Lois Ann Ell

Kauai Backstory welcomes Lois Ann Ell to our editorial team. Lois Ann participated as a judge for our 2008 Creative Competition, as well as organized our first Kauai Backstory Reading Series night. So, it's about time we gave her an official title, editor.

Lois Ann is a freelance writer and regular contributor to The Garden Island newspaper. Her story Makauwahi Cave was a winner in the 2006 Kaua’i Backstory Creative Competition. She has poetry published online and is currently working on a collection of short stories. She lives on Kaua’i with her husband and three small children, who are often the inspiration for her work.

The Sensitive Plant

by Susan Ullis

I know you are shy
It is in your
Mimosa pudica genes
A little shake
A light backhand
You collapse
Fold into yourself
Like a wallflower
Sometimes just one branch
Clams up
The offense
Not affecting the whole

People find this habit of yours
Rather endearing
School children marvel
At the timid potted plant
In the wild
You lay low
Fan out
Thorns drawn
Once in a while
You bravely lift up
A bright blushing
Blossom

Aki Sitting on the Crater at Raraku

by Brian Doyle

Let’s say a reiki healer called Aki makes a haiku at Raraku.
And, for once, let’s not go any further at all with this poem.
Let’s just stop right there and not arrive at any conclusions.
Let’s just happily contemplate the absolute Akiness of Aki,
The tart wind off the ocean whipping the pages of her diary
So that she has to maneuver her whole left arm to pin them,
And just as she calculates syllables for the seventeenth time
One of the enormous statues below her, the legendary moai,
Topples over, face first, and plunges its immense schnozzle
Into the dense ancient soil with the faintest plop! imaginable.
There’s a split second that could be said aptly to last forever,
During which dust swirls and an albatross is vaguely curious,
And that seems like a really excellent place to end this poem.
We’ll never know if Aki leaps up and runs down to the moai,
Or if she just sits there astonished up on the rim of the crater,
Or if she starts to scribble another poem altogether, or maybe
She gets all totally absorbed in the albatross, I mean that bird
Is the size of a biplane, and how often do you get to see that?

Come. Listen. Read.

Kauai Backstory announces the “Kauai Backstory Reading Series.” These periodic events will invite writers to gather and read their work out loud to an audience.

Our kickoff event will be Friday, April 24, 2009, at Small Town Coffee in Kapa’a, starting promptly at 7:00 p.m. and ending at 8:30 p.m.

Keynote writers Patricia Wood, author of the critically acclaimed Lottery, and Kealoha, world-renowned slam poet, will share their art and answer questions. After that, Kaua’i writers are invited to read. Writers will be allowed a maximum of five minutes to read, on a first-come basis. Fiction, nonfiction and poetry welcome.

This is not a workshop, a critique session or contest. You will not receive feedback. You will, however gain a startling new perspective on your writing as you read it aloud to others. Think about this as an “open mic” night for writers. And, of course, you do not need to read to attend. Your presence as a willing listener is greatly appreciated.

Pikomanawakupono

by Brian Doyle

In recent weeks, while wandering among islands in the ocean,
I met people named Hua, Wao, Tufu, Tutu, Puna, Wi, and Hu,
Not to mention a totally silent man from Estonia named Hooh,
Who the whole extent of his conversation was to nod six times
In the twenty minutes we spent together, this was in Kapiolani,
But perhaps the most rivetingly monikered lad I met in Hawaii
Was a youth named Pikomanawakupono, who was a startlingly
Silent fellow also, and in the couple of cheerful hours we spent
Together, this was in Hanalei, he only spoke twice that I recall,
And both times he uttered words in a tongue I don’t understand
Yet, but to be fair I don’t think anyone else quite caught his gist
Either, because Pikomanawakupono has just recently arrived on
This island after a voyage I cannot even dimly begin to imagine.
You could say, with complete accuracy, that his traveling began
With dreaming, and we do not often enough salute how a vision
Insists on being born, how what we imagine so often takes shape
In this world, in this air, on all sorts of islands, in all sorts of seas.
It’s really amazing when you think about it, which I think we are.
Anyway, the two words I caught sounded rather like piu and bub,
And then his mother smiled, and gave him more of her holy milk,
And Kauai sailed on to the southeast at roughly four inches a year.

Ocean Death

[Editors' note: This is the final post that recognizes the runners up of the third annual creative competition sponsored by Kauai Backstory. This year's theme: Surf. Congratulations everyone.]

by Laurie Barton

A young man from Rzeczpospolita Polska

hiked into a valley, powered by waffles and latte,

some blackened ahi from the night before

Reached the shore of Hanakapi'ai Beach

and flung himself in--

so far from the traffic and chill of his city,

so warm for October--

Feeling sure there was nothing but pleasure

to find, his long legs splashing a flutter-kick.

Slow currents no match for his shoulders.

Pulled to the deep--faster than it takes a cresting

wave to flatten. The pilot looked down at his body,

floating in surrender to the north swell.

Took him to Black Pot, imagined what no one

would say. How none of us

know what it's like to die strong, in the blue grip

of something much stronger.

Watching Daughters Surf

[Editors' note: This is the sixth in a series of posts that recognizes the runners up of the third annual creative competition sponsored by Kauai Backstory. This year's theme: Surf. Congratulations everyone.]

by Sandra Krawciw

Once leashed to me,
by the undulating braid of an umbilical cord,
I see them go now,
joined by a thin black thread
to a slice of wood.

Seeking the sea’s heartbeat,
they dip their way to the horizon,
like polite princesses,

but they return like warriors,
riding their shields through the plunder,
of waves and foam.

Our eyes meet, cords real and imagined,
tighten and deliver,
gift after gift from God.

Surf Northshore

(Double-click on image to enlarge)

by John Ullis

[Editors' note: This is the fifth in a series of posts that recognizes the runners up of the third annual creative competition sponsored by Kauai Backstory. This year's theme: Surf. Congratulations everyone.]

Return to the Surf

[Editors' note: This is the fourth in a series of posts that recognizes the runners up of the third annual creative competition sponsored by Kauai Backstory. This year's theme: Surf. Congratulations everyone.]

by Alison Hummel

I hear the crash and thrash of the waters.
I listen.
In my mind, I listen.
No, no.
In my heart, I listen.
Listening now--eyes closed.
I scream, "Yes I hear you!"
Quickly opening my eyes to look around.
Nobody notices my outburst.
I close my eyes again.
Tightly.
Like I am five years old again.
Hiding from monsters under my bed.

Back to the thrashing and crashing.
I have been hiding from you.
Hiding behind the bushes in my parents back yard.
Still crashing and thrashing
like the waters that you are.
When can I see you again?
I am longing to feel the crashing and thrashing.

Of course these days, in my throat my heart lives.
It's like stuck in there.
ahem.
I try to cough it up.
But no that won't work.
Fighting the tears.

And then they come so hard,
like out of the blue.
It's sort of funny.
Tears: like the surf running down my face--salty.

When I open my eyes, I look around.
I am on Fourth Street, in Philadelphia.

And then I remember that in my heart there you are.
And of course my heart's in my throat.
And when I let it up--the tears.
And then you are on my face again.
I cry so that I may return to you.

Return to the surf.

Surf

[Editors' note: This is the third in a series of posts that recognizes the runners up of the third annual creative competition sponsored by Kauai Backstory. This year's theme: Surf. Congratulations everyone.]

by Faith Harding

I hear the surf in wee hours of the morning from my bed. It’s my natural alarm clock. Sometimes it sounds like it is coming right over Poipu Rd. As I am waking up, I imagine the surf crashing against the `aina, enveloping cars, washing the debris from the vacant developer’s destruction away…I can hear its mighty crash over and over as I lay in bed not wanting to get on with my daily rituals. Birds chirp all around me, I hear cars racing on the bypass but I can still hear the surf crashing against the shore. I think it’s coming from Shipwreck’s as it echoes throughout the open space behind where I live. It’s a fierce force. I have tumbled only once in its surf and I’ve never again gone in at Shipwreck’s. It could be from Brennecke’s too as I have boogie boarded on that surf a few times which has scared and thrilled me. I toss and turn in my bed contemplating if the crash and swish is as foreboding as it sounds. I snuggle and smell my pillow and sometimes think that the surf could come and wash me away at that very moment. I would be a castaway on my used Serta mattress with my 300 thread count sheets. However, that would be polluting the ocean and I would just sink and have to swim to shore. Reluctantly, I shake the cobwebs from my head, turn off the electric alarm clock and begin surfing through my own waves of the day.

Tank in Sand

[Editors' note: This is the second in a series of posts that recognizes the runners up of the third annual creative competition sponsored by Kauai Backstory. This year's theme: Surf. Congratulations everyone.]

by Susan Ullis

Surfer Cake

[Editors' note: This is the first in a series of posts that recognizes the runners up of the third annual creative competition sponsored by Kauai Backstory. This year's theme: Surf. Congratulations everyone.]

by Laurie Barton

Then I snuck into the kitchen of the condo

and plundered the cake, waves of blue frosting

that tickled a white foam sea, the plastic palm

trees almost real if I squinted so that Happy

Birthday Kimo read like petroglyphs at Waiopili

stream. Jim had removed the toy surfer, licked

smudges of blue from its surfboard, stashed it away.

How I would argue with him at Lihue not to bring

that extra bag of golf tees, cake candles, those empty

cans of board-wax. How close I would come to telling

him, I don't love you. After my knife slipped through

the sea, cool frosting gave my teeth such a shiver that I

could not wish or remember, nor feel anything but

the rush of sugar, fingers mashing the blue. Then I

pictured Cook sailing into Waimea, greeted by men

on koa boards, welcoming Lono. Those giant swells

pushing them up, teasing them to prove their ocean

skill. Only ali'i allowed to ride, each one snug in his

place, known for it, hailed. In the morning I would

catch a plane, look down at the waves. Wish for a

village, breadfruit and chanting, a glide to my shore

with friends waiting.

Untitled

[Editors' note: This is the fifth in a series of posts that recognizes the winners of the third annual creative competition sponsored by Kauai Backstory. This year's theme: Surf. Congratulations everyone.]

by Emily Rider

(Student at Kula High)

Putting a wave in a frame doesn't do it justice.

It has no ceiling, no floor, no walls, just a back door.

It allows me freedom,

Immersion in unfiltered experience.

Its blue eyes are unforgiving,

Never shy in punishment.

Yet it leaves me wanting more,

A path to a spiritual ecstasy that could never fade.

When I sit, stand, and paddle,

There are shadows that follow me,

Signs of reassurance yet, a deep vulnerability arises.

Finally able to let go, it starts,

Allowing me to slide into that parallel universe,

Where time changes.

It flies, runs in circles, flows backward, and skips around.

The subdued voices disappear,

And the winds take direction.

Finally, there's nothing left to be concealed.

In water all my thoughts are pure.

It takes me away from dull existence,

And brings excitement, danger, escape.

It is the peak of my life, the segment of rainbow I have clutched.

Remind Me I'm Alive

[Editors' note: This is the fourth in a series of posts that recognizes the winners of the third annual creative competition sponsored by Kauai Backstory. This year's theme: Surf. Congratulations everyone.]

by Ben House

When I was a kid I asked a neighborhood boy how to pray. He described something like a person-to-person phone call. I tried it once but no one spoke on the other end so I figured it didn't work.

Later I met many people who said god spoke to them, but not in the way that people speak to each other. Some hear god in the in rustling leaves or waterfall's roar. Others hear it in guitar's plucked strings or see it in an artist's brushstroke. Maybe god's voice comes in a baby's cry or a loved one's embrace. In his novel Contact, Carl Sagan wondered if we might find a message from god in the infinite digits of the number pi, a code written into the laws of geometry.

Light waves bring the world to my eyes and sound waves to my ears so I can perceive my world but what about the waves traveling across the ocean to the shores of Kauai? What do they bring? Is there a message for me or for us?

As I stand on the cliff to check the surfing conditions at Hideaways I wonder if my mind is big enough to grasp the enormity of what the sea would be saying if waves were words. Maybe it's more like music, with all the winds of the Pacific blowing a song ancient and unimaginably
complex.

With my feet on the motionless ground all I can do is wonder. But in the water on my surfboard I'm no longer a spectator. If the language of the ocean is beyond my mind's comprehension, I can still experience its motion in my body.

Maybe that's what I didn't understand when I tried to pray as a kid. Maybe god doesn't speak in the words we use because there are no words for what god has to say to us. It's only through experience that we ever really understand, anyway. I don't know if I could say what I've
learned surfing Kauai's warm waters. Is god loving or wrathful? The ocean can be both. Ecstasy, frustration, humility and more are all there. Above all, I always want more and the ocean always has more to offer.

I'm one of those people that wants answers but the ocean only gives up its secrets on its terms and it's more like poetry than prose, more like the moon with its shifting rhythms and cloud dances than the sun with its daily, decisive brilliance, more like a feeling than a thought. Maybe my body can feel the entirety of what my mind can only wonder at. It looks like a good day to go find out.

Watching Lincoln Surf

[Editors' Note: This is the third in a series of daily posts that will recognize the winners in the third annual creative contest sponsored by Kauai Backstory. This year's theme: Surf. Congratulations everyone.]

by Sandra Krawciw

now you are four months old

propped against your pillows

between the mountains and the sea

like king kamehameha

your smile is sunshine

your baby gap nightie is soft as sand,

fresh with fallen stars

yours surfer toes stick out the bottom

but it is your arms

that give you away

they are paddles

your eyes ask for the ocean

you stand on the board of my lap

balanced between my hands

your face parallels the lip

your knees bend for the cut

your toes are on the nose

trade winds own your hair

barrels meet you from the left and right

you ride through

your people watch from the shore

of the bed

they are amazed at

this extreme performance

aloha sprays over us all

like a wave

The Waterman

[Editor's Note: This is the second in a series of daily posts that will recognize the winners of the third annual creative contest sponsored by Kauai Backstory. This year's theme: Surf. Congratulations everyone.]

by Michelle Dick

Surf Dog

[Editor's Note: This is the first in a series of daily posts that will recognize the winners of the third annual creative contest sponsored by Kauai Backstory. Congratulations everyone.]

by Frank Reilly

I moved to Kauai from New York nine years ago. Made a pretty concerted effort to leave as much of the New Yorker I knew myself to be there. But, you know, you can pack your bags as lightly as you’re able – and it’s still baggage.

I worked at a Manhattan advertising agency for fifteen years before that. And for fifteen years, I picked up speed. More to do and less time to do it, faster and faster, until my work life felt indistinguishable from the blur of images that blew by the window on my late night train ride home. Or was it my pre-dawn commute in? And did the direction matter?

At the end, the money was good. So good I didn’t think I could do without it. The urge to chuck it all was always counterbalanced by the fear that I couldn’t succeed at anything else. That I wouldn’t feel the same adrenaline rush I had been taking for granted for so long at the agency. That I wouldn’t be driven by the same ambition that had gotten me to where I was. And that drove me harder still. It was like I was trying to outrun myself.

Which begged the question: How to stop?

Remember that movie, the depression era period-piece? The one where the railroad bulls have the winded hobo cornered in the last box car of the freight train? And the hobo’s ready to jump, but the train is moving quickly enough that jumping promises the same beating that the bulls do? Maybe worse?

Well, I do.

Kauai was going to be my emergency brake. My stop sign.

* * * * *

We got the dog shortly after moving here, my wife and I. A lab mix from the Humane Society. He was sure to be the lap dog we needed. Every night he was going to climb onto the sofa lazily, drop his head in my lap, and fall asleep there. I had it all planned out. I could feel my blood pressure dropping just thinking about it.

Instead, he took to the water.

Turns out he was a surf dog.

We took him to Kealia every day so that he could swim. And he swam like he was made to do it. Like he wouldn’t choose to do anything else. I don’t remember coaxing him into the ocean. I don’t recall tentative pawing at the water’s edge, or the obligatory game of tag that anything young feels compelled to play with the comings and goings of sea
foam at the shoreline. He was just in the drink, always, as if he’d been given the gift of two mediums in which to thrive. He was amphibian.

But being in the water didn’t seem to be enough. He needed to be in the water with intent. He needed to be swimming toward something. And the horizon, as jaw-droppingly beautiful as it can be on Kauai’s beaches, doesn’t offer much to the goal oriented.

So after a while he’d just stand at the shore line–and bark.

Only a dog could get away with that, with a loudly voiced complaint aimed squarely at the Pacific Ocean. Imagine a tourist at the water’s edge, screaming “but it’s listed in 101 Things To Do as an activity! I’m sorry, but gently rolling waves are not a “Thing To Do”!

And so, the lab owner’s favorite verb: fetch.

Which quickly evolved into a routine as complex and unvaried in execution as high mass at the Vatican. He’d burst out of the barely open car door, catch sight of the tennis ball I hadn’t tried hard enough to hide (because chasing sticks was passé after week one), and bounce and spin in front of me wildly, his front paws lurching forward, trying to gain footing on anything – the passing thigh, abdomen, testicle – that could be used to vault him within snapping distance of that tennis ball. That tennis ball!

Within a few months, I’d come to the beach armed with a canister of tennis balls, because he’d never relinquish one if there wasn’t another to pursue. I’d throw them out to sea, again and again, farther and farther, and he’d dutifully retrieve them all, his snout piercing through breaking waves five times his size – like some bizarrely hirsute surfacing submarine – just to get at them.

After 45 minutes of frenetic activity, it would reach the point where I’d be approached by tourists, usually-land-locked dog lovers with worried looks in their eyes, asking me pointedly if it was a good idea to have him swim out so far, if I wasn’t pushing him too hard.

Then I would stop throwing so they could witness his fury. So they could hear, first-hand, his hoarse howls of disgust at a tennis-ball-less sea.

The writing, as they say, was on the wall. We had adopted a pet with a type A personality.

This dog, it seemed, desperately needed an emergency brake. A stop sign.

* * * * *

It was a typical day at Kealia. Warmth in the light breeze, the clouds taking on the rosy tint that comes with a setting sun. The jetty side of the beach was clogged with young families, so my surf dog and I took our Spalding canister to the beaches’ mid-point, where we could engage in our fetch fetish without interruption.

The riptides in this section of the beach were well known to locals long before traffic cones and danger signs started sprouting there, as they have in the recent past, like the mature growth that had to come from our collective fear of liability. But me – what did I know?

When I threw that one ball…that one ball…I knew, somehow, that it had gone too far. I was pushing my luck, our luck, a little too hard. And that was before I realized that I had broken the cardinal rule of tennis ball fetch.

My dog hadn’t watched me throw.

And if he didn’t see the ball arc over the sea, if he didn’t see the splashdown, then nothing had been thrown.

So he sat there, dumbly staring at my hands, waiting for another launch.

I only had one ball left. And one ball meant one thing. After every throw, I would have to wrestle to get that one ball back. And that wrestling match would involve all the attendant teeth baring and flying saliva you would expect. From me and the dog.

So I dove in.

A hundred yards out, no big deal, I could use the exercise, right? And the swimming was easy. It was only when I got to the ball and turned around that I realized why the swimming was easy. Because the swim back wasn’t.

You take those public service announcements for granted. I had no idea it was a waste of time to swim against a rip tide. So I swam against a rip tide. And I kept swimming, blind to my predicament, convinced that I had plenty of energy to get back to shore.

And then I felt that paw come down on my shoulder.

My surf dog saw what I was swimming for, and he’d be damned if I’d get his ball.

I recognized something in his insistence as he was pushing me further and further under water. Something in the adrenaline-crazed look in his eye, in his naked ambition. And that thought rolled through my head a while before I had the presence of mind, when I came to the surface, gasping, to throw the ball ahead of me, to give unto the surf dog what belonged to the surf dog.

* * * * *

Metaphors and allegories are powerful things.

And there’s no sense in writing if you’re not prepared to see the makings of them in just about everything in life. Sometimes those real-world moments of inspiration can be comically over-the-top, too – so much so that they’re completely unbelievable on the printed page. I once watched a bird feather its nest with a ropy strand of bright yellow police-crime-scene “caution” tape.

I remember thinking “that bird will never get published”.

But sometimes you’ll see yourself at the center of a real situation that’s perfect fodder for a story. And if you feel the urge to write it, it is my contention, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, that you have that realization for a reason: Because you’ve refused to acknowledge all the rough drafts that came before it. Like the one where a tightly-wound and less-than-self-aware New Yorker is gifted with a type-A dog. Or the one where the type-A New Yorker, who is unable to acknowledge the type-A-ness of his dog, feeds said dog’s frenzied instincts with too many well thrown tennis balls into the raging Pacific.

As my swimming stroke weakened and I saw the situation for what it was, I calmed down, oddly enough. It was like I had passed through heavy rains of panic and settled into the eye of what I knew to be a nasty storm. Then I had one of those random moments of clarity. The kind that only seem to accompany tragic situations, like those you’d read about in pulpy, Back-From-The-Grave testimonials.

At that moment, I saw the metaphor I was flailing through for exactly what it was: I was swimming harder and harder towards a beach that wasn’t getting any closer. I might as well have been back in New York on that early morning train to work, falling asleep, a three-page To Do List slipping through my fingers.

Then I was out of the eye and back into the storm. I swam as hard as I could for as long as I could, so fearful that I would look up to see that I hadn’t moved forward an inch that I just didn’t look up. And when I couldn’t swim any more, when I was completely drained, I let my legs drift down. And I was beyond relieved to immediately feel sand
between my toes.

As I staggered back up the shore, my surf dog was right beside me, looking none the worse for wear, the bright yellow ball locked tightly in his teeth.

I sat down heavily and looked out at the vast, undulating carpet of blue-green that stretched out to the horizon, the tennis-ball-less sea. And my surf dog lay down lazily at my side and dropped his head in my lap.

No, really.

Then his jaws loosened and the tennis ball rolled back down the embankment and into the water. And we both watched as it was sucked out again by the same tide. He started to move toward it, too, but a gentle tug on his collar was enough to restrain him. He was dog-tired, after all.

It felt good to just cradle him there.

And the ball got harder to see as it drifted farther away. Another metaphor, and fairly over-the-top, too. Still, a pretty clear lesson:

It’s a tennis ball, for Christ’s sake, let the ocean take it.

Reading Date

The reading date for winners and runners up of the 2008 Kauai Backstory Creative Competition is Monday, January 26, 2009 at Small Town Coffee in Kapaa, starting at 7:00 p.m.

All winners and runners up are invited to read and asked to RSVP to kauaibackstory@yahoo.com, so we can plan accordingly.

Kauaibackstory.com Announces Winners of 2008 Creative Competition

Kauaibackstory.com congratulates the 2008 "Surf" creative competition winners Michelle Dick for her image, "The Waterman," Sandra Krawciw for her poem, "Watching Lincoln Surf," Ben House for his essay, "Remind Me I'm Alive," and Frank Reilly for his story, "Surf Dog."  And 11-grader Emily Rider for her untitled poem.

Winners and runners up (see list below) are invited to read and share their entries at a time and place to be determined in January.  Submissions of the contest winners and runners up will begin posting on www.kauaibackstory.com after the public reading.

Kauaibackstory.com is a venue for rigorous writing with a view about Kauai. Year-round, the on-line literary journal welcomes high-quality writing and thoughtful images from the public. All submissions are moderated by a three-person editorial board, however, not all are posted. Kauaibackstory.com encourages the expression of all voices and delights in words and images that shift thinking and open minds. Much like an on-line blog, kauaibackstory.com encourages interactive dialogue with the hopes that the time-honored tradition of kama'ilio, talk story, will build community and understanding.

Runners Up:

Laurie Barton for "Surfer Cake" and "Ocean Death"

Faith Harding for her untitled submission

Alison Hummel for "Return to the Surf"

Sandra Krawciw for "Watching Daughters Surf"

John Ullis for "Surf Northshore"

Susan Ullis for "Tank in Sand"

Clouds and Sun Sing Hallelujah in Golds

Sharon Douglas

Haiku by Catherine Pascual-Lo
Image by Carl Lo

When day is over
turtle doves return to roost
at their comfort zone.

Pete

by Brian Doyle

I’ll tell you a surfing story, and this is the rare surf story that has no oceans or surfboards in it, because it’s about a guy who spent almost his whole life surfing situations and relationships, never falling in, never over his head, never breathless, always on top of the situation and never in or of it, you know what I mean? And he went half a century without ever getting his feet wet, and then, as so often is the case when we talk about hearts being startled awake, it was a kid who knocked him off his board and into the sea where hearts get hammered and startled and shivered and born again.

But I get ahead of myself. The guy’s name was Pete. He had been a terrific athlete as a kid and then he was a terrific hand with money and investments. He made boatloads of money, got lots of girls, traveled everywhere, did every dashing thing you can imagine, but after a while even the coolest girls would gently disentangle themselves, because, as one of them said with real affection, you never get tangled, Pete, and in the end we see that you don’t want to bother, and even someone who just wants to have fun can’t stay long, you know what I mean?

He did know what she meant, too, which is what stung.

He got all the way to age fifty like this, looking cool on the outside and not getting birthday cards from anyone, and no one except the doorman at his condo knowing when he was sick with the flu, and finally he sold his condo in Boston and bagged his lucrative master of the universe job and moved to Poipu and bought a condo on the beach and spent his time paddle-surfing, but nothing really changed and he had girls but no lovers and companions but no friends, you know what I mean? But finally what happened was he was driving drunk and got busted, and during the whole process of getting that fixed he met a detective who showed him the world of meth babies, kids whose parents were addicts and dumped them or burned them with cigarettes and dangled them from highway overpasses and evil shit like that, and there was a kid named Kimo who was four and both parents dead from meth, and this kid says to Pete one day, at the cop orphanage, how come you never look at me with both your eyes? and Pete says that was the moment everything cracked. He says it wasn’t like in the movies where there’s swelling music and the lights get brighter, in fact he said he wanted to slap the kid for being rude, but he didn’t, and eventually he adopted Kimo, it’s a long story and there’s no happy ending neither, because they argue like hell, and neither one of them can cook worth two cents as yet, and Kimo just got his face tattooed like a Maori for some reason, which sent Pete into a roaring fit like you read about.

But he roared, you know what I mean? If you are furious you’re not surfing, right?

Announcing Third Annual Writing Competition

Kauaibackstory.com announces its third annual writing competition. This year’s theme is “Surf.”

Entries will be accepted in the following categories: essay, story, poem and visual image. A student category will be created pending interest and writing quality.

Entries must focus on Kauai. Participants are urged to express their thoughts, feelings and observations about the theme, “Surf” through the lens of their own unique experience and viewpoint.

Prizes will be awarded. Winners and other noteworthy contributors will be posted on www.kauaibackstory.com and invited to read on a special night later this fall. (Date and place to be determined.) Writers may submit up to three entries. There is no word limit--brevity is encouraged but not required. Visit www.kauaibackstory.com to view the quality of works posted and the blog’s mission statement.

The deadline for submitting entries is midnight HST November 15, 2008. Text entries must be pasted into the body of an email and sent to kauaibackstory@yahoo.com. Images must be sent as a jpg attachment.

Kauaibackstory.com is a venue for rigorous writing and imagery with a view about Kauai. The journal is intended to serve as a timely, interactive forum, and readers are encouraged to visit often and post comments. The editors look for writing that raises thought, not walls, and encourage writing that rouses respectful dialogue. The editors hope to build community and understanding through conversation. Think of kauaibackstory.com as a conversation about Kauai.

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E Kala Mai Ia’u: A Reflection on Paddling

by Dena Cassella

In the matter of canoes, there was nothing to be understood. Everything was instinctual. Paddling canoes is the sport and spirit of Hawaii. A way to preserve a sacred culture in just seconds: spurts of remembrance when wave touches wood. It was a rite of passage. For me, it was a chance to redeem a fair complexion. I had always been a strong and structured girl, with broad shoulders and thick trunks of legs. Sturdy is what my father called me. Only feeling small and delicate while nestle in the sands of Makapu’u beach, sinking deep into the moist crumble of earth, feeling the sun boil and birth our connection as we’d melt into ourselves.

Digging deep into the current’s white splashed tips, I became a paddler at age ten. I became useful, fluid in motion and incredibly effective in a canoe. Dragging 600 pounds of hollowed Koa wood great distances with such elegant intensity sent shivers down my shoulders and awakened my body to the miracle performed by our crew of six girls. The canoe cradled me, positioned so neatly in its flat plank seats. It was my kumu, my teacher, nurturing my learning. I knew how to navigate the current of an open ocean, and keep the balance of the canoe in treacherous winds and unforgiving waves. Paddling was my being—I’d sweat salt water and breathe ocean breezes. There is no sensation more powerful than feeling as mighty as the sea.

In late May when I was nearing seventeen, something went wrong.

With the six of us seated and alert, we lined our vessel up to our starting mark, an empty gallon milk jug bobbing above its anchored self. We sat up straight and listened for our commands. Our coach, a tall, tan man screeched with intensity, hut ho, and we were off. Blades following one after the other in sync with our lunging bodies as we pulled the canoes down the murky stretch of canal. I dug my paddle hard and wrenched my body upright sternly. Harder and faster, the stroke count rose and we followed intently, not like young girls, but like brutish creatures with unstoppable resolve.

Without warning, it happened: I could not feel anything. Nothing. Not the dried layer of salt blanketing my skin, not my wrists, not my fingers, I could not feel the waxy wood of my own paddle in my grip. Nothing. I looked down at my limbs, for reassurance, and they still seemed intact. The sensation distracted me and our boat slowed down as we neared the finish. My crew relaxed breathing heavy sighs of exhaustion. I lay my paddle on my lap and stared at my fingers, plump and tense, and watched as my hands uncontrollably shook and twitched. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know what this was. I panted, turned to the girl in the seat behind me and displayed my hands in her face. My eyes releasing a flood of tears made her panic and share in my numb terror. She held them still with her own tired hands, trying to stop the shaking, but she could not. The weary head of every girl in the vessel perked up, confused and frightened by my condition. The shaking grew worse. It weakened my body, stripping me of my sturdiness, causing me to slowly slip out of my plank seat in the canoe. Only my weeping strengthened. Mixing with the salty film of dried canal water, my tears rushed down my cheeks, bombarding my lips with a rotten taste.

Carpal tunnel syndrome said a doctor, who suggested surgery and I refused it. Damaged nerves, said another doctor, frequent ice baths. But they did say one thing in common you cannot be fixed. But I could not stop paddling. Though my body pleaded with its mental, and my performance as a paddler weakened, I did not know how to exist with out it. I did not want to exist with out it. After two more years of numbed races and practices, my parents told me to quit. But it is hard to leave your successes behind you. It is harder to leave your entire being behind you. The sacrifice of belonging: the trade off of ethnicity and identity, pale and tan, an existence and a life.

I still go to races, to sit, and watch the canoes take off. I nest near the shorelines, by old hala trees and smooth water-washed stones, and I wait. Feeling all I can in my sandy burrow, the tiny dips of indented skin on my thigh from the clinging granules, never letting me go, and the warm sticky island air rushing from ocean to meet my face with humid kisses. I wait to remember the delicate neck of the paddle and the miraculous sensation of muscles moving. Digging my hands deeper into the grainy surrounding, grasping what I can of the sodden sands beneath my body, holding it tight and desperate. With browning skin blistering in the sun’s rage, I silently request forgiveness from the waves, and understanding from the wooden vessels fighting the tide out to the starting mark. E kala mai ia’u, I beg them, pardon me for sitting these races out.

Open Yo Maka

by SistaG


Paradise
where everything's nice
palms are swaying
and folks are saying

things in pidgeon
it's almost a religeon
this way of life
the illusion of no strife.

Paradise
where everything's nice
on the surface at least
Just don't look too deep

Paradise
where everything's nice
yeah, right
we've all been asleep

wake up sweet brother,
little sista too
your folks are old
it's up to you.

and it takes more than
stink eye
to get the big guys
to change.
listen to your heart
don't get shame,

we still got
more than a lot
to work with
to get them to stop.

and remember
even folks that do
stand firm and true,
even they get shaken
when more is taken

by those in power.
can't you see the hour
is drawing near
for all we hold dear,

All that we love
all that we say
we put above
all else?

It takes a very strong man
or woman or child
to have the vision
to keep it wild

here in Paradise
where everything's nice

so let's be wise
for a change...

In the Heart of a Kauai Winter

by Sharon Douglas


A symphony of bird song celebrates the clear, blue, what will become an 80-something-sunny day. Doves coo. The white and black shama thrush click, and sing their complex little songs. Red cardinals sound like melodious cars starting their singing engines. A rooster, or two, or three … punctuate the cacophony with a “How do you do?”

Green lushness, on closer inspection reveals a color splotched canvas: Papaya trees laden with sunrise papayas; yellow edged palm fronds form green splayed fans; hand shaped hau leaves on tangled trees with flowers that change from yellow to a red-orange when they drop; ti leaves splattered in intense yellow or pink blotches; and pink and white tipped snowbush. Splotches of color-on-green.

Drive down to the west side and see light green breadfruit footballs growing in trees, protected by waxy dark green leaves. Or see tall, tassleless sugarcane grass swaying gently as it still grows.

Even more vivid are the intense egg yolk scrambled flowers etched high against blue sky on the yellow shower trees. There’s the one near the Koloa fire-station, and then there are a few as you head out of Waimea Town. This yellow scramble of color, high up and, then, lower down, the yellow hibiscus smile brightly. Or there are the cup of gold vines that compete with the intense cerise and purple and hot pink bougainvillea.

There are also the African tulip trees with their vividly orange cup-like blooms. These are profuse and their abundant color can be seen almost everywhere on Kauai.

And, should you head up to Holy Cross Church from the west side into Kalaheo: the flaming Mexican vine, ablaze in orange as it drips off, garlanding green shrubs and trees in the valley to the south.

At sunset, a bikini clad walk, on Kekaha’s long wide soft champagne colored beaches can be enjoyed. Shawl of water fringed by waves lapping onto silky shores leads to foamy feast fondling naked feet.

The sound of the ocean: huhwash!sh..sh and silence… Gahwash! Sh…sh and silence is the background music, as the watermelon-gold sun-orb drops behind the Forbidden Island, Niihau, huge whale-like silhouette, and slowly withdraws its energy in long rays that trail across the now pearly gray-mauve ocean.

Deep in the Heart of a Kauai Winter

by Laurie Barton

We watched Candace and Roy
exchange their vows in Hawaiian
on a beach whose name was changed
by a letter getting blown off a sign.

Anini Beach had heavy wind that day.
Waves were knocking hard against the reef.
Candace and Roy promised to stay together
though their parents hadn't
(and neither had most of our parents--
inundating us with partners, step-sisters,
second ex-wives.)

Candace's dad showed up in a sailboat,
telling big stories of the Baja Ha Ha
rally. Passing beers all around on the beach.
Candace's brother had sailed in, too,
the kind of guy who wanted solitude.
Pacing the shore,
keeping his eye on the ocean
that would swallow him up again soon.

Winter Wonderland

by David Dinner

Is Creativity the Answer?

by Hannah Rees

My heart is aching for all the senseless killings
that go on all over the world. Yesterday was
supposed to be a day celebrating love – the respect
and cherishing of one human being for another - yet
someone thought it would be impressive to re-create
the St. Valentine's Day Massacre and walked into a
lecture hall at Northern Illinois University – the
same university our daughter attended a few years
ago – and shot 6 students attending the lecture,
before shooting himself.


A few weeks ago 5 shoppers were shot down in front
of a Lane Bryant store in Chicago. We read of
suicide bombers and missile attacks all over the
world.


As we bask in the aloha – the celebration of the
breath of life here on Kauai – I am saddened by
these news reports and by the anguish that must
reside in the killer's heart for his/her life to be
filled with the wish to destroy.


I have read that “creativity is the antithesis of
destruction” and I''m wondering if our consuming
world has negated the basic joy of creativity. We
are encouraged to opt for any ready-made product
instead of making anything ourselves. Our children
are often taught to be entertained, to play games,
to win, to use and to waste. And when the budget
gets tight, what do our schools eliminate from the
curriculum first - the art and music program! Of
course there are exceptions, but overall the
classroom is thought to be a stepping stone to
earning money to buy things. Things do not provide
one with the joy of self discovery found through the
process of creating.


Creating takes time and intention. Relationships
need both time and intention to develop, just as the
building of a house, planting a garden, keeping a
pet, cooking a meal or writing of a poem. Creativity
requires a person to invest of himself, his ideas,
his dreams. I wonder if more energy were used in
creating, perhaps the dissatisfaction that leads to
suicide and the destructive killing that is
encompassing our world would lessen.


One can only hope.

Jungle Jam

by SistaG

Remember me?
I live here in Haena
under a tree
where I like to spend a
day at the beach
so I'm gonna send a
fax or an e
to get you here with me!

I have a little place
in Hanalei
a river runs thru
we could spend the day
walking thru the jungle
careful not to tumble
in the hila hila
I just wanna steal ya!

Come spend the day, baby
come spend the day
You'll love the jungle
you'll love the bay

Come spend the day, baby
into the night
Then in the morning
ahm onna take you chicken fight!

Take me down the coast
we'll sail to Wainiha
Park our little boat
out on the sand bar
build a little fire
pretend we're castaways
tell me what you require
to be led astray!

Come spend the day, baby
come spend the day
You'll love the jungle
you'll love the bay

come spend the day, baby
into the night
I'll feed you mangoes
you'll love every bite!

And then I'll dance the hula
and you'll dream the kama sutra. . .

The Biggest Cockroach in the History of the Universe

by Brian Doyle

Lives in a house on the north shore of the island of Kauai,
The one island never conquered by the old Hawaiian kings,
And you can see why, if there were insects the size of cars,
Which there are, and there are stories of roaches who tried
To catch and eat Hawaiian monk seals, and of even larger
Roaches who banded together to try to conquer Honolulu,
And of one roach, this was a heroic and mountainous one,
Who flagged down a truck and ejected the terrified driver
And tried to digest the truck, which is a phrase you never
Hardly hear, and there are still stories, and I believe them,
Of roaches who occasionally get such a yen for cable TV
That they break into houses and overdose on NBA games
And are found days later staggering around in the forests
Muttering about assist-to-turnover ratio and similar stuff,
But a story like that you have to take with a grain of salt.
Anyway the biggest cockroach in the history of roaches,
Periplaneta Americana is his name, lives in Hanalei Bay,
Right near Michael Crichton, who is the famous novelist,
But the people of Hanalei, they misdirect you on purpose
If you ask for where either of their most famous residents
Live, and you can understand that, it’s a form of affection
And respect really, so the thing is, when I tell you that the
Biggest cockroach in the history of the universe, an insect
Big enough to have its own area code and zoning precinct,
Big enough to change the weather, bigger even than Oprah,
Lives on the north shore of Kauai, well – don’t tell anyone.

A Note on the Birds of Hawaii

by Brian Doyle

There is of course the ‘a, the booby with the red feet,
Says a tiny man at the Foodland, to whom I had said
Merely wow, is that a frigatebird over the parking lot?
And then of course there is your ‘akikiki, the creeper,
And ‘i’iwi and ‘o’u’ and nukupu, also honeycreepers,
And pueo, the little owl, and ‘io, the Hawaiian hawk,
And ‘ulili, the little tattler who wanders, and our ‘o’o,
She is the honeyeater, the cousin of the honeycreeper,
And ‘elepaio, the flycatcher, and ‘alala, old man crow,
And huna kai, the sanderling, her name is ocean foam,
And hoio, the shearwater, he lives in caves by the sea,
And ao, she is another shearwater, what a lovely word,
Shearwater, don’t you think? And then uau, the petrel,
And aukuu, the night heron, and koloa, he is our duck,
And of course you know nene, the goose, and ewaewa,
The tern, and kolea, the plover, he comes every winter,
And ukeke, the turnstone, and amaui, that is the thrush,
And the curlew who balances on one leg, she is ‘kioea.
Did you get all that? Are you writing down every thing
I say? Are you a book writer? Do you speak Hawaiian?
Do you want more names of birds? There is the mejiro,
That is the Japanese word for the little bird in the bush,
And piha’ekelo, that is the mynah, he comes from India,
And manumele, the canary, he comes from oversea too,
And shama, the thrush, he comes from elsewhere, India
Also I think, although I am not sure about that, I am not
Very knowledgeable about the birds. My dad, however,
He would tell us stories about birds he loved as a child,
Birds who are no more on any of the islands of Hawaii,
One was the mamo, who drank from flowers like a bee,
And another was a very tiny green one who ate crickets
But who never got a name because no one ever saw her.
That is all I can remember and say about our birds here.
Do you have any other things that I can help you with?
Yes sir, I say. I am curious about a word for this place,
May I ask what is the name for where we are standing?
Why, this is Foodland, he says, and we lose it laughing
And both go in to get whatever it was we came to buy.
By pure chance we cross paths a little later as we leave,
And he says here is one last name for you to remember,
That is ‘iwa, the thief, the frigatebird, and yes, that was
Her over the parking lot a while ago, isn’t she glorious?

Deep in the Heart of a Kauai Winter

It is way too quiet this winter at Kauai Backstory, so we are tossing out a writing prompt: Deep in the heart of a Kauai winter.

Use this as a place to start writing or photographing. Does it conjure up an image? Maybe write a poem, then. Does it conjure up a scene? Write a story, then. Does it make you want to preach about something? Write an essay, then. Or, get out in the blustery weather and take some pictures. Basically, take it and run. Have fun. Then, send it to us. We won't guarantee we'll post everything we receive, but if we like it, if it moves us, if we laugh, cry, scream or sigh, we just may publish it on Kauai Backstory.

We'll accept submissions on this theme through the end of winter--whenever we deem that to be or, more accurately, whenever Mother Nature deems that to be. Please send your submission to kauaibackstory@yahoo.com.

As always, thanks for writing. Thanks for sharing. Be sure to visit www.kauaibackstory.com often.

Aloha,
Gae, Kim, Pam
Editors

Blue

by Kerith Edwards

When morning stands fresh
dilated cool with wind and sun
my heart—
having totaled rainy workadays—
remembers instead
long-sighted swell
watched to here!
wave mounted
ridden to low.
Lure me again, darling
yours today and forever,
my blue Kauai.

Not Today

by Lea Marie Taddonio

The tsunami alarm sounds off the first Tuesday of
each month.

Cane fields are stirring like water just before
wind.

The cat on the step ignoring.

The gecko pipes once.

A truck backfires up the canyon.

A cloud becomes turtle
then a dragon that eats the turtle
and it seems like such a waste of time to die.

Big Boat

by Lea Marie Taddonio

Where do boats come from?
Arriving as tiny miracles
We look up from the want ads
pause in the middle of polite conversations.

This boat is different.
It boasts about the horizon’s secret
loudly so you can’t miss hearing
the exact bulk of its bank account.

I had a lover who was bigger than this boat.
Every time I looked at my ocean
He was there, nodding on the waves.
Until finally
I created a hurricane.

Skullwalking

by Lea Marie Taddonio

Tourists at Ke‘e Beach pound over the skulls
of ancient ones.

Quietly urinate in thickets, spin tires in fine sand
groan about the clot of cars
trying to circulate out the parking lot at sundown.

The rhythm here is not the ocean
but a collective heartbeat

I am I am I am

The Paving of Paradise

by Jerry Von Schott

Dreams
covered in concrete.
Hardened reality
poured stony gray.
Hopes paved over
in flowing
unconciousness.
Paradise
gasps in darkness.
Crushed
under the weight
of cold slab.

Young Fruit

by Caleb Odam


Green is the smell of grass in my face
when I take a nap at the park

or the deep flavor of arugula.

Green is dancing dandelions, soft soccer fields
and sticky spirulina.

Green is young fruit

and the ferns that
crawled out of the ocean
at the beginning of the earth.

Come Alive Dream

[This is the final post from our second annual Creative Contest. This year's contest theme was "Green."]

by Craig Davies

First open your ears; now hear my plea.
Peace is a Dream that will come to be.

It all starts right here in our little home.
From this tiny island, Peace will be born.

Many have come here knowing not why.
The answers elude us; perhaps we should pry.

"Why are we here?" I ask of our Gods.
Surely They know why we do trod.

"To be an example”, They say to me,
"Of Love, of Peace and true Harmony".

“Energy of Ages has been given to you,
So that you may be leaders...you know what to do”.

To be a World model , that is our deed.
The spark of ignition, we will be the seed.

To feed all our people, no more need we seek.
We have fertile lands and the best of technique.

Self-sufficiency, the spirit is there.
We have all we need with plenty to share.

Alternative energy, so many options.
Wind, solar, hydro...without any toxins.

All said and done, great heights we’ll have soared.
The time has come to cut the cord.

Hawaiian sovereignty, a strong energy.
On this we must ride for then we will be...

A sovereign nation unto itself,
No need of war, guns on the shelf.

Peace we can have; Peace isn’t for sale.
So let's get to work, we must tip the scale.

The One Hundredth Monkey, have you heard of this?
If my vision is true...Kaua`i is it!

Awaken old souls, the time has arrived.
We've been called to Kaua`i to Come Alive.

Kekaha Signal Light

[This is the sixth of seven runners-up from our second annual Creative Contest. This year's contest theme was "Green." Each winning and runner-up entry will post on successive days, so be sure to make daily visits to www.kauaibackstory.com.]

by Juan Lugo

While traveling to Kokee with my grandchildren, driving past the small town of Kekaha, we came upon a broken and neglected signal light. One of the children asked, “Grandpa, that light is old, broken and not working. Why doesn’t someone remove it and take it to the dump? It could fall on a car and hurt someone or cause an accident.”

Memories flooded through me and I was so overwhelmed with emotion, I pulled off to the side of the road to compose my thoughts. The children must have thought they had said something wrong and after a few moments of silence, I decided to share with them a couple of stories of what the light meant to me and to those that grew up on the Island of Kauai. We stepped out of the car and I began to share my memories of the Kekaha Signal Light.

“This signal light on the road leading to Waimea Canyon represents the Marquesans, the first group of people to settle these islands. They introduced the sugar cane. They did not realize that this plant would attract a group of businessmen and cause the eventual overthrow of the unformed Hawaiian Monarchy. It represents the legacy of the sugar cane industry. This industry brought together a diversified group of people from all over the world. Each group being very proud of their rich ethnic culture and equally proud of their neighbor’s culture providing our Island of Kauai with an exotic flavor. It represents the agricultural greening of Kauai and of Hawaii. The light also reminds me of my childhood. This light was magical to me while growing up on this beautiful island of Kauai and it opened my heart and eyes to that magic.”

I pulled drinks and snacks from the cooler and gave them to the children. I continued my story. “In those days the trains would bring in the harvested sugar cane from the fields to the mill for processing. The method of harvesting was to set the fields on fire and after the fire died down, a dozer with a rake in the front would push the burning cane into rows. A crane with a grappling hook would load the burnt cane onto the train. Sometimes the dying embers would be re-ignited and a blazing inferno would occur. The train had to make it back to the mill very quickly. The light was installed to stop the little traffic that made its way up or down the Waimea Canyon.”

“The Kekaha Signal Light is a reminder of simpler times. We listened to nature’s whispers and to stories of our past. Today, it is the home of a family of Myna birds with the glass broken by those individuals that do not know of that time.”

Clearing my throat and fully immersed in the story, I continued, “I grew up in the Wailua Homestead on a Pineapple farm. Working in the fields was hard work and I hated it. My parents had a twenty-five acre farm and we grew pineapples as our main crop. We also had milk cows, pigs, chickens and vegetables to care for. Since the pineapple was our main source of revenue, my siblings and I had to work in the fields after school and on week-ends. We could not afford hiring outsiders.”


“So, when my father would announce on a Friday Evening that we would be going to Kekaha to watch the signal light change colors, we could hardly control our excitement! Not only would we be treated to an absolutely wonderful display of magic in seeing the lights change colors in the middle of nowhere, we would not have to work in the fields that week-end!”

“That night we would ready our surfboards, fishing poles, Hawaiian Slings and camping gear. These activities would be interspersed with talking about the magic of seeing the signal light change colors. I remember thinking that the changing colors were magic in the purest sense and it would send me spiraling off into the world of my imagination! We would talk late into the night and my mother would finally scold us and tell us to go to sleep.”

“Early, Saturday Morning we would finish our chores and then load up the back of our pick-up truck with the surfboards, fishing poles, Hawaiian Slings, food, drinks, guitars, ukuleles and camping equipment. We would be balanced precariously amidst all of the paraphernalia as we made our way to Kekaha from Wailua.”

“Once we reached Kekaha, we would set-up camp on the beach and then we would start doing everything we had talked about the previous evening. Whether it was board surfing, body surfing, fishing, spear diving, or simply lazing about and eating, whatever activity we were engaged in, would come to a halt, when we heard the sound of the whistle from the train as it made its way to the mill from the fields. We would run, helter-skelter through the small town of Kekaha and reach the light as it changed colors! I remember, jumping up and down, cheering, clapping my hands and joining in with my adult ohana and siblings as the train approached and the light would change colors! It was so incredible and I never tired of seeing the magic!”

“Later that evening, with my opu full, I would drift off to sleep listening to the gentle strumming of the guitars and ukuleles. I would listen to the songs and watch the dancing by the campfire. I would be lulled to sleep by the rhythmic pattern of the waves as they splashed upon the beach. I would look up at the sky and watch the moon and the stars play hide-n-seek behind the clouds. Many happy memories filled my memory banks. Happy memories, that I could make a withdrawal from, when my life was filled with strife and challenges. Those happy memories would see me through the troublesome times of my life.”

“And, that is why,” I whispered to my grandchildren, “I will always be grateful to the Kekaha Signal Light. It showed me how to believe in magic and to live my life open to daily miracles! A magical beauty that it is all around us! We only need to open our eyes and our hearts to see it.”

First Visit to Kaua'i

[This is the fifth of seven runners-up from our second annual Creative Contest. This year's contest theme was "Green." Each winning and runner-up entry will post on successive days, so be sure to make daily visits to www.kauaibackstory.com.]

by Laurie Barton

Red was our first impression:
Martian soil, as if we'd landed
in a dream of Mars, spinning

around a very hot sun.
One mountain, like a man
or giant creature dozing

in a bed of wild sugarcane
greener than anything, ground
still wet from all the raining

that spilled into a commotion
of roosters. Nothing sounded
like home, there was nothing

alive in our dry imaginations
like the green tunnel we found:
leafy arch to Koloa, swaying

interlocked trees, shiny green
passage to history, to a town
of sugar-ghosts, humming

The Power of Peace

[This is the fourth of seven runners-up from our second annual Creative Contest. This year's contest theme was "Green." Each winning and runner-up entry will post on successive days, so be sure to make daily visits to www.kauaibackstory.com.]

by Kimie Sadoyama

Let us give peace the power of a seed
With the potential of a tree
Let us have peace spread
And grow like a weed, grass or wildflowers
Let us give peace the power to be fruitful as grapes
Hearty in its vines clinging unto rocks
Even in times of drought
It can produce the finest of wines
Aged to perfection and medicinal in its cure
Of hatred, anger, fear, stress and aggression
Let us spread this seed of peace as if it will take
hold
And heal this planet and its atmosphere
And its ozone and its universe
And let all the beings and ants and soil
And planetary heavens straight up to God rejoice
In its pure seed of peace and love and healing
Green, green, greenness
So full of earth and joy and fruits
And leaves and seeds and stems and roots
And peace and peace and growth and love and joy
That we can plant in our hearts and soul
Forever for eternity for my Keiki*
Let us plant in our hearts this seed of peace
So that we can breathe
So we can love
So we can dance, so we can live
So we can be free to fly like a bee
Let us give peace the power of the seed
The power of the weed
The power of the wildflower, the power of the tree
Let us be free to be at peace like the tree
Like the wind in the leaves of the forest
Clapping its hands to the wonders of the wind
The wonders of the wild
The wonders of the stars
The wonders of the universal me
The universal we, the universal us
The universe of peace
Let us give peace the power of love
The power of We, the power of free
The power to be
Let us be
And live in peace

Mother Taro

[This is the third of seven runners-up from our second annual Creative Contest. This year's contest theme was "Green." Each winning and runner-up entry will post on successive days, so be sure to make daily visits to www.kauaibackstory.com.]

by Carrie Rautmann

I met Mother Taro once,
In the greenery of
John Pia's Taro Patch.
She was more plant than woman,
And yet more root than wing--
Though her heart shaped wings
Repelled water as well
As any albatross or nene.
A rare bird in spirit
She shared her plight to me
Of time after time
Watching the changes
In the faces of human kind.
She remembers being a Goddess
And providing for all the people
In a time where She
Would travel with the people
Over waters near and far
To share her spirit
With new families.
And now, She feels like a story
Told and retold by the elders
Alive more in the memories
And less on the land.
As she spoke, the message
Became more and more clear.
When might and power and speed and money
Seem of more value than
Root, wing, earth and pluck
We must take the time, take the time
To tend each keiki and tend with care
So they may multiply
In healthy soil, water and air
So We the Living
Can live into eternity.
For the winds of time
Will spite the might,
Power, speed and money
She said.
Seize this time
And take the time,
Take the time
To tend
We the living.

Living on Island

[This is the second of seven runners-up from our second annual Creative Contest. This year's contest theme was "Green." Each winning and runner-up entry will post on successive days, so be sure to make daily visits to www.kauaibackstory.com.]

by Risa Kaparo

Through the sea of soft tissue I call my body
liquid landscapes pulsing
I sense the heartbeat this blue planet
the vigorous yes green
longing itself toward light.
Here where rolling water
and upright water meet
where I call home.
Here things of the world crash
like my own relentless chatter
as waves upon the shore.
For a moment
I disenthrall from the turbulence.
I am
an ocean reconciled
depth to surface.


I am brought into remembering --
waves of time atop the formless.
Brought to freedom
by obedience,
listening choicelessly,
the way monks abide the monastery bell.

Brought here by devotion,
brought here as a parent.
The chimes—
blood insistence of children.
The discipline—
each purpose giving way.


(“Living on Island ” was originally published in the book “Embrace” by Scarlet Tanager Books in 2002.)

Heart Chakra Symphony

[This is the first of seven runners-up from our second annual Creative Contest. This year's contest theme was "Green." Each winning and runner-up entry will post on successive days, so be sure to make daily visits to www.kauaibackstory.com.]

by Sharon Douglas

Sunday morning KKCR classics
And I, in our timber home
Tucked on a Kalaheo hill
Gaze out on a symphony of green
Seeing sacred sound.

Members of the tree orchestra
From darkest emerald
To vivid, vibrant
Yellow infused chartreuse and lime,
Together creating harmonies of green

Ferns join the
Green sonata heart soaked song
furl and fray their leaves
Their many fingered hands of green
Playing the wind
Faster faster

Then drop away
Play a background tune

So now we see

Trees silently sing
their chlorophyll saturated songs
eucalyptus, mango, hau, albizia -
Iron wood too.

Breathing in
Their lungs and hearts expand

And from the background beat of green
Lillikoi lullaby,
Rainbow shower ruckus
Mass of pink-white butterfly petals
Softly settling raucous song of joy
Building crescendo
Pele’s Poinssiena posies
Passion exploding scarlet

All Harmonizing with
life giving, transformative
vitality of green

And off to the side
a tree trio
Sway, dip, bow
Rise, swoop, sweep
throw up green leafed arms
Celebrating the green grand finale

I am from

[This is the fifth--our student winner--of five winners from our second annual Creative Contest. This year's contest theme was "Green." Each winning entry will post on successive days followed by the seven runners-up, so be sure to make daily visits to www.kauaibackstory.com over the next couple weeks.]

by Katie Ceria-Johnson

I am from the busy roads on Kauai.

I am from my mom’s lectures and my father’s unseen face,
From days of my brothers being too protective;
From surviving life’s problems, and getting stronger every day.
From hearing “think before you talk.”
I am from a place of a different kind where today is only borrowed ‘cause you’re not promised tomorrow.

I am from warm “Smores” over the campfire,
Loud fireworks, laughs and giggles at Grandma Ursula’s house on New Years Eve.
From sweet “Korean Chicken” and tasty “Chicken Papaya,” and
the satisfaction of a cold “Berry Delight” on a hot summer day.

I am from sun-kissed faces and red-faced pictures on a blue-skied, clear-water day.
From believing that friends and smiles are all you need to be happy.

I am from a difficult background, faced with stupid boys and tracks of tears rolling down my face.
From days of hoping for a better tomorrow.

I am from missing the warmth and touch of a dad and his daughter;
Where a memory is the only thing that lingers on.
I am from reminiscing the past and living for the future...
Where the story never ends and bumps on the road come from nowhere.

I am from understanding that everyone deserves a second chance and from believing that everyone is just trying to get by, and experiencing that God and me are the only ones that know the truth.

I am from...

Obake Bite You

[This is the fourth of five winners from our second annual Creative Contest. This year's contest theme was "Green." Each winning entry will post on successive days followed by the seven runners-up, so be sure to make daily visits to www.kauaibackstory.com over the next couple weeks.]

by Kimie Sadoyama

She used to say, "Obake bite you." She was one strong woman, who made everything from scratch, even the long string lines full of tin plates hanging in a row, to chase the birds when the wind blew. JoAnn was so small, she always looked up to this big strong obake woman, as if she could scare anybody off her small plot of land, so full of everything. Not only did she have pigs and ducks, but she had all kind fruit trees and vegetables, some Hawaiian fruits not everybody had. But the most precious thing to this big obake lady, although you wouldn't think to look at her, was the cascading blue jade flower that only blooms every once-in-a-while. So you can see she did have a gentle heart. And JoAnn, so small and skinny, would follow her around as if she too would grow up to be as big and strong as her obachan. But no way. And every night when JoAnn would say, in the dark before she go sleep, "Good night Obachan," her obachan would only say back, "Obake bite you..."

When JoAnn was old enough to drive, her mother, she tell JoAnn, "Your obachan, she dress in all kind rags, I shame take her go shopping," So JoAnn, she tell her obachan, "I take you go shopping." When JoAnn went to pick her obachan up she was shocked to see her in a nice blue muumuu. So JoAnn, she figure, this obake woman, she just trying to teach my high-class mother a lesson. In fact, JoAnn, she always smiles when she sees her obachan walking around in public looking like the raw earth of her back-yard or a scarecrow she once made for her garden. For the clamor of tin plates, the quacking of ducks, and a greenhouse full of flowers and red earth was a world her obachan always carried with her whether she was in public or not.

When JoAnn went to college, her obachan, she feel so lonesome in a real Japanese way, so sabushi, that when she found out that JoAnn was coming home she would get into her nicest dress and sit on the chair outside her porch. And when someone walking by asks her how come she dressed up, she would just say, "JoAnn's coming home." For two weeks straight, everyday till dinnertime and even after the sun would go down, she would sit and wait for JoAnn to come home.

This obake lady, she not so strong no more, and the days, they all stretch together like birthdays and summers until JoAnn comes home. For she always sees inside this little runt JoAnn, the big obake lady she once was.

SKEPTICS: The Green Flash

[This is the third of five winners from our second annual Creative Contest. This year's contest theme was "Green." Each winning entry will post on successive days followed by the seven runners-up, so be sure to make daily visits to www.kauaibackstory.com over the next couple weeks.]

by Dawn Kawahara

Sandals sliding along
the sloping mat of grass
toward the curve of sand,
warm, your hand in mine,
salt breeze rumples our hair, chills our skin
as the sun falls out of a winter solstice day--
last of the century.
We do not hurry toward sunset.
The spangled sea splashes foam,
dashes, lays bare
walls of buried sandstone.
High waves launch a steady assault
against the black and jagged cliff
that marks the end of the beach.
Cloud veils sift, the sun bounces once,
rays stabbing the line of cool blue at the western edge,
settles, slims to a narrow disk,
thin
and thinner still--a fiery slice
slipping,
slipped below horizon,
transformed, becomes an emerald prism.
We blink and stare
held by the spell of that slow jeweled wink,
stand vesper still,
then lift our arms, whoop, giddily spin,
splashing along the silver fringe
of the cove’s dusk roll and tumble of velvet purple.
When colors merge to gray on gray
your fingers lace through mine,
leading me home slowly.
As if at a signal
we both glance back toward the darkened portal
of that iridescent green flash
we’ve longed to see
but half-believed as myth
and only, now, perceive as lucid magic
presaging our new millennium gift.

Above Hanapepe Valley

[This is the second of five winners from our second annual Creative Contest. This year's contest theme was "Green." Each winning entry will post on successive days followed by the seven runners-up, so be sure to make daily visits to www.kauaibackstory.com over the next couple weeks.]

by Schar Freeman

Spring Jog in Wailua

[This is the first of five winners from our second annual Creative Contest. This year's contest theme was "Green." Each winning entry will post on successive days followed by the seven runners-up, so be sure to make daily visits to www.kauaibackstory.com over the next couple weeks.]

by Brian Cronwall

Easter’s afternoon fields full of green
grown alone, no cattle in sight, no
white herons perched on cowbacks,
the grass rising up to a cloudy sky.

The brief breeze is refreshing,
a respite resurrecting the legs
and breathing into grasping lungs.
Two tire-flattened frogs stretch out
against the road. Three horses,
heads to flanks, stand nearly still
under tree shadows. I run by.

An ear-tagged goat lies near roots,
watching me from behind the fence
between us. Closer to home, purple
blossoms are wet on the pavement.

Slowing toward a walk, sweating,
Easing breath, a look at watch-time,
muscles strained: the run’s end
appears like a redemption, to feel
the O God good done on a spring afternoon,
green, as I too stretch out
under a cool, warming afternoon.

Kauaibackstory.com Announces Winners of 2007 Creative Competition

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE


Kauaibackstory.com congratulates the 2007 “Green” creative competition winners Brian Cronwall for his poem, “Spring Jog in Wailua,” Schar Freeman for her image, “Above Hanapepe Valley,” Dawn Kawahara for her poem, “Skeptics: The Green Flash,” and Kimie Sadoyama for her story, “Obake Bite You.” And 13-year-old Katie Ceria-Johnson for her student entry, “I am from…”.

Winners and runners up (see list below) are invited to read and share their entries during the lunch hour of the Kauai Sustainability Conference at Kauai Community College in Puhi on Saturday, October 13, 2007, starting at 1:00 p.m. (Winners and runners up are asked to RSVP to kauaibackstory@yahoo.com.) Starting October 15, the submissions of the contest winners and runners up will begin posting on www.kauaibackstory.com.

Kauaibackstory.com is a venue for rigorous writing with a view about Kauai. Year-round, the on-line literary journal welcomes high-quality writing and thoughtful images from the public. All submissions are moderated by a three-person editorial board, however, not all are posted. Kauaibackstory.com encourages the expression of all voices and delights in words and images that shift thinking and open minds. Much like an on-line blog, kauaibackstory.com encourages interactive dialogue with the hopes that the time-honored tradition of kama'ilio, talk story, will build community and understanding.

Runners Up:

Sharon Douglas for “Heart Chakra Symphony”
Risa Kaparo for “Living on Island”
Carrie Rautmann for “Mother Taro”
Kimie Sadoyama for “The Power of Peace”
Laurie Barton for “First Visit to Kauai”
Juan Lugo for “Kekaha Signal Light”
Craig Davies for “Come Alive Dream”


# # #

Hanalei Taro Fields

(c) Frank Brodarick

Announcing Second Annual Writing Competition

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

Kauaibackstory.com, an online literary journal and blog edited by three local writers, announces its second annual writing competition. This year’s theme is “Green.”

Entries will be accepted in the following categories: essay, story, poem and visual image. A student category will be created pending interest and writing quality.

Entries must focus on Kauai. Participants are urged to express their thoughts, feelings and observations about the theme, “Green” through the lens of their own unique experience and viewpoint.

Prizes will be awarded. Winners and other noteworthy contributors will be posted on www.kauaibackstory.com and invited to read on a special night in October. (Date and place to be determined.) Writers may submit up to three entries. There is no word limit--brevity is encouraged but not required. Visit www.kauaibackstory.com to view the quality of works posted and the blog’s mission statement.

The deadline for submitting entries is midnight HST September 1, 2007. Text entries must be pasted into the body of an email and sent to kauaibackstory@yahoo.com. Images must be sent as a jpg attachment.

Kauaibackstory.com is a venue for rigorous writing and imagery with a view about Kauai. The journal is intended to serve as a timely, interactive forum, and readers are encouraged to visit often and post comments.

Kauaibackstory.com is the collaboration of Kauai writers Kim Steutermann Rogers, Gae Rusk and Pam Woolway. We look for writing that raises thought, not walls. We encourage writing that rouses respectful dialogue for we believe one way to build community is through conversation. We think of kauaibackstory.com as a conversation about Kauai.

###

PHILEMON MELEMAKA

by Laurie Barton

In the ad for your Surf School
your hair flows long
as your strong legs lunge, in hula

In person, you're wearing a grandma
bun, but still you appear
the most powerful being at Wailua Beach.

I'm only the mom
of a teen girl. She begged
for surfing lessons, so I pay

and chat with you:
Philemon's a name in the Bible!
Your dark eyes flash

as I think of New England pomade,
a rainstorm of language, dripped into hymns,
and you say, Philemon-- it don't mean a thing.

Time Share

by Laurie Barton

Paradise sold on the honeymoon-
a holiday pitch, a heartless game

played with a Venezuelan salesman.
He hates us while remembering our names.

$800 a month: a luxury room,
infinity pool. Princeville, Cancun,

Kona or Quintana Roo. French toast,
coconuts, yoga, jacuzzi for two.

By the time we refuse him, our chips are all gone.
Dry strips of turkey attract a big fly.

Skipping the edges of sandwich, so
dizzy, a pattern of plunder.

The two of us kindle the courage to leave
by rubbing our bare legs together.

Sly glances cast at the ocean:
no contract to sign, not a fee.

Pele's Lesson

by Laurie Barton

Bobbing for hours
in the daiquiri waters of Hanalei Bay

Afloat on a cheap plastic raft
from the ABC Store in Kapa'a

Recalling the world-famous movie star
I had seen jogging that day

A billionaire, muscled and fit
alone on his fine purchased acres

I thought of his face in my envy
offending the goddess of fire

and then Pele zapped me with sunburn.
She marked me with heat, her displeasure:

Be grateful for what I have given--

This bay on this morning is my perfect gift
as you float, as you undulate freely

Flow

by Lois Ann Ell

Driving up to the Princeville Hotel
The rows and rows and clusters of condos
Just keep flowing
White on white on white
Creating long large masses of architecture among the patches of green below and patches of blue beyond

And in the parking lot
The rows and rows of rental cars brand new white green red grey
Parked, everything in order among the hot cement.

And inside the hotel
Beautiful and lavish and foreign
We sit down to tea
Eating little tea sandwiches with salmon and capers and
Croissants with Devonshire cream and sipping English Breakfast and Earl Grey
While spanning the martini menu
In our dresses and heels.
The conversation flows from one direction to the next, one topic into another
All of us connected
But not really

And the group or boondoggle for some software company stumbles in,
Playing a scavenger hunt masked as a team-building exercise masked as a time killer before cocktail hour.
The scavengers flow clumsily into the room as we sip tea looking at them and out over the sea and at each other.
The living room it’s called, as if real everyday living consists of sipping tea in heels or searching for a fruit that goes in a Mai Tai for software team A to cross of the list.

And all of it is so frivolous
But one hour flows into the next and were heading back to the hot grey parking lot towards the car that beeps loudly to unlock the doors for us to heel into our seats and
Go back to work
And husbands
And babies.
As we pull away, we look over the cliffs, silent to the blue below, small white crests steadily pushing into shore.

Day of the Dread

by Pam Woolway

Hippy babies are taking over all the funky cafes. Hippy
babies in their patchouli soaked diapers with their natty
dread dolls. Hippy babies with their Buddha bellies
spilling over their hemp diapers; running between your legs
as you walk across the hard wood floor with caramel rivers
of coffee rolling from palm to elbow; scalding your
fingers. Hippy babies bouncing off table legs in striped pants
and polka-dot shirts with tassels snapping in their wake. One hippy
baby shows up and a commune of organic scone-flinging babies is sure
to follow. As the floor blooms with all-natural crumbs, the hippy
babies divine spirits from soymilk stains on the tables. Hippy
babies swing from the philodendra vines, laughing too loud and smiling at all the seated babies with napkins tucked in their shirts. Hippy babies drooling 100% organic cookie drool down Bob Marley T-shirts that cost a dime at the Hippy Baby Boutique. Hippy babies chanting with bodhi beads and bangles around emaciated wrists, playing ukuleles and drowning out Greg Brown and Natalie Merchant in their ganga-stained hippy-baby voices. We ask them politely, please sit, please clean up after yourself. The hippy babies won’t have any of it. Who are we to infringe upon their freedom?

Aunty Logy’s Church of Disney

by Gae Rusk

Aunty Logy worships at the Church of Disney.

Yes, says Aunty’s tutu, little keiki Logy was among the first toddlers to enter the Land of Disney. This crucial event in Aunty Logy’s life included an encounter with the Matterhorn, which became the most important structure in Aunty’s world, looming far taller than Wai’aleale or the Na Pali seacliffs. Aunty has studied that spire many times since 1955 and has entered its hollowed ground as often as allowed.

On that very first visit, keiki Logy took Disney’s credo to heart and still sincerely practices what Disney preaches. Such as, sugar makes life more better. Such as, stay looking at the shiny side of life. These maxims work well for Aunty.

As an adult, Aunty has unashamedly wept in the presence of Mickey. Aunty has chased the Dwarfs across the Park to get photos with them, later on to get photos of them with Aunty’s own keikis. And though Aunty Logy has knocked over others in pursuit of photos of big hair - especially at Kapa’a High School graduation – Aunty has never flattened a child of Disney.

This reverence glows within Aunty’s impatient nature like lit crystals in Mickey’s grotto. Disney’s power to shift a flawed Aunty to another better Aunty has kept Aunty Logy standing in line for hours, in grueling and claustrophobic conditions, just to go on a one minute ride, and then to find another line to stand in. Aunty will do that nowhere else, for no reason and no one.

Aunty Logy is now middle-aged and still enchanted with Disney films. Aunty, still emotionally involved with Haley Mills, now adores Lilo, who is a future graduate of Kapa’a High School. Aunty Logy grew up with Lilo’s Aunty Lehualani, another proud and reverent Mouska-tutu with extra large hair.

In middle-age, Aunty Logy still sings along to countless Disney hymns. Aunty ariates that clever homage to handsome, misguided Gaston, whose moral flaws delightfully rhyme, and Aunty resonates Ariel’s touching lament that everything is not enough for one wahine. Aunty sings these words. Aunty is these songs.

At some point in the many decades since 1955, Aunty Logy became a Disney Warrior battling on the side of Walt the Good. Aunty is now a Dwarf-wannabe, all seven of them, marching to and fro in the name of Disney and a career in mining. It’s the truest truth with a catchy beat.

And when Aunty Logy leaves Kauai and makes a pilgrimage to one of the lands of Disney, Aunty is the friend of all strangers. Aunty is never disliked. Aunty is always worthy.

Disney is not just Aunty Logy’s church, Disney is Aunty’s best friend. This knowledge gives Aunty comfort. This information makes Aunty Logy safe from Aunty’s own dark side. This belief keeps Aunty in line for the Adult Forest ride.


Please note: Antilogy is an inconsistency or contradiction in terms or ideas, causing controversy and discussion.

Gae Rusk copyright 2007

River Stone

(Inspired by: Burlap Sack by Jane Hirshfield)
by Pam Woolway

A woman experiences a loss
the way a river stone is colored grey or beige
Someone says, “Pick up the stone,”
so we touch its surface,
brighter if left in the water.
To wish for the colors to have a meaning is a mistake.
To wish for loss to have meaning is a mistake.
Meaning wears loss like a tree wears leaves,
dropping slowly beneath branches, one at a time.
The tree is not its bark or branches or leaves.
The meaning is not the shade nor sky nor grass.
What might happen if we skip the stone across the surface of a lake,
to let the round pebble dance with its own reflection?
What if we rest beneath the tree in deep shade,
leaves twirling around us in spirals like kamikaze kites?

Portrait

by Kim Steutermann Rogers

If I were to paint
the face of Kauai,
I would use a palette of greens.

Eyes whorled in iliau
lashed with lau hala
browed in banana leaves exposed
to northeast tradewinds

Moving down to the nose,
I would paint kalo
veined with life in full sun
A mouth in the thin grin of koa,
dimpled with unripe loulu berries

If I were to paint
a male face in green,
I would introduce a beard
of ironwood fuzz
But I think of Kauai
as a woman, and so

I would add strands of maile
vining from the top of her head to her toes
And rouge her cheeks
the newness of resurrected alula leaves.

Love Poems from a Tall Island

by Gae Rusk


II. Cartography

Are you learning to read maps?
I’m depending on you now
I’m needing you now
for it’s a navigator I have lacked

Think of where we could go
we could earhart the sky
we could collect continents
then fly off quick
when they shift
below our feet
we could avoid night blindness
going on autopilot
letting the map read itself
routing us
at last
to consummation

You need to stay still now
so I can find you
I know echo location will work
I know all the legends on all the maps
of this entire earth
will lead me to
you
I know kilometers and miles have conjoined
marking the spot where
we
will finally
meet



copyright 2007

Lost in Translation

by Pam Woolway

You live here?
King Kalakaua was forced to sign the "Bayonet Constitution" in 1887, sharply curtailing his powers and diminishing the Native Hawaiians' voice in government.

Where’s a good place to surf?
All men shall have the right, in an orderly and peaceable manner, to assemble.

Is there a place to rent surfboards?
Whenever a slave shall enter Hawaiian Territory, he shall be free.

I’m not going nowhere till I find a bar.
Involuntary servitude, except for crime, is forever prohibited in this Kingdom.

Have you ever been to Oregon?
The person of the King is inviolable and sacred.

Ha ha ha ha . . . how long?
All men may freely speak, write, and Publish their sentiments.

Is there any good beaches?
All men are free to worship God according to the dictates of their own consciences.

How warm’s the water?
This sacred privilege hereby secured, shall not be so construed as to justify acts of licentiousness.

Where do you stay at?
The King convenes the Legislature at the seat of Government, or at a different place, if that should become insecure from an enemy or any dangerous disorder.

Is there a bar there?
Or practices inconsistent with the peace or safety of the Kingdom.

Do they pay for your food?
He shall be obliged to contribute his proportional share to the expense of this protection, and to give his personal services, or an equivalent when necessary.

Ha ha ha ha . . . do you surf?
God hath endowed all men with certain inalienable rights.

Do you fish?
In times of peace.

Can I see your tattoo?
Except on probable cause, supported by oath or affirmation.

How long did that take?
It shall be held inviolable forever.

You ever been off Hawaii?
The Princess Liliuokalani, and the heirs of her body, lawfully begotten, and their lawful descendants in direct a line.

Ever been anywhere?
When in cases of rebellion or invasion.

By choice?
Life, liberty, and the right of acquiring, possessing, and protecting property, and of pursuing and obtaining safety and happiness.

So what do you do for fun?
War, invasion, rebellion, pestilence, or other public disaster.

Do you own a boat?
No person shall ever sit upon the Throne, who is insane or an idiot.

UNTITLED CIVICS LESSON

by Charley Foster

At the Fifth District Court House
In a field of long green grass
Next to a ball field
Deputies send a man out
To knock orange mud from his boots.
Elsewhere are the executive
And the legislative branches,
So to speak. Kauai rules itself
By a mayor-council form
Of county government.

The county council is comprised
Of seven at-large seats.
Council members are vested
With the power to consult oracles
And provide divination.
In addition to predicting the weather
And healing the sick,
Council members supervise
The construction of temples
And the making of canoes.
They sometimes indulge in necromancy
And can cause grave illness
By "praying a person to death."

The mayor implements ordinances
Passed by the council.
A warrior, the mayor lives
Entirely off material goods
Provided by the common people
Who must, under penalty of death,
Prostrate themselves when
In the mayor's presence.
The office is hereditary
And some mayors have been
Of such high rank that they
Found no peers worthy of marriage
Except their own siblings.
The mayor must submit
To the council
An annual budget.

Once each month
On a designated night is made
A human sacrifice.
Often victims are prisoners taken in war,
But if none are available,
A person secretly chosen from the community is
Strangled in his or her sleep;
The body hung from a tower
Constructed of ohia poles
Until morning when it is
Placed on a lava stone alter.
Only after the flesh has
Entirely rotted from the bones
Is the body removed and buried
On a bluff overlooking the Wailua River.

The Roosters

by Charley Foster

Who knows what sets them off in the middle of the night, hours before
the dawn. It begins with the scream of a single rooster and undulates
across the landscape as neighboring roosters join in the mass
assertion of territorial and hierarchical dominance. It creeps up on
you lifting you from sleep; a tsunami begun somewhere on a distant
hill in a distant patch of jungle spreads in expanding rings, snapping
awake each blinking rooster who raises his head in turn to add his own
voice as the cacophonous wave floods past. Does it begin with a single
epicenter, like a stone dropped into a pool, or do they commence
spontaneously all over the island like raindrops.

One imagines all the chickens on the island have added their voices
before they are through. Why would it stop before they have all heard
and responded. Maybe it goes all around the island several times,
like a crowd in a stadium doing the wave at a sporting event. It seems
that way some nights.

Where Are You Nato Potato?

by Leo DuBois

It’s another bright Sunday morning and I’m sitting
in the quiet corner of a coffee house sipping my
dark, tasty caffeine treat. From my soft, comfy
chair I observe the regulars swapping cheerful
greetings and rubber necking websites via the free
wireless access.

A sandy-haired fellow with a grizzled beard sits at
nearby oak stained table putting the finishing
touches on one of several beaded necklaces. He looks
like he might be an artist preparing to sell his
wares. Soon a small group of his friends arrive and
greetings are exchanged. As I observe this offline
chat group, my mind wanders back to another free
spirit that once held court on Kauai not so many
years ago.

I can’t remember how or when I first met Nathan Lee
(his artist moniker), but I do remember that he had
many endearing names including Nato Potato,
Nate-the-Skate, and Nately-Skately.

Nate had dark curly hair, bright hazel eyes, an
average build, and a perpetually crooked smile. He
was one of the few “health conscious” friends I knew
back in the early 80’s. He was an artist, a
musician, and somehow was able to survive by sheer
reckless whimsy. There were times when his money ran
out and he was forced to take on chores as a Kauai
educator, but between the years 1980 through the
1990s when I knew him, he had worked out a clever
scheme to support his art by buying and refurbishing
fixer-ups.

The Plan

Stage 1: Buy a house, fix-it-up and sell it.
Stage 2: Take a portion of the money and throw a
huge party at a local hotel and invite simply
everyone on Kauai to come and enjoy the fruits of
his invested achievements.
Stage 3: Buy another house and repeat Step 1.

Upon purchase of his first house Nato began hiring
his local friends to work on his
“Estate-of-the-Arts”.
A year passed by and the quaint little cottage now
looked like a jewel-by-the-sea. Up on the auction
block that little sweetheart went and within a short
space of time, BAM! went the gavel and Nato Potato
now had a nice pile of money to throw into the bank.
I personally chided him over and over and over for
selling that sweetest of seaside homes. Sure the
property was the size of a Grenada postage stamp but
who cared? It was sweet. It was like your Grandma’s
house-by-the-sea.

During those years of house makeovers Nate would
earnestly paint on canvas and create works of art as
well as record original music and videos to share
with the island’s people at his art parties.

Nato carefully pre-advertised the party in the
Garden Island newspaper, put flyers up on local
market bulletin boards and spread the word on the
coconut wireless. When the night of the
Viva-Las-Vegan party finally arrived Nate’s surf
band, “The Thrusters” rocked the night away sending
young and old shaking their okoles out on the
Voyager room’s polished dance floor. Nate made sure
to invite all his local comedian, actors and
actresses to perform skits and off-the-wall impovs.
Video and still cameras clicked and whirred
everywhere recording both the performers and the
colorful attendees. Each year these parties became a
“must-do” annual event and residents of Kauai looked
forward to these social affairs to see what new and
old faces would appear mixing around like one of
Nato’s vibrant paintings.

Nato’s paintings were 100% pure whimsical fun and
you either loved it or you stood around shaking your
head. Nathan did in fact sell a few paintings at
these events but a Paul Gauguin he was not and the
parties were simply an excuse to bring fun and color
to an otherwise island still-life. It was all about
sharing the pure fun with a wide mix of young and
old, locals and visitors alike. Everyone was left
filled with the passion of the Nato juice.

One day I heard that Nathan left us for another
island. Like a tropical breeze that flirts from one
island to another he had picked up and was swept
away to find a new place to exhibit his uninhibited
ambitions.

Where are you Nato Potato? I wish you were back on
Kauai. I know that necklace newcomer and all his
friends at the next table are ready for a good time.
…and Hey! ...so am I.

The spirit of aloha is alive and well even in Los Angeles

by Severine Nichols

There is a saying that goes "Wherever you go there you are" it is such a profoundly true thought. We each carry with us our thoughts and emotional baggage to every destination we journey to, without even realizing it.

After going through a divorce this earlier this year, I was feeling a bit down so my friend Kaulana and I decided to combine a trip to Los Angeles for business and to celebrate my 35th birthday.

We left the Garden Isle on red-eye flight out of the Lihue airport and by the time we arrived in Los Angeles airport, we were exhausted, with yet a full day of work and activities ahead of us.

At the end of our day, with our business complete, my friend Kaulana and I decided to take a trip into the heart of Rodeo Drive for some heavy window shopping and possible star gazing.

Since it was my birthday we wondered into the Gucci store to look around and admire all of the wonderful purses inside. I have a mad weakness for well-made handmade Italian leather handbags. I immediately fell in love with one and after trying it out several times, I looked the price tag. It was over 1, 100.00 dollars! I almost gasped out loud, but thank goodness, I did not.

I put it back on the shelf and started to walk away, but my friend said it is so pretty and it is your birthday after all….so I succumbed to the desire and pulled out my debit card and tried not to think about my ever dwindling bank account.

With my new purchase safely tucked in my hand, we called our hotel for a car to come and pick us up. (one of the many perks staying at the Park Hyatt is they provide such fantastic service, such as a town-car service to Rodeo Drive.)

We sat down outside to wait for the car, on a marble window-sill of the Gucci store which doubled as a bench; we were having a nice time people watching all of the various Hollywood types we don't really get to see over here on Kauai.

Suddenly we were approached by an elderly legless, African American man in a wheelchair holding an almost empty coffee cup in his left hand. He rolled up to us with clear eyes and a sweet smile on his face. There was something very gentle and different about this person, it was immediately noticeable from the start; there was not a trace of pity in this man, only happiness and pride. He did not ask for money nor did he beg. He asked how our day was and if we were enjoying our shopping experience. This made us smile and laugh deep inside for we were not the typical rich city money shoppers; we were just regular island gals out for a visit to the big city.

He said his name was Ron and started to do impressions for us, the first one was of a lifeless statue, he must have held that pose for well-over 2-3 minutes. All the while Kaulana and I were giggling like teenagers and smiling at his wonderful performance. Kaulana handed him a few dollars for his effort and I pulled out my wallet and proceeded to give him all of my cash, I think it was eleven dollars.

He looked at me and said thank you sister. To which I replied, "No thank, you gave us the gift of laughter and I thank you for sharing with us your talent."
" He said you know there are angels that walk around among us, everyday and most folks forget to look for them." I nodded my head in understanding.

I took it step further and said; "I think it is the spirit of Aloha; in being able to give and being open to all people, no matter where you are."

It was just at that moment our car arrived and we had to leave the nice man, who had so freely shared his gift of laughter. As we got in the car and we pulled away, it was then I realized though my wallet was empty of any cash, my heart was both richer and fuller and somehow I felt had shared some of the spirit of Aloha with an angel of Los Angeles.

Relic of the Past Looking into the Future

[Eds. note: This is the last of the runner-up posts from the recent Kauai on My Mind Creative Competition.]

by Kimie Sadoyama

Last of the Ma and Pa Stores

[Eds. note: This is the 13th of 14 runner-up posts from the recent Kauai on My Mind Creative Competition.]

by Kimie Sadoyama


If you could see my parents’ store in the middle of
Kapa’a town, on the island of Kaua’i, you would have
chosen a cleaner more modern supermarket to do your
shopping. Its rows were so narrow that two Filipinos
walking opposiste each other would sometimes knock
over a bottle of mayonnaise on the cement floor, much
to my mother’s disgust. Someone once said of the
store, ”You can buy anything from fishhooks to
muumuus.” All I could remember about it was there were
wall-to-wall things in the back of the counter. You
could see everything hanging on hooks which had no
rhyme nor reason, from hammers to lighters, to cards
and flashlights. My mom always had a roll of wrapping
paper on the bottom and some spindles of ribbon on the
counter in case anyone needed them to be gift wrapped.
It was not a grocery store but they carried potatoes,
onions, garlic, eggs, and milk fresh. Their customers
were mostly Filipinos who worked at the sugar
plantations and grew their own vegetables in their
gardens.

My mother was the kind of woman who could look into a
person’s eyes and tell instantly whether he or she was
good or bad or just a victim of circumstances. She
knew just about everybody who walked into her store.
People would come in, and she would grab a ledger and
write down their charges.

She would describe people to me by what they bought.
She’d say to me, ”You notice these old Filipinos, they
don’t buy toothpaste or toothbrush? They don’t brush
teeth! That man doesn't buy toilet paper because he
lives in his car and parks in the sugarcane field to
sleep and uses the pavillions to go to the bathroom."

I’d laugh as they looked at me smiling and chewing
their tobacco with brown stained teeth. Why, she’d
know them so well that before leaving she would say to
them, ”What about apple cider vinegar, did you forget
it this time?” They would say, ”Oh yeah, missis, I
porgot da vin e ga.”

At night after dinner she would read the paper
thoroughly. Her favorite section was the obituaries. I
always thought that it was a bit morbid, but she would
say, ”It’s always good to know who died. You might
know someone.”

My parents’ store was one of the first Ma and Pa
stores to close down in recent years, giving way to
progress and the grocery-chain supermarkets of the
modern times. But the nickname Ma and Pa was not just
a nickname. Here on Kauai’i it was a reality.

Not only did these poor Filipinos come to my
parents’ store for groceries, but they depended on my
father for legal help, tax preparation and, of course,
borrowing money. My mother had seen enough of Kapa’a
town to know why people wanted to borrow money. You
see, my dad was always busy with his books upstairs,
so when someone wanted to borrow money, they would
have to go through my mother first. If it were up to
my dad, he would lend money to most of the steady
customers for he knew that he would be paid back with
interest. But my mom would needle them for hours until
my dad would come down from his office. Their
cusstomers were like their children, and their
well-being, whether it be getting duped at the
gambling tables or having one too many drinks. Besides
selling goods from their store, this was also included
as part of their jobs. This was a real Ma and Pa
store.

There was a bar right next to the store run by a
widow. I would hear stories of how she had, in the old
days, ladies of the night working for her. She opened
at noon and always came into the store before opening
up to buy some last minute ingredient for her
appititizers, which she always served for free with
your drinks. In the evenings you could hear the juke
box playing through the wall and you’d know that the
bar was hopping.

One day an old steady customer of my mom’s was
bugging her for twenty dollars. He had spent his last
dollar on a drink at the bar and was ready to hop over
to the next one a block away. My mother kept telling
him not to drink too much, but no. He stuck around
till closing time and she felt sorry for him and
grabbed twenty dollars out of her bra and wrote it
down in his ledger. The next day she fould out that he
had been hit by a car drossing the street outside of
the bar. He was not hurt too badly. The next time she
saw him he had a bandage on his head. My mom felt so
guilty that she yelled at him: ”You see, if I hadn’t
lent you that twenty dollars, you wouldn’t have gotten
hit. I told you to go straight home! You see.” That
was my mom. She was the mom of everybody.

The store was closing down for good, my mom was
recommending her customers to another store that would
take their charges, but some families preferred to
shop with cash in the larger supermarkets. My
grandfather started this business two generations ago,
and here it was now, my parents were going to retire
and close this store that served as a gathering place
and a second home for many of their customers for
almost three generations.




This old Japanese man was so old with nothing to do
so he would walk into town every day and sing Japanese
songs to the kids. They would just laugh at him and
try to get away, but he’d grab them, sit them down,
and sing songs to them from Japanese movie magazines
sent to the store for him. I would catch him stealing
candy from the rack and I would turn to my mom, who
would just put her finger to her mouth and say sssh.
Sometimes when she could tell that he wasn’t feeling
good, she would pour a little Seagram 7 in his 7up. He
would sing his songs all afternoon in the hot son,
then when it was time for me to drive him home, he
would race all over the store picking up his
groceries, yelling at me ”chi chi chi chi.” Which
means boobs in Japanese. To him it meant milk. Putting
all of his goods in an onion sack, already laden with
a gallon of sake, we would be off. My mom always
complained that he would dilly dally all day long and
at the last minute would be in such a rush. Every time
I drove him home, he smelt of urine. My mom says he’s
so old that he misses when he pees. He would always
give me a couple of dollars and avocados and papayas.

A few months earlier he would come down to the store
at the beginning of every month in a frenzy wanting to
buy a lock. He’d say, ”Those no good Hawaiian kids
stole my money from my drawer.” At the beginning of
every month my parents would cash his social security
check and he would pay his bill and buy some groceries
and go home to build his fire for his bath, an
old-fashioned Japanese bath called a ”furo” which was
outside of his house. He would put his whole month’s
cash in a drawer next to his bed and go outside to
start his bath, and by the time he got inside, his
money would be gone. Every month it was the same
thing. I need a new lock, he would say. This went on
for months. My mother told me that he just felt sorry
for those Hawaiian kids and that he had money in the
bank. He soon died of old age in his broken down
shack, a furo out back, with avocado and papaya trees.

Just like Yasui old man, my parents’ store died of
old age. Why, the shelves were so termite eaten that
if it weren’t for the paint I couldn’t see how they
held all those things on it. The next year my dad
leased it out to a feed business, and hurricane Ewa
knocked the whole thing down. Someone said that the
termites in the wood were holding hands and if one of
them let go, the whole thing would come down. Well
that was probably not too far from the truth, for
after the hurricane the only thing standing was the
rock wall in front of Betty's Inn, the bar next door.
I drove by, and someone had a sign up that said ”Yard
Sale. Everything Must Go!” right in front of the
rubble and a friend was taking his picture.

I am proud to have been born and raised here on Kauai
and have seen many changes but I do believe that if we
can understand how we lived here in the past we can
learn from it and would not be so disrespectful of the
old ways and brush them aside just to sweep in the
new. Thank you very much for providing me the
opportunity to have my words be heard.

Homeward Bound

[Eds. note: This is the 12th of 14 runner-up posts from the recent Kauai on My Mind Creative Competition.]

by Carrie Rautmann

Kolea sees the rising of Orion's Belt,
And follows the belt
Into Dawn's day.
He spent his winter
On green pastures of Kauai
Nourished by rain waters
Which have fallen from
Wai'ale ale to swell into rivers and land.

Plumage changes, reminding him
Of his return to the Alaskan tundra.
How can he know this path
Of 3,000 miles across ocean
To ancient nesting grounds
His grandmother has used?
What faith does he need
To ride through currents of air
Across vast waters
To reach land?

He arrives in open tundra,
And finds his feathered
Brothers and sisters.
Seeking his mate,
They find each other
Build their nest.
Eggs laid, they wait patiently.
Hatching, the young ones
Feed well, and grow strong
For the journey home.
They watch the sky,
For the sign to return.

Some seekers who have
Called him papakolea
Follow him now in double hulled
Canoes, praying to the night sky
While papakolea listens for the
Whisper of the dragon thrashing
Across dark skies.
In the middle of the ocean
He rides on dragon's breath
To find a pasture on an island
Where he had fed a year ago.

Paddling canoes
Tracing after stardust from papakolea,
They reach the shores
And reunite to land.
In this way,
Seabirds and seekers
Find reunion.

Morning Dew

[Eds. note: This is the eleventh of 14 runner-up posts from the recent Kauai on My Mind Creative Competition.]

by Carrie Rautmann

Taro leaf cradles morning dew
Sunlight scattering
Silver tones into garden patch
Casting notions of fertility
And vitality into day.
Outward bound,
Yet held in pregnant pause,
Female water,
Round and full upon leaf,
Speaks of muted heart shape green
And ancient purple lineage
Of Mother taro.
How can one drop be held
In such Reverent Suspension?
Separate, yet offered as gift
In a hungry moment
To thirsty tongues who may drink
From this leaf,
Or to the wind, who may
Cast this water onto Earth in one shake.
What journey can this dew drop begin?

And inside the light of Dawn
Streams onto the faces
Of Two who have woven in embrace.
One drop of Essence reaches egg.
In female waters,
Life begins in womb,
Eggs multiplying again and again.
Innocence, born from Passion,
Becomes alive from this Union

And outside, the morning dew
Dances its belly dance
Upon leaf, like a heartbeat
Drumming itself into life,
And when the drop falls to Earth,
It innocently begins
The journey again,
Drinking upon Earth,
To river to ocean to cloud,
To fall to Earth again, and
Again, and again and again.

The Blessing

[Eds. note: This is the tenth of 14 runner-up posts from the recent Kauai on My Mind Creative Competition.]

by Rocky Riedel

A rock spoke to me. It was in the stream up there in Kapahi, at the little bridge near the end of the road. I was leaning over the white wooden railing, watching the water glisten as it danced down the stream. The water and I were both reflecting.

I was there for a while when a rock, its nose jutting up just above the happy water, started speaking to me. I could barely see its mouth but it was definitely gurgling and burbling, asking me to listen as the water washed over its face.

I can’t repeat what it said because it didn’t use specific words. It was more as if crystal droplets of language leapt from the rock’s lips, landed on my skin and soaked straight through to my heart. Suddenly full of unspeakable knowing, my heart brimmed over. Grace anointed my very soul like a rich soothing oil.

I don’t remember how much time passed and I don’t remember what I was thinking or if people walked by or even if it rained. I can only tell you this: I was healed and I was loved.

After a while I knew it was time for me to leave. I bowed low to the rock, humbly thanking it for its glorious blessing. And then I crossed the bridge to the other side.

Returning To My Island Home

[Eds. note: This is the ninth of 14 runner-up posts from the recent Kauai on My Mind Creative Competition.]

by Coral Miles

Longings soon to be fulfilled
Doors fall open, my heart leaps,
Inhaling deeply, memories awake
Sweet fragrance fills the air
But then, other odors linger there

Chant: Welcoming home… Welcoming home…
Welcoming home…

Seeking again visions of my youth
Waking to compelling truth
Quiet retreats, unfilled shore
Once were mine, but now no more

Chant: Searchin’… Searchin’… Searchin’…
Searchin’… Searchin’… Searchin’…

Crawling traffic, multiplied lights
Why can’t I see the stars at night?
Crossing fields, traversing lanes
Finding barred with fence and chains

Chant: Kapu, Keep-out… Kapu, Keep-out…
Kapu, Keep-out…

We must gain we must prosper
Keep it coming, growing faster
Pursuing hope in ancient places
Metal bird in air erases

Chant: Aloha compromising, another building rising… Aloha compromising, another building rising...

Youth with smiles, lilting laughter
Aunties, tutus, running after
Now empire feet and belly things
Beeping sounds and smoky rings

Chant: We like ta-ttoos… We like ta-ttoos… We
like ta-ttoos…

Once proudly worn your teeming reef
Now dying rock and crowded beach
Still the water warm and clear
The sun still warms my shoulders
Is it just that I am older?

Chant: Paddle hut… Paddle ho… Paddle hut…
Paddle ho…

Lei circling my neck, fast fading flowers
Regaining paradise, hope in measured hours
Though our island keeps on giving
Growth with pain, pain with living

Chant: Tourist in jeep... Tourist in jeep...
Tourist in jeep...

Returning to my island home
You and I have surely grown
Heaven’s touch still surrounds
Your velvet peaks, your radiant ocean
Inspiring our divine emotion

Chant: Terra healing, God revealing… Terra healing, God revealing…

Questioning what I must do
How can I give back to you?
A willing sacrifice I pledge
I will sow... I will seed
Endeavoring to fill the need

Strains of: “Aloha Oe”

Walking Trail

[Eds. note: This is the eighth of 14 runner-up posts from the recent Kauai on My Mind Creative Competition.]

by Charles Looney

It is a walking trail.
It offers
a lungful of plumeria air,
a chat with the broke winged nene,
a glimpse of heron blue predator
rippling the green lagoon waters
with wings to an island, an egg, a fish,
and silly white-masked Coots
or red-masked Moorhens
who talk like geese
who walk on tiny stilts
who want to but can’t be
ducks at all.

It is to be assaulted
with the usual machines
for the usual reasons.
Some will survive the
carbon monoxide
and the ripping of the earth.
Some will collapse
into history.
Some will linger
to remember,
a poison tree on a poison hill.

Wild Sea

[Eds. note: This is the seventh of 14 runner-up posts from the recent Kauai on My Mind Creative Competition.]

by Mary Hunter Leach

Surf is up! The wild sea is calling,
calling all who hear, calling even me (one who does not surf).
This is not a day to be indoors, to be contained,
I tell my friend. We must go out! And so we leave
our smaller, undone things, called by the wild sea.

How high they are, these waves--huge, unconquerable, salt-spraying waves--
crashing over lava rock and shoreline,
ten, no twenty feet high: glorious!
Breaking, spraying, breaking
again and again,
rhythm unseen, rhythm nevertheless.
Giant waves rush onto shore, take the beach that we know,
claiming the sand we stand on, loose branches, seaweed, so many shells.
All moves seaward, even the eyes of scattering tourists,
who find no resting places in the sun. Not today!
This is ocean, nothing less will rule!

We enter her, slowly at first, aware of danger.
Soon we are swimming out, rolling in, carried farther and farther out
each time, though we are still near shore.
I long to roll past all this, take the highest wave and soar,
but even our strongest strokes are no match
for ocean’s sweeping song.
I hear my fear, taste the salt of it, asking
how far into this wildness will I be thrown?
Will I return, still be alive?
No answer from the huge waves crashing, no
letting up, no stopping this wild sea. She is alive!

My friend’s gentle voice, laughing, relaxes me
until I become the water: I am the sea,
flowing in and out toward shore, trusting the unseen
rhythm, all that wildness flowing into
something I can bear.

Later that night, I still cannot contain myself.
I must see your face, must bring you this wild sea.
You are covered in duty, I interrupt you, yet you let me,
smiling. “I can smell it,” you say. You know the surf is up.
“Yes,” I say. I know you do, as I look at you,
calling to your own unseen wild seas.

I know you know the wild sea.

Makuahine

[Eds. note: This is the sixth of 14 runner-up posts from the recent Kauai on My Mind Creative Competition.]

by Kimberly Kirk

Surrender

[Eds. note: This is the fifth of 14 runner-up posts from the recent Kauai on My Mind Creative Competition.]

by Suzanna Kennedy

I surrender to the coconuts that fall unto my roof and wake me up at night
I surrender to the roosters that crow before dawn
I surrender to the mangos too numerous to harvest, that litter my yard, fermenting
I surrender to gecko poop on my furniture
I surrender to the mold that belies the moist salt air
I surrender to you, Kauai
You have stripped me naked of all
my armor and weapons
You’ve struck down my defenses against love
Defenses against vulnerability
Against intimacy
And authenticity
I’ve done battle with you, Kauai
Trying to keep your abundance at bay
To preserve my illusion of order
Trying to squeeze your love into shapes and
forms that where familiar
But why?
Those forms never worked for me anyway
Those forms were my prison
Why cling?
Why fight?
Why force and push?
Why labor at all?
I surrender to you, Kauai
You win
Go ahead and love me, anyway you want

WE MOURN YOU, RAYMOND NAPOLEON

[Eds. note: This is the fourth of 14 runner-up posts from the recent Kauai on My Mind Creative Competition.]


C. 2005, Dawn Fraser Kawahara



By the heiau a cloud envelops me
obscuring the river, obscuring the sea,
a rainbow rises, shimmer bridge
from the Hundley Hill pines
to Kalepa ridge
and the plum trees
at the edge where Raymond took his life.
The road drops down to a leaden river,
a tarnished sea, how could it be
that he had had enough
at twenty-five. . .
His name in the roll book
ten years ago comes alive–
the boyish grin, intelligent eyes,
well liked, well grounded,
attends to his work, no trouble
even to a substitute.
After school we’d see him
hefting his golf bag,
power drive, two putts
topping his good short game--
Raymond Napoleon.
Met him again in Waipouli
friendly as ever
white apron wrapping his waist,
his family, he said, was fine.
And Raymond? Fine, just fine,
not much time for golf
working Aloha Diner.
Same grin–the likeable boy
now a likeable man.

On the way to golf
one summer afternoon
we saw a car parked
by the trees that cling to the ledge,
wondered who might have stopped
to look toward O`ahu,
nap on the heiau’s edge.
The next day’s obituary–shock!
as we remembered Raymond.
Later we learned
he’d looped the noose
on a branch of those same trees.
We lash ourselves, so unaware,
oblivious to his pain,
how could we pass so close to his last stand
unknowing, unable
to reach out, hold him
to the promise of his life,
stop our former student friend
from following his dead-end plan.

Mourning the Bougainvillea

[Eds. note: This is the third of 14 runner-up posts from the recent Kauai on My Mind Creative Competition.]

by Keahi Felix


They are fallen warriors, now assigned to unknown graves. One day these warriors of beauty and goodness stood at their posts as they had done for years on end. The next they were gone.

They demanded nothing of us, not wages, not shelter, not even food. They were friends of nature and nature took care of them.

Who will remember them now? We know not where they are buried. We, some of us, rather many of us who benefited, recall the blessing of riotous color they gave us, Red, Pink, Yellow, Purple, Orange when, by divine instinct, they answered the prompting of the seasons. Was this the crime they were accused of and for which they died?

Their posts empty; left like scars on an abstract painting whose form still remains intact. Those who wait at the bus stop stare unbelievingly. The tourists who took pictures beneath their arbor like branches will not recognize the spots as the same ones they took home with them in their photo albums from their vacation on Kaua`i.

We, many of us, mourn the absence of the bougainvillea gateway that was meant mostly for those who live on the Garden Island. Now our hearts are taxed beyond repair.

In a parking lot in the center of the government, cultural, and business district lived one generation of our bloodline. We will not be able to grow a substitute of a like spirit of self-giving, unless we ourselves are willing to help nature nurture nature.

The Hems of Her Skirts

[Eds. note: This is the second of 14 runner-up posts from the recent Kauai on My Mind Creative Competition.]

by Kerith Edwards

When we come to Kauai to live, she gives us a gift. Or she does not. She is a living intelligence, a biological and spiritual force of her own, like a woman who is so large that we cannot quite see her with our eyes, but whose will nonetheless moves the air, the ocean, the land, and our own air- and water-filled bodies. According to her sensibilities, we are either allowed to stay and prosper or not. How many people have I met here who say, “Ah, well, Kauai either embraces you or spits you out.” The land, sea, and air are charged with an intelligent mana, and when we are ready to listen and respond, we are given a graceful, peaceful life within the embrace of Kauai’s strong and loving arms. Those of us who love and honor this place know how sweet and kind that embrace can be.

Sadly, what I have seen in my time here, is that those who are charged with the official protection and preservation of this massive, sacred and powerful “woman”—the Island of Kauai—have allowed her to become increasingly burdened and distressed. It is as if the hems and ruffles of her skirts, all around the periphery of the island, are becoming ripped and soiled, tugged upon by disrespectful and self-serving children. The restless tourist overload; the development of resorts, big homes, and commercial centers; the all-day traffic jams, and the heavy American corporate presence; all of these create stress not only in people who make this home, but in the lands and waters we depend upon for our well-being and peace of mind. How many residents have I heard softly remarking, “Ah, well, maybe we will get another hurricane and get rid of all these tourists and developers. We need a radical change.” What is happening when people aim their hopes for relief and change at a potential hurricane? Perhaps they feel things are out of control.

Kauai’s well-being is a sacred purpose shared by those who love, cherish, care for and honor this island, and we all know that something must change, and soon. When I get sick after swimming in the ocean and break out with infections across my skin, even after scrubbing hard and long, I think, “Something must change, and soon.” When I go to town to buy food, collect mail, meet a friend, and then end up in a seething bumper-to-bumper traffic jam for 45 minutes just to get back home, I say to myself, “Something must change, and soon.” When I take my hard-earned and hard-saved money and look for agriculturally zoned land to buy so that I can start a small farm, and then find that much of the good agricultural land has been illegally developed and is now unaffordable for working people like me, I think, “Something must change, and soon.”

I love the great woman that is Kauai, and change must come--soon. No one and nothing should be permitted to further soil and disturb her shimmering skirts, her glittering jewels, her wild flowing hair, her full mothering breasts, her rounded pregnant belly, her beautifully textured skin, her glinting (and sometimes bared) teeth, her long curving arms, and her warm, fresh breath. So, lovers of this precious Woman, what should be done? Bring on the hurricane? Or make one of our own?

The Party Dress

[Eds. note: This is the first of 14 runner-up posts from the recent Kauai on My Mind Creative Competition.]

by Richard Diamond

“Am I going to die, Richard?”

I sit quietly, as always, staying with the Presence. I have felt the Presence as awareness, reflecting “isness,” or the “I Am.” Lately, though, the Presence has been filled with light; it is Light. As I remain in the stillness, I experience the Light as the I Am. This Light is the threshold . . . a gateway to that which lies beyond all form . . . all language and all metaphor. I love this Light. It is mySelf.

“Yes, mom, you’re going to die.” I respond.

She closes her eyes and “bounces” her head on the pillow nervously in a kind of circular motion, a habit of hers that helps her release the contraction of fear.

“We are all going to die,” I add. “You are not alone here. Everyone goes.”

“I’m afraid, Richard.”

“I know, Mom. That is why I am here.”

“Why are you here?” a question, she has asked me countless times before.

“I am here to help you let go of your fear.”

“It will never happen,” she responds. “I will always be afraid.”

“Perhaps, mom. But I am here anyway; I am the part of your mind that reflects back to you the peace that lies beyond all fear.”

She closes her eyes again, . . . . and bounces.

Suddenly she stills a bit and opens her eyes. She glances at the closet in her room and asks, “Is my party dress there?”

“Party dress?” I reply, wondering, looking towards the closet.

“Yes, I need my party dress for my party. Can you get me my party dress?”

“Yes,” I reply, of course.

When I am with my mother, I don’t speak to her as a 91 year old suffering from dementia, but prefer to keep the interchange “across the board” and simply be available for whatever comes up. In short, I approach the interaction like an exchange I might have with anyone.

“What color would you like?” I ask her.

“I would like a dark color?”

“Like blue? or green?”

“Yes,” she replies. “Blue or green.”

And with that Mom bounces again, closing her eyes.

“I’m afraid, Richard,” Mom repeats her mantra again.

“Yes, Mom, I know,” I follow suit, my response completing this short dialogue that we have had now . . . hundreds of times. “That is why I am here.”

Filipinos

(Eds. note: This is the fourth post of four winners in the 2006 Kauai on My Mind Creative Competition. Each will post in successive days followed by the 14 runners up, so be sure to make daily visits to kauaibackstory.com.]

by Kimie Sadoyama

Filipinos
Hard working people
with rivers running down their faces
Skin so shiny
It holds the sun

And hands
Hands as twisted as the roots of the earth
Sobering in their powers
to predict the weather
plant their seeds

And even at the gambling tables
hidden from the law
their hands tell tales
Stories of Cockfights and poverty
Relatives in a foreign land
and nature in the raw

Days
Hard days
Days when men and women
cut nine foot sugarcane by hand

Long slashing caneknives
All hacking away at vast fields
Like ants at a raid

And the sweat that stung their eyes
and salted their lips was like a whip

So they did not even mind
the buzzing of mosquitos
'neath the halo of kerosene lamps
nor the squirming of children
all stuffed on one bed
like logs on a fire

Misty Pali

(Eds. note: This is the third post of four winners in the 2006 Kauai on My Mind Creative Competition. Each will post in successive days followed by the 14 runners up, so be sure to make daily visits to kauaibackstory.com.]

by Mary Hunter Leach

The Hitch-Hiker in Old Lihue Town

(Eds. note: This is the second post of four winners in the 2006 Kauai on My Mind Creative Competition. Each will post in successive days followed by the 14 runners up, so be sure to make daily visits to kauaibackstory.com.]

by Juan Lugo


She was hitch-hiking along Rice Street in old Lihue Town.
No, she appeared to be floating with her thumb and arm held high.
Long, black shiny, wind tossed hair, and midriff exposed.
Her jutting breasts were covered by a fiery red blouse.
Tight fitting jeans masquerading as skin,
...her face a study of arrogance and anger within.

Cars passed without stopping. She looked at them with an intense hateful stare.
Then, she would turn and face down the next, with a long scathing glare.
She would wipe the sweat from her face and brush back her hair.
She opened her mouth as if uttering a curse,
...I don't know if she spoke, I was too far away.

There was a haughty manner about her, demanding fear or respect.
Her shoulders were thrown back, head inclined to one side.
She had a devil-may-care attitude and obvious disdain.
She reminded me of Pele. Fire-Goddess: radiant and proud.
...cloaked in mystery from a forgotten land and a forgotten time.

She would challenge the passing cars with open contempt.
Then, she would turn around and continue her journey.
I wanted to offer her water, a soda or a place just to rest.
But, I was afraid. Afraid of her glare and afraid of her quest,
...I didn't know why and I was too scared to ask.

She marched away proudly, disgusted with those who had denied her a ride.
She knew what she wanted and didn't care what they thought.
She suddenly stopped, turned, and stared directly at me.
She smiled, winked, and filled my soul with peace.
Then she disappeared, floating, hitch-hiking,
...and walking along Rice Street in Old Lihue Town.

Makauwahi Cave

[Eds. note: This is the first post of four winners in the 2006 Kauai on My Mind Creative Competition. Each will post in successive days followed by the 14 runners up, so be sure to make daily visits to kauaibackstory.com.]

by Lois Ann Ell

“Where are we going again?” I asked, new to this place, new to this man, new to this life. “You’ll see,” he grinned, flashing his dark eyes at mine and then away, back to the road. The road was a dusty one, with patches of old asphalt our tires tried to link together. It soon turned to all hard red dirt, with potholes causing the rusty Ford pickup to rattle and shake, our beers foaming up inside the bottles.

We slowly drove out of familiar surroundings: passing the outskirts of the hotel golf course, passing the stables with docile trail horses tied up to fence posts, passing one abandoned cane field after another with rusted open gates. A little nervous, I otherwise felt safe with him. We finally stopped at a dead end, the dirt road suddenly swallowed up by buffalo grass. “Come on”, he whispered. We got out and started walking through the tall grass, its tiny hairs scraping my freshly shaven legs. Finally the blue ocean emerged, peeking out through the green. To the left was beach extending on with the high sun heating the sand and sparkling the sea. To the right was a large rocky cliff which the waves beat white fury into, and dark clouds hung heavily above the rocks. We headed right.

Walking along the beach with no one but ourselves to be seen, I followed him. Hopping over dead reef, trudging through a sandy stream, stepping right where he had stepped, we fell in to a rhythm—until I bumped into him, stopped still at a huge rock formation with a small opening in front of us. “Be quiet, and don’t think bad thoughts”, he said, and crawled inside the cave.

Inside was a dark dome covered in sharp, crystal stalagmites. The ground was cold and sandy and flat. “Are there bats in here?” I asked, and immediately remembered I was supposed to be quiet. He just kept going, silently slipping through another small opening to the right of the cave. This one led us into a larger cave, but revealed an open ceiling, pouring hazy sunlight in and freeing up my tight chest. A large rock was centered in the middle of the dome, with dried lei scattered upon it. I suddenly became quiet, looking around me, but I didn’t know why. We stood there for a while, silent.

Ryan told me later about Makauwahi cave at Maha’ulepu Beach, and it has since become an archeological hot spot, home now to scientists who excitedly explore it every few years. I wonder if they are quiet while they are in there.

Readings at Small Town Coffee

More than 40 people filled Small Town Coffee Company on Monday, November 13 to hear winners and runners up read their entries in our 2006 Creative Competition. It was an inspiring night. Thanks to everyone who showed up and a big mahalo to the more than 60 who submitted entries in the contest. We'll do it again next year. First, though, watch for a student competition in early 2007.

Thanks, as well, to our sponsors: Small Town Coffee Company, Kauai Pasta and Blossoming Lotus.

And starting tomorrow, we'll post our winning and running up entries, one a day. So, keep checking back.

Love Poems from a Tall Island

by Gae Rusk

I. seeking love

my land is a star
my land is lime and ocher forming
arrows
pointing to a beleaguered heart
my land has edges shaping me
glowing runway blue in my dark

I began complete
I reached land anchored
my answers sought questions but
gave up
pre-contact
so I remain alone
surveying my details
measuring my days
forming the cartography of me

someday
I will find you
studying this atlas
you are out there
on my globe somewhere
and I pray
you have learned
to read maps


gae rusk copyright 2006

Got Tail?

by Richard Pettigrew

Lobster tails sway side to side
Under ocean rhythms.

A heat wave current
Excites the swaying tails
To swing and shimmer a loud mating siren.

Agitated shellac bodies thrust and
Crackle towards receptive ledges.

Tails on the prowl.

Using a ray of suggestive light
The lobster undulates a full body arch
Sparking a water scent.

In the gushing of tidal flow
She holds tight the quivering tail.

Crying out.

Butter me.
Butter me, now!!!

A Note from Auntie Logy

[Eds. note: This is the sixth is a series by Gae Rusk under the column, "A Note from Auntie Logy." To read more from Auntie, scroll down or click on the link in the sidebar to the right.]

on
Running for Office


Auntie Logy is thinking of running for office. This current election has inspired Auntie to maybe take the plunge into politics, but when Auntie said this out loud last week at bowling league, the whole team cried out, Make sure you can swim in poop! And, Make sure you’ve had all your shots! They were saying things like that all morning, which put Auntie off her game, so Auntie went home with a bowling score like a round of golf.

But all this got Auntie thinking. If – and that’s one big IF – if Auntie Logy ran for office in one future election, what would Auntie talk about? What would Auntie support? What would Auntie Logy stand for.

So Auntie began to make one big list of positions on issues, and the first thing Auntie thought of is to raise the drinking age to 35. This alone would solve a number of public and private problems on Kauai. If you don’t believe Auntie, just ask the families of Kauai’s many alcoholics.

Then Auntie wrote down the idea of limiting helicopters and small planes to flying only offshore. That way, their noise and invasiveness would be farther away from Kauai’s residents, who have somehow become less important than the tourist-based helicopter companies. Then when those planes and helicopters fall out of the sky, which they do more and more, they would land on water and not on Auntie and her neighbors.

If nothing else, Auntie would introduce a measure encouraging all home owners to write angry messages in giant letters on their roofs, messages like “Sky Scum!” and “Tourists Go Home!” Do not scoff at Auntie Logy for suggesting this, it has worked before. Several years ago, one of Auntie’s neighbor’s cousin’s nephews painted “Fuck You” on his roof in Hanalei Valley, and guess what? Helicopters stopped whacking Hanalei Valley to death! The families living there finally regained peace and privacy, because helicopter companies did not want their passengers to see how unpopular and unwelcome they are, especially after charging tourists several hundred dollars each to take those cursed flights.

Next Auntie Logy decided the issue of requiring an EIS for the Super Ferry is not dead, even though Linda’s email this morning claimed so. Auntie says, Oh yeah? Well, if it’s such a big State supported project, then let the damn cars getting off the Ferry drive on State roads and only State roads. After circling Nawiliwili Harbor for 12 hours, they’d never bring their cars to Kauai again. Auntie believes Kauai’s families need to staunchly defend our County’s environment and infrastructure from an insidious invasive species – the State of Hawaii Department of Transportation.

Auntie knows the issue of the Super Ferry is a huge example of off-island ownership, a devastating problem for Kauai, one that would need to be front and center in Auntie’s campaign. For many, many years, Auntie has seen the movers and shakers in Honolulu pay no attention to the opinions of citizens on the outer islands. Those Oahu leaders, they all sit on the same committees and the same boards and belong to the same country clubs, which Auntie thinks is kind of creepy. Their decisions are never based on the best interests of the outer islands. Look at the shabby situation they created for patients and staff at Wilcox Hospital. Look at the decision not to build Maui a desperately needed new hospital. Look at the Super Ferry controversy.

Auntie says these Honolulu power brokers have developed an arrogant culture of outer island ownership without actually living on any of the outer islands, without really caring about the outer islands except for vacation time and big profits. Because of this Oahu-centric attitude, Auntie Logy says it’s time Kauai votes these people and possibly the State of Hawaii off this island.

What other positions could Auntie take? Oh yes, this one is important. Auntie’s dear, sweet tutu needed so much help at the end of her life, so much pain she was in. Our lovely, wonderful tutu suffered and suffered, so we all, every one of us, willingly committed the crime of buying cannabis for her. Cannabis was the only medicine that allowed her any distance from her condition. Cannabis was the only medicine that gave her a plateau of sanity. Not just Auntie Logy but the entire ohana became criminals to buy cannabis for this beloved elder to help her through the chemotherapy and the agony of her illness.

So yes, one of Auntie Logy’s positions is to get rid of the moronic law that made our ohana into a gang of criminals. Auntie is insulted by moral nazis who support such ignorant laws. Auntie would like to see the enforcers of this stupid law go to jail for life for continuing such cruelty. If elected, Auntie promises to speak out loudly against such unqualified, mean-natured incompetents running our society.

What else? Oh yes, housing for Auntie’s children, or at least access to a permit to expand Auntie’s house, which ever comes first. Possibly great-grandchildren will come before a permit, so Auntie would run for office on the platform of firing the Director of Planning and the entire Planning Department. Auntie also supports making all longtime members of the Planning Commission resign. They must be either inept or evil, because they have deliberately pointed Kauai toward illogical ruin. Auntie Logy believes any citizen who love Kauai would vote for sweeping that unqualified, possibly dirty deck clean. Auntie could probably win on this point alone.

There are so many issues to make Auntie Logy run. Auntie writes and writes letters of protest, but running for office? That will take some consideration, because Auntie has just a few little secrets that some opponent might exploit. Auntie knows this seems impossible, but remember Auntie Logy went to college in the ‘70s.
So, running is a possibility, but more on that later, because right now Auntie has to run. Mahalo nui loa for listening, you always make Auntie feel so much better. Want to go bowling sometime? Just let Auntie know. A hui hou.


Please note: Antilogy is an inconsistency or contradiction in terms or ideas,
causing controversy and discussion.


Gae Rusk copyright 2006

Kauaibackstory.com Announces Winners of 2006 Creative Competition

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE


Kauaibackstory.com congratulates the 2006 “Kauai on my Mind” creative competition winners Lois Ann Ell for her essay “Makawauhi Cave,” Juan Lugo for his narrative poem “The Hitch-Hiker in Old Lihue Town,” Mary Hunter Leach for her photograph “Misty Palis,” and Kimie Sadoyama for her poem “Filipinos.”

Winners and runners up (see list below) are invited to read and share their entries at Small Town Coffee Company in Kapaa on Monday, November 13, 2006 at 7:00 p.m.

Starting November 14, the submissions of the contest winners and runners up will begin posting on www.kauaibackstory.com.

Kauaibackstory.com is a venue for rigorous writing with a view about Kauai. Year-round, the on-line literary journal welcomes high-quality writing and thoughtful images from the public. All submissions are moderated by a three-person editorial board, however, not all are posted. Kauaibackstory.com encourages the expression of all voices and delights in words and images that shift thinking and open minds. Much like an on-line blog, kauaibackstory.com encourages interactive dialogue with the hopes that the time-honored tradition of kama'ilio, talk story, will build community and understanding.

Submissions must be pasted into the body of an email and sent to kauaibackstory@yahoo.com. There is no word limit—brevity is good; however, quality is better. Please acknowledge if the writing has been previously published and where/when. Visual images must be sent as jpg attachments.

Runners Up:

Richard Diamond for “The Party Dress”
Kerith Edwards for “Hems of Her Skirt”
Keahi Felix for “Mourning Bouganvillea”
Dawn Kawahara for “We Mourn Your, Raymond Napoleon”
Suzanna Kennedy for “I Surrender”
Kimberly Kirk for “Makuahine”
Mary Hunter Leach for “Wild Sea”
Charles Looney for “Walking Trail”
Coral Miles for “Returning to My Island Home”
Rocky Riedel for “The Blessing”
Carrie Rautmann for “Morning Dew” and “Homeward Bound”
Kimie Sadoyama for “Last of the Ma and Pa Stores” and “Relic of the Past Looking into the Future”

# # #

Neighborhood Dogs

by Lois Ann Ell

She swaggered into the yard, swollen nipples swaying beneath her.
A broken metal chain followed silently behind her, their roles now reversed.
Her muscular brown body moved slowly in the grass.
The ones in the yard, unexpected by her presence, had mixed reactions.
The men tensed, for the breed alone made them bristle.
The baby smiled, for the dog’s panting face looked like a smile. Was it?
The yard dog hesitated, not sure whether to protect or play— and the chain trailed fast toward him.
At first smells, sniffs, slight movements.
These first few seconds
These first few moments
All yard eyes on them
Hot Kapaa sun
Everything, everyone is waiting, watching.
And then her eyes glaze, become cloudy,
Or perhaps very clear
She lunges into his neck
Locks on
As they do
Rips through fur, through flesh, through fear
One man tries to pull them apart
One man picks up the baby
And another reaches for a cement block.

Portrait

by Pam Woolway

She sat in front of Anahola post office with her walker
placed before her. She watched me pull into the parking
space, turn off the ignition, shift into park and step
onto the asphalt. She smiled at my dogs in the bed
of the truck. Leaning into the wall, I lingered
awhile to talk story. She told me she was waiting
for the bus. I offered her a ride home. She declined
saying that the bus driver would worry if he arrived
and she wasn't there. She mourned the loss
of her license two years ago. We talked about
freedom. Then, she looked at me with her clear,
brown eyes and said---in a tone I've used when I'm running
late for an appointment or on a Sunday night before
bed when I'm preparing for the coming week---she said: I'm already
91 years old. As if she had only just discovered it that morning.

For Our Children

By Kim Steutermann Rogers

A little encounter at the Maui airport: Two hours early at my gate, I jot notes in my journal as a quiet man named Henry Atay brushes crumbs, bits of paper and other debris off the carpet. He empties trash bins, polishes railings, and we talk about the brush fire raging for four days now along the west Maui mountains. He says it’s only 50% contained. He says authorities are not sure the cause—be it arson or accident. He shakes his head and says it’s not the visitors who litter our islands, it’s the locals, our kids. He says he sees young guys smoking cigarettes as they drive, holding cigarettes between thumbs and forefingers, hanging their arms out their windows and down the sides of their car doors until—cigarette singing their fingertips—they toss it aside; and he stops his cleaning to look at me with eyes soft and brown like the hint of his Polynesian nose.

Another encounter, earlier in the morning: I am leaving the hotel; it’s 6:00 a.m. and the sun is washing the same, smoldering west Maui mountains, smoke rising to greet morning mist. I ask the bell captain about the windmills dotting a nearby ridgeline. He tells me they produce 10% of the island’s electricity, yet those people up there, and he nods in the direction of gentrified Wailea, they complain, he says, the white windmills blight their views of paradise; and he turns to me, “But it’s for our children, yeah?” he says.

“Yeah,” I say, and I look up there at those houses with the views where our children don’t live, and, later, I’ll think, yeah, for our children, our cigarette-flicking children.

A Note from Auntie Logy

[Eds. note: This is the fifth is a series by Gae Rusk under the column, "A Note from Auntie Logy." To read more from Auntie, scroll down or click on the link in the sidebar to the right.]


on SHAME

Auntie Logy returned from the mainland yesterday. It was a stressful trip back to Kauai, but Auntie recovered happiness after arriving at the family’s orchard outside Kilauea, and Auntie stayed happy to be home until picking up a copy of The Garden Island. That’s when Auntie Logy had one big hissy fit.

When Auntie could breathe again, she asked herself, Is Kauai now third world? Is Kauai now Haiti-West? Are cronyism and palsy-walsyism now a given? Auntie is thinking maybe Senator Barak Obama should come to Kauai to present the same anti-corruption speech he gave in Kenya.

Auntie is ashamed of all the self-centered special interests who want to run this island. For the last four decades, Auntie has been ashamed of County officials who awarded heinous building permits, sometimes secretly and illegally. Auntie has felt shamed by power struggles that make no sense to anyone watching.

There are other shames alive and well on this island, it’s true, like that judge, the one who dismissed charges against Kauai’s most well-connected career criminal in the face of all evidence of guilt? Maybe that judge lives on Oahu? If so, it’s of no matter to her who roams free to trash this island.

And Kauai’s youths, those angry boys who flap around in clothing ten sizes too big for their bodies? Auntie sees them dressing their egos, not their waistlines. And the way they talk, are they as dumb as Auntie’s tree line? Has Kauai dumbed-down to accommodate the slow and dysfunctional, so the whole island is becoming slow and dysfunctional? This is a scary thought that Auntie has tried to avoid for a long time, but articles in The Garden Island always put it front page center.

Auntie Logy is ashamed of being ashamed of so much about this new Kauai. Auntie is afraid she sounds old-fashioned and whiney, but Kauai is Auntie’s home! Auntie’s ohana, Auntie’s calabash family, all live on Kauai, and now it is difficult for any of us to thrive here. It is stressful to give aloha to malahines who steal our beaches at night and put in gated communities without asking. It is impossible to think kindly of absentee landlords who turned Hanalei and Kapaa and Waipouli and Wailua into time-shared, strip-malled hells. It is hopeless to have any respect for officials giving out permits to pave over Kauai.

Stir these crimes against Kauai’s communities into the brew of Kauai’s future grownups, those clothes-flopping, moronic-sounding youths with cars and money and no self-discipline, claiming freedom without training or responsibility. Stir all this together and what do you have? Something worse than Maui. Something like Haiti, a toxic, urbanized atoll in a shallow, torpid ocean.

It is exhausting for Auntie to keep making protests that are no doubt ignored and discounted. It takes a lot more effort to live here than ever before, and this is wearing Auntie raw, and Auntie is not alone. One neighbor said to Auntie, There is so much to protest! Suddenly everything’s going bad at once!

Auntie’s neighbor, he’s right. He’s smart too, so he protests when he can, just like Auntie, and everyone’s tired already. Who let things get so bad so fast? Kauai is going crazy, ho’o pupule, just like Maui. Going garbage, ho’o pilau, just like Haiti.

Which brings up a question Auntie has asked before: Where is Kauai’s Chief? Please, Kaumuali’i, come home soon! We have our backs to the sea cliffs now, dear Chief, and we need you.

Oops, Auntie has to run! One blasted red helicopter is chopping overhead. Auntie has to go outside and curse it forever and calm the dogs. But Auntie does feel better for talking to you. Mahalo nui loa for listening. A hui hou.



Please note, antilogy is an inconsistency or controversy in terms or ideas, causing controversy and discussion.


Gae Rusk copyright 2006

Ride & Wretchedness

by Kim Steutermann Rogers

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a four-wheel drive truck running 33-inch tires on 20-inch rims with a six-inch lift must be in love.

However little known the feelings or views of such a man may be on his first entering a neighborhood, this truth is so well-fixed in the minds of the surrounding families that immediately without a word, protection is put in place—curfews are set, doors are closed, dogs are unleashed—everyone ever hopeful it’s not their daughter but their neighbor’s and, preferably, a few blocks away.

Truth be told, the feelings or views of such a man are widely heard by everyone, excepting the man himself and possibly the girl, but only at first, as he exposes his intentions roaring round the road’s bend heading for the neighborhood in his super-size Tonka truck.

Otherwise why would he replace the factory tires boasting 30 miles-per-gallon for gas-guzzlers that keep him at the pump all day and empty his wallet, and not calling on his sweetheart?

Why would he leave those tires on the road’s surface at the neighborhood stop sign by standing one foot on the gas pedal, the other on the brake, and later, that evening, scouring the dump for replacements, his date lonely at home?

Why would he choose the howl of his tires over the sweet nothings his sweetheart desires to hear?

And why would he wonder where his money goes, why his girl no longer answers his call, why her mother and father and brothers and sisters and aunties and uncles and cousins all flash him the stink-eye?

Why? Because he’s profoundly, stupidly, deafeningly in love.

# # #

Feared Drunk

[Author's note: This poem was entered in a contest while attending KCC at the request of my "Literature and Medicine" instructor. It won first place in Hawaii and went on to the national literary competition where it took second place.]

by Pam Woolway

Feared Drunk

Suddenly nobody knows where you are,
your body thin as mother’s milk,
your mind tipping like a teacup
on the flesh of a split lip.

Your body is never left alone,
a daughter or your husband sit
like sparrows sipping from an
abandoned spring.

You see things only you alone
can see; Yogi the Bear, The
Virgin Mary and a family
of literate mice.

Lucid dreams leave
your family waiting outside
the picture frame:

You paint Mary leaning
against a pine tree,
Yogi is drinking coffee on
a street corner and
the mouse delivers a note.

Then, from the bed, your gaze turns
from a pearl into a bullet.
You know exactly where you are.

Coming closer, you see the family
resembles a hungry pack
of winter worn wolves.

But there’s no den to retreat into
and no drugs to soften the return.

Once you survive
an addiction,
it becomes the duck
that ate the bread
that does not lead back home,
but rather
to a hot and yawning oven.

Ark of Mu

by Craig Davies

From out of the Blue…such Beauty to see.
The Earth at Peace was unveiled to me.
The Future I trust; One World...we are Free.
I asked of the Blue how this came to be.

I saw turbulent seas; black was the sky.
The end had come with no tear in my eye.
In the midst of the chaos, a vessel so small,
Tossing and turning yet, surviving it all.

Transcending all conflict; with darkness withdrawn,
The Good Ship Kauai ushers in a New Dawn.
All becomes Peaceful; my vision is true.
A New Beginning...We're the Ark of MU.

A Note from Auntie Logy

On Kauai Needs a Chief
by Gae Rusk

(Eds. note: This is the fourth is a series by Gae Rusk under the column, "A Note from Auntie Logy.)

It’s almost election time again. Auntie Logy has written down both voting dates, September and November, and highlighted them in green.

It’s hard, that’s what Auntie thinks, voting for Kauai’s future. Auntie watches smart and kind candidates fight a constant battle to save Kauai from greedy and stupid ones, who somehow get elected too.

After studying this year’s roster, Auntie arrived at one obvious, long overdue conclusion: Forget another Mayor, forget more Council people, what Kauai desperately needs is one pig-headed, clear-hearted Chief.

Man or woman is not important. Race is less important, and shame on anyone who thinks otherwise. What we truly need is one extra strong individual who loves Kauai, even if he or she is orange or blue, that’s what Auntie says. Someone with strong character who can steer Kauai through this hostile ocean filled with putrid waste, social catastrophe and floating political turds. We need a Chief who can face all these ills without flinching, then fix them one by one.

Auntie’s thoughts on what this Chief could do? For one, Kauai needs a leader who will return to our schools and get rid of the National testing and the State testing and all the career test givers, and instead teach those angry boys and mean girls they are responsible for the future. Invest them with reasons to care and goals to reach, and do it soon.

Auntie needs a Chief who will stop invasive air traffic and push it all off shore, and a Chief who will punish the noisy, heavy trucks destroying our one small Hwy. All this machinery everywhere, on and above Kauai! This seems completely lolo to Auntie Logy.

We need a Chief who will not allow one more person to pave over one more inch of Kauai. This includes stopping proposed changes up at Kokee, and Auntie says shame on all of you involved in promoting parking lots and hotels at the crown of Kauai.

Obviously, our leaders have not been strong enough to say no to those making Kauai a tropical monopoly board. That makes Auntie certain Kauai needs a Chief who will take this island away from those who don’t live here. Auntie Logy is not just thinking Kokee, Auntie is also thinking Wilcox Hospital. Auntie is thinking vacation rentals consuming Hanalei. Auntie is thinking of real estate gamers who have operated here with impunity for the last 10 years and 2 regimes.

What is vital is finding a Chief who will not delegate away authority as reward for political support. This time-honored policy has brought Kauai to its knees. Since the last election, Auntie’s knees have grown too sore to kneel before any more incompetents.

Most important? Kauai needs a Chief who considers self righteous entitlement an infectious mental disorder. Kauai needs a Chief who will not back down in the face of this mania, no matter how scary, because self-centered, self-serving behavior has crippled Kauai.

That’s a good start, yeah? This Chief could be among us, yeah? Auntie Logy certainly hopes so. Auntie prays this Chief will rise with honor and act with dignity and strive to make Kauai more intelligent and valuable.

Auntie also prays this Chief will surface soon. Otherwise, Auntie Logy will be moving somewhere like New Zealand or Canada, where logic appears to have a larger role in daily life.

There now, Auntie Logy spoke her mind. Auntie feels much better. A hui hou.

Please note: Antilogy is an inconsistency or contradiction in terms or ideas,
causing controversy and discussion.

Gae Rusk copyright 2006

Waipouli

(Editors' note: This was written while the author was waiting to testify at the Aug. 22 planning commission meeting public hearing on two proposed timeshare resorts at Waipouli.)


By Mehana Blaich Vaughan

Lu’au in Waipouli
For Hi’iaka
Returned from Hawai’i safe
But without Lohi’au.
For Hi’iaka
The i’a laden on la’i has no taste,
The beat of the ipu
holds no call to hula
The flickering torches
Give slim light.
Amidst the festivities
Hi’iaka mourns
And begins to oli
A chant she wrote with Lohi’au
On their journey.
And a voice joins hers
Chanting the same words.
Startled, she switches oli,
This one they wrote
At the edge of the volcano
Pele’s lava coming fast,
Again the voice chants the words
With her, together.
Lohi’au.

Kaua’i o Kamawaelualani e

In high school,
My class got to help
With an archaeology dig
Here in this grove.
Soft clatter of coconut leaves,
Wind filtered through ironwoods,
Dunes ma kai
Far off profile of Nonou, ma uka.
I sifted bucket after bucket of one
Grit in my eyes
Blistered hands
Smiling in wonder
That a fishing village
Once stood
Here
That it left
So little
Trace
Save the ‘opihi shells, charcoal bits,
And one bone fish hook
I wondered to hold
In my hand.

Kaua’i o Manokalanipo

Excavator metal teeth
Hit bone
Grating it
Into dust
Too
Small
To sort through
An archaeologist’s screen
To wrap in fresh kapa,
Softened lauhala.

Just shovel it over there on that pile
The one surrounded by fence
Where the workers tell each other not to go
Even if something you need
Blows
In.

I wonder whose kupuna
she
Was.

Kaua’i, the Garden Isle

Aloha Airlines
First flight
Honolulu to Lihu’e
Full
With construction workers.
Matching t-shirts, jeans, and boots
Ali’i Diamond Club Members all
Commuting everyday.
The uncle next to me says
Most of them are working with him
Building
Waipouli Beach Resort.

Kaua’i, Healthy Economy

Coral concrete
Turquoise windows
For seeing out, not in
Fake waterfalls
And a “cultural preserve”
Where they moved the bones.
You too, can own
A piece of paradise.

Kaua’i, A Separate Kingdom

Ocean breeze blocked
Hot rising from the highway
Edged by dusty trash
Engines idle
Heat and Exhaust
On a clump of tourists
Desperately seeking
A way to cross the sea
Of cars
for food.

Kaua’i, Garden of Eden

A young mother sits in a rusty pickup waiting for the light to turn.
Dashed for groceries on her way home from one job to change for another.
She’s adding the bill again in her head
Confirming that less food, cost more money, than last month.
Rent still not paid.
The light doesn’t change.
Her oldest will have to cook.
She hopes she’ll have time to hug them each
To ask about school
Even if she can’t hear the answer.
She hopes the groceries in the back
of the pick up will
Last.

Kaua’i, Home

Me one day with babies,
Kids I hope will love Kaua’i
As we were raised to
Telling them Waipouli once had
Clear dark fresh waters
Flowing clean to the sea
And places you could see
The mountains
And the ocean
Even both at the same time.
I hope they can
touch ground that might
still hold a fish hook.
We will oli
And remember Hi’iaka.

Kaua’i, Hemolele i ka Malie

Foiled

By Pam Woolway

Hunger drives her to explore all the dark places;
empty crumb-filled corners

A hollow belly eclipses risk;
she nudges her whiskered head through the tattered hole

Weary waitress at midnight races toward home;
driving fifty in a thirty-five

Nocturnal, curious, feral and unrefined,
two girls working nights

Feline silhouette wavers drunkenly,
blindly staggering toward the street

Tires swerve to the shoulder;
slipping on wet grass

The waitress abandons her car and
tenderly stalks the small hooded creature

Her prey senses a predator;
furred muscles contract into a crouch preparing to spring

An arm’s length away,
pluck the metalic chip bag from the cat’s head.

Rooster Peace

by Kim Steutermann Rogers

I’ve made peace with the chickens. Not that there’s peace, mind you. They still crow at 3:00 a.m., because my neighbor on the hill constantly forgets to turn off their outdoor lights which beam spotlights into our bedroom window. I crow about that to my husband. How is it those beacons in the night, I ask, don’t shine in their bedroom window, too? