I knew had participated in a swim meet there when I was nine. Sitting on the hill above the pool, I had waited for my race. Eventually, I stood behind the starting blocks, and then climbed on top, toes curled over the edge of the block, hands pushed back behind me, palms up, ready for the signal to go, the horn sounded and I would throw my hands forward, head tucked down, and dive into the water. A short glide, then kicking and pulling as fast as I could to the other side and back. Drained and empty now, the pool neglected, it seemed another testament to my faulty memory. When had they moved it this close to Pearl Harbor?

Visiting Schofield Barracks, my home during the ages of eight to ten, again messed with my reality. Getting on base without a military ID wasn’t too difficult, but once on base I had no idea which way to go. We began driving slowly, me looking intently out the window for any familiar sign. I recognized the Base Exchange and knew I walked there as a child, but still wasn’t sure which direction. Pure instinct with some luck brought us to 737 Grimes Street, or at least where our home had stood.

The house, raised two feet off the ground on stilts to weather floods from tropical storms, was a former general’s home. Old and due for a fix-up when my family arrived in Hawaii, a builder’s strike prevented renovation and we ultimately just moved in. Raised on stilts it made it nearly impossible to fumigate, and we never quite got used to the scurrying cockroaches and geckos that were in almost every cupboard and crawls space. My mother, had an extremely close run-in with a gecko in the shower, and I still remember her dripping wet, wrapped in a towel, shouting at my brothers to get it out. My experience included a four inch-long, rust colored cockroach with wings flying out of the cupboard to nestle in my hair.

Resembling a very large bungalow in the shape of a “U”, the left wing of the house contained the lanai, kitchen, laundry room, and two rooms for servants. The center section had a formal living and dining room. The living room was separated from the lanai by French double doors, which at some point during our stay lost a pane as my sister Amy’s arm went through it during a game of chase in the house. The right section of the house had a master bedroom, two large bedrooms, and a bathroom.

No furnace and no air conditioning, but we did have a fireplace that was lit on special occasions, and window fans enabled air flow when natural breezes lay stagnate. Windows were our thermostat. If you were hot you opened the windows, and if you were cold, you closed them. It was simple but effective. A paved courtyard between the wings served as a play area and, when the breezes allowed, we attempted to play badminton, missing the birdy more often than we connected.

Shaded by bread fruit trees, the alley behind the house at times piled with a mess of rotting fruit, permitting my dad to teach us about yard work. Flower beds on the sides of the house contained Impatiens, hibiscus, elephant ears, and a banana tree toward the front of the house.

A coconut tree grew to the left of our house, and one day the neighbor invited us to watch their friend scale the tree. With deep, tanned skin and a bright smile, and we watch in amazement as he kicked off his shoes, wrapped his bare feet around the tree trunk, and within moments clung to the top. He carried a machete and, anchoring his legs in place, he whacked a couple of coconuts down and several palm fronds. Nimbly walking his feet down the tree he took the machete, sharpened the end of a stick, deftly pounded the blunt end of the stick into the ground, and lining up the end of the coconut smashed the fruit onto the sharpened spear prying off the husk. Making a small hole in the nut with a knife, we all took turns tasting the juice. It was unlike anything I had before, and I did not appreciate the flavor. The juice gone, he cut the nut open to get at the white meat. I refused to eat any. Taking the palm fronds, he wove beautiful green baskets for Mom to use for laundry.

The house faced a palm tree lined parade field, rarely used for military exercises, but constantly used by the neighborhood children to play baseball games and tag. With several other large families in the area, playmates were never an issue.

Now, a black asphalt parking lot and a couple of white portable buildings sit where my home used to stand. The parade ground is much the same, the trees standing as an anchor to my past.

Hale Kula, my elementary school, meaning “house school,” sat several streets over. Flip flops were the shoe of choice when we wore shoes at all, and the class room’s sliding glass doors remained open most of the time to the weather. Trips to the Dole pineapple factory where we could eat our fill of the super sweet and juicy fruit, sweeter than candy, science trips to discover creatures inhabiting tidal pools: sea urchins, star fish, octopus, and black creeping crabs reminding me of extra-large spiders, fueled a curiosity about the world.

