Bug-ologist and Book-worm: A million miles from loneliness                   4/21/19

 

Bug-ologist and book-worm, our sister Gwen was an entomologist, lover of science, literature and music. She discovered the world through investigative thought and explored the soul through poetry and Bach. When she came home to Kauai in 1967, she had just graduated from Sacramento State College. Gwen was the #2 sibling, the oldest daughter of five children from mother’s fertile womb. I was the last child, #5, the baby girl. When she came home, I was 10yrs old and Gwen was 23yrs ancient. To me, she was like an ancient Greek Goddess descended from Mount Olympus, sent by King of the Gods Zeus himself to guard, protect and train me. She transformed into a mere mortal, taking any shape and guise she chose. Only I knew her true origin and purpose. She was my personal professor, dragon slayer, magic maker and chef de cuisine.

She taught me to take risks, fall, scratch my knees, then get up and try again. Laughing secretly with the Gods above, she enjoyed my childish mischief, curiosities and follies. To the rest of the world, Hanapepe that is, our sister was a filial daughter, returning home at mother’s request to work at the restaurant. Thus, helping the rest of us grow up, finish our prep school education on Oahu, graduate from college, then on to the world beyond the reef.

Powered by her dreams, courage, intellect, love and loyalty, our sister’s homecoming was like watching the astronauts return home from the moon. Her boxes of books were like lunar rocks stowed away just for me to study in Hanapepe, not for the rocket scientists at the Smithsonian Institute in Washington. She was a goddess in disguise. With a wink of an eye, a turn of a spatula, she transformed into an astronaut, a sorceress, the discoverer and explorer of all things beyond my 10yr old universe, she took me with her wherever she traveled in her mind, heart and spirit. I worshipped her every step. I listened to her recite poetry from foreign lands, assisted in the capture of butterflies in special nets from her magic cardboard boxes stuffed with knowledge and wonder. In my childhood’s storybook heart, I loved her endlessly and happily ever after. It wasn’t until adolescence when things began to sour, but that’s another story.

From the moment she walked in the door to our small rental house, which was more like a two room shack with an outdoor bathhouse, no kitchen and no privacy, she took command of my education. The shack became a library, music room and scientific laboratory. Everyday after boring school, Goddess Gwen’s classroom at home and at the restaurant was an educational escapade. I soaked it all up like a happy, chubby sponge. I learned the different parts of a symphonic orchestra from an album in her record collection. I had no idea who Bach and Beethoven were, but I knew how to spell their names and recognize their music. Jazz and Blues stars like Ella Fitzgerald and Muddy Waters became friendly and familiar to my ears. I listened to all her albums on our scratchy stereo. Many lonely, long childhood hours became comforting, entertaining concerts performed by the Beatles, Chopin and Aretha Franklin.

Beyond books, music and bugs, I learned a lot about food unaware it was part of my sister’s lesson plan. When my brother Matthews and I were still very young, Gwen introduced us to a world of gourmet delights in Honolulu. On a trip to Oahu together, on a seemingly average day, Gwen created for us, her little brother and sister, one of the best food memories of our lives. It started with the three of us riding an elevator to the top one of Honolulu’s tallest buildings. She made us get dressed up, so I knew something special was about to happen. The long elevator ride, for two little kids from the red dirt roads of Hanapepe, was already exciting. Then at the top of the building, the elevator doors opened to the Ala Moana shopping center’s premier eatery, the La Rondo restaurant. It was a bright afternoon, it felt like walking into a movie theater, except it wasn’t dark. It was an airconditioned daydream of white embossed table cloths with matching napkins folded into a peak. Sparkling clean glasses and silverware placed in perfect symmetry looked weightless, levitating just a millimeter above the tablecloths. The round dining tables were arranged in a circle on a polished black floor. I thought, “Am I so hungry, I’m dreaming at lunchtime? Do waiter’s float in the sky with black bow ties, silver trays above their shoulders and shiny black shoes?”

In the 1960’s, the La Rondo restaurant was an architectural marvel in the limited urban landscape of Honolulu. Today, Honolulu is crowded with all types of structures both high and low, round and otherwise. Back in the olden days, the La Rondo stood out among the non-descript, relatively undeveloped urban landscape of late 20th century Oahu. Not only was it at the top floor, but it was round with windows from floor to ceiling and it seemed to spin in a circle. Unique, novel and beautiful, the child diner could imagine enjoying a panoramic view of Honolulu’s seashore and mountains while rotating in a complete circle, 360 degrees of entertainment. Dazzled by the view, a European style gourmet dessert, enjoyed while riding a spinning flying saucer, parked atop a tall building , above the world’s largest shopping center with my brother and sister was the best thing since Disneyland.

I only remember eating the dessert. Probably, our sister couldn’t afford an entrée too. It didn’t matter because to us, dessert was more than enough. It was a marvel to the eye and tongue, served in a fabulously new universe of food. The dessert was a French Parfait, the height of a child’s epicurean initiation. For Matthews and I, to our gastronomic delight, it was better than ice cream, pudding, and cotton candy all put together. Served in a tall frosty glass with a long, thin silver spoon, I kept carefully scooping into it, like I was hunting for a delicate treasure hidden in layers of pastel clouds. Slowly hypnotized by the changing view, waiter dressed in a bow tie and a dessert I would never have again in my childhood lifespan; it was an unforgettable edible moment. Matthews and I stared at each other. Time stopped. Our empty parfait glasses began spinning with dreams of undiscovered food galaxies. We were about to take off in a spacecraft of food fantasies. Our sister was our Captain on this flight, our special leader, launching us into our unknown futures. She loved us more than we loved flying saucer parfaits and we would never forget her bravery, her joy and her magic.

Back home on Kauai, Mom’s restaurant kitchen was Gwen’s culinary laboratory where she would conjure up unusual snacks for Matthews and I like hot dog sushi and spam musubi. Today, spam musubi (rectangular shaped rice ball topped with a slice of spam in a seaweed wrapper) is a popular picnic standard and ubiquitous convenience store item. I like to think she was one of the first culinary inventors of a humble local classic. She was way ahead of her time in so many ways. She expanded Mom’s old school menu like teriyaki steak, roast pork, sweet sour spare ribs, and grilled mahimahi to include chef’s specials like filet mignon and grilled prawns, peppercorn chicken, and rack of lamb. Her ability to offer creative dishes at affordable prices was much appreciated by local families having a special night out as well as visitors and foodies. Mom and Gwen made a great team mixing the old and new in a harmonious, exciting balance. Both of them sacrificed much of their own dreams and personal lives for us to succeed in the larger world. Despite working extremely long hours, with no days off for many years, they still managed to have lots of fun with us while we were still young and Hanapepe was our playground.

 

Summers were full of outdoor thrills when our brothers were home, bringing friends, relatives and unexpected guests, from beyond the reef, to join our exploits. We learned how to horseback ride, catch frogs at night ( to eat later for a midnite snack), and fish off the pier. When the tide was right, Gwen taught us how to catch crabs at the Hanapepe river mouth. In our oldest, red dirt stained shorts and t-shirts, we waded into the water with crabnets in one hand and an empty plastic bleach bottle in the other. The bottle was tethered with a long string attached to the metal ring of the net. At the center of the woven net was a big raw fish head from the restaurant kitchen. The fish stunk, the water was brackish brown and it was scary in a good way. Following our fearless leader, we dropped our nets into the water before it got too deep for us to retrieve them. Returning to the shore, empowered by our crabbing 101 class, we sat like students on rock benches watching the bleach bottles bob up and down on the calm low tide. Wrapped in towels warmed by the hot summer sun, we waited, laughed and talked story. Guzzling cold sodas we brought from the restaurant and gobbling chips, candies and Hawaiian style sweet bread bought from the local store, we waited. Time had no beginning or end.

When Gwen called us to attention, we marched into the water to collect our crab nets located below the dirty white buoys. Imitating our leader, we grabbed the bleach bottles with one hand, then wrapped the long string around the bottles with the other. The currents of river and ocean colliding at the shore challenged us to stay standing and not fall, face forward or backward. The tide was shoulder high. We swallowed a mix of ocean & river water intoxicating us with laughter and shrieks when crabs appeared munching on Mom’s fish heads. We followed our leader proudly back to the rocky banks. She showed us how to cook them in red coffee cans boiling in driftwood fires between black boulders. Then cracking the steaming shells in newspapers, we devoured them while still in our wet clothes, giggling and shivering in the sun.

Our constant four legged companion at every activity throughout the summer and everyday of her life was our favorite dog. Before leash laws, pit bulls guarding fenced yards and signs posted at beach parks forbidding dogs, our favorite poi (mutt) dog Donutz followed us everywhere. She was a medium sized, gray, short haired, pug tailed, floppy eared mischievous creature. It seemed she could entertain us endlessly with her cleverness and innocent trickery. Surely she was the divine companion of my Goddess sister and my best friend. Nothing stopped Donutz from having a good time with us. Before we were ready to leave on any adventure, she was already sitting in the car waiting to go. Some days, assuming she was roaming around Hanapepe visiting her own friends, we would leave without her. Then, Donutz would suddenly appear running along side the car. Other days, we would find her sitting on the correct side of the road, waiting to be picked up at the Stop sign before we even got to the intersection. She insisted on being part of our travels and no one could refuse her.

Donutz was always ready for fun and knew how to make us laugh. One of her favorite jokes was scaring napping sun bathers on the beach. None of us laughed until long after the joke was played because we always had to feign disapproval.

Back in the day, Salt Pond Beach was not busy with beachgoers, not even in the summertime. Some days while playing with Donutz in the water and chasing her on the sand, I imagined she got bored with us. There weren’t many people and not much else going on, so she invented her own unique kind of game. When we weren’t watching her, she’d trot up to a solitary, sunbather like they were an old friend. Somehow, just at the moment when we were a good distance away, she would catch our eye. Timed to perfection, she would look at us, too far away to stop her, then turn her mischievous snout toward the innocent victim’s crotch and begin to sniff away.

The anonymous sunbather, peacefully napping, stretched out on their beach towel and legs spread eagled would shockingly wake to Donutz wet nose between their tanned legs. Sometimes screaming or just sitting up in utter embarrassment and public humiliation the poor victim would never be the same. Their relaxing moment in a secluded Eden of surf and sun had been permanently disturbed. Their privacy invaded by a sneaky, disrespectful poi dog named Donutz.

Simultaneously, holding back our laughter and shouting her name, scolding and yelling at her to get away, the poor sunbather would stare at us in disgust and dismay. Running and chasing Donutz away, we would apologize profusely, catch our dog by the collar and spank her butt with our rubber slippers, yelling “Bad Girl,Bad Girl!!”

Making sure the poor bather witnessed the punishment of our dog’s ill mannered , misbehavior, we tried very hard to pretend to be angry at our beloved, best, bad dog. Donutz would briefly appear guilty, stubby tail absolutely still, and head bowed in remorse. Our diaphrams, were stiff and sore from holding back loud belly laughs. We were confused with guilt and silent mirth. Donutz was just fine and patient as usual. She waited for the pretend reprimand to end. From a distance, she waited until the sunbather rolled over in the sand with their legs closed. Then she forgave us with her best doggie grin, perky ears and wagging tail. She jumped in the car, drank from her bowl of water, and contentedly waited to go home.

A summer’s day at the beach would not be the same without her comedy routine surreptitiously amusing us. When she was bored at the beach, funny things happened. We could count on it. Regardless of the obligatory spanking, she was willing to keep us all entertained. We loved her secret game and looked forward to her mischievous snout sniffing out her next innocent victim.

With Donutz playing with us at the beach, river banks and mountain trails, the endless days drifted into endless nights. Sometimes Mom would bring dinner for us at Salt Pond beach after work. We didn’t have tents or any kind of outdoor gear. After swimming all day, playing with our dogs, catching sand crabs, escaping swift sand balls thrown by my brothers, we’d collect driftwood and make a campfire on the beach.

No tents or lifeguard rules to restrict us, we slept under the stars with old bedspreads and blankets. Mom brought left over’s from the restaurant’s evening menu and we gorged on end pieces of roast beef, pork loin, brown gravy and rice. We skewered big links of Portuguese sausages on bamboo sticks. Usually served in thick slices for breakfast customers, it was our camping treat to chew them whole and blackened off the fire. Near the end of the evening’s reverie, drinking cold bottles of soda from buckets of ice, licking roasted marshmallows from my lips, I watched the campfire smoke rise to the heavens. Listening to the stars above singing King Zeus to sleep on Mount Olympus, I wondered if he liked the smell of roasting Portuguese sausages. The spicy fat sparking the embers of our late night dinner made me smile. I liked the smell of the campfire, the sweet marshmallow and salty fat sticking to my tongue, imprinting memories forever.

My earthly brothers chattered about the world, beyond the reef, waiting for them after summer was over. Big sister Gwen, my secret Goddess, was busy packing away wet towels, swim suits, and beach stuff in the old station wagon, so Mom could get back early to the kitchen in the morning. When Mom squashed her last cigarette butt in the ashtray she brought from the Green Garden dining room, she fell quickly asleep next to me. Donutz head was resting on my lap. It was only a 10 minute drive to the beach, but it felt like a million miles from loneliness.