In fourth grade we studied Hawaii, culminating with a trip to the big island for a week. We stayed at Kilauea Military Camp across the street from the Kilauea caldera and close to Hawaii Volcanoes National Park. Filled with studies of Hawaii’s legends and Pele’s wrath, a wet and cold walk across Kilauea caldera, and time spent at black sands beach, my field trip experiences to this point had revolved around bus trips to the pumpkin patch and back, and did not compare.

The school looks much the same, three one story rows of classrooms, painted blue, with a flat top. Looking at it now it’s hard to feel the magic I felt then, but whispers come to me as I hear the children laughing on the playground, hanging upside down from the monkey bars, doing penny-drops to the ground, and running barefoot through the grass.

Leaving the base that day I reoriented myself and my memories. Hanging out at the Base Exchange, swimming at the pool, riding my bike around, setting up a Kool-aide stand on a square folding table at the end of the parade field, and playing in the rain as huge drops splattered across our up turned faces; memories running like a film strip through my mind, slightly dated and faded compared to the reality of the current scene.

Our tour of the island included amazing beaches. Face down on the surface of the water, breathing fresh air through a snorkel, salt lining the inside of my mouth, mask firmly in place, eyes darting from one amazing sight to another. Brightly colored fish darting, always out of hands reach, sting rays gliding through the water their wings rippling through unseen currents, sea turtles coming into sight from the murky blue ocean only to disappear a moment later like a slowly moving apparition; I could spend all my time this way, peaceful lulling, rocking, swaying of the ocean, even, regular breathing, weightless, and quiet.

Some of the best maintained beaches on the island are military beaches. Staying for a week at a time in a bungalow close to the water, my family rode boogie boards, gliding on the blue green foamy water then tumbling over to be buffeted by the sand, built intricate sand castles demolished by surf or feet to make room for new castles, and played imaginary games in the sea grass. We didn’t lie watching the clouds; we chased our dreams across the sand. Evening brought spectacular sunsets of red and orange and purple. Sprawled on our bunks at night under military issued sheets and scratchy wool blankets, we listened to the constant pound of the surf, trying to avoid the rough blanket against our burned and dried out skin. I am happy now to sit on the beach watching the children run, build, and play.

Visitors came often during our short years on Oahu, family taking advantage of a free place to stay and a built in tour guide. Great Grandma Ruston, who we ironically called Big Grandma even though she was less than five feet tall, came with her grey blue hair and sweet smile. Great Grandpa and Grandma Millar visited. Grandpa with his cane and Grandma with her lovely white hair piled on top of her head. I didn’t realize until I saw the top part of her hair sitting on the dresser that she wore a hair piece every day. Other Grandparents, aunts and uncles, and cousins visited and usually, Mom would show them around. It seemed like most of our visitors came when I was still in school, and touring the island seemed a strange idea to me, but visiting now, I miss my mother as a tour guide, and wish I could take her with me to see Hawaii through her young adult eyes and tell her of my Hawaii through my child eyes.

Other places changed: the new church house we helped paint, now showed twenty-five years of wear, still well maintained, but slightly faded, the Lds temple had been rededicated when I first in Hawaii, and now was being renovated again for another dedication, new resorts had over taken beaches, and hotels I stayed in then look a little shabbier now. Did I look like that? I am always a bit shocked when I see my nieces and nephews after an extended period of time how much they have changed. One niece, just a baby the last time I saw her, talks to me on the phone and I cannot reconcile the baby and the voice. When I look closely in the mirror I am surprised to find new lines of wear, signs of age stamped at an ever increasing rate.

Our final splurge of cash paid for a helicopter ride around the island. The rotation of the blades whipping through the air and the whine of the engine faded as I placed the head set over my ears. The pilot played Hawaiian music through the head phones and as we reached the peak of the mountains, the view included a river of water plunging into the valley below, a cascading ribbon of water, and in the distance the blue green expanse of ocean stretched out forever. To cement this image in my heart and mind, “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” played, its melancholy tune touching my heart.

We left Hawaii as we had come, in the dark. It was easier to leave it this way, allowing me to remember it the way I wanted. Scott, Ben, Trittica, and I made new memories, memories I will cherish with new reasons to return to Hawaii, but the magic of childhood memories diminished slightly under the harsher observations of adulthood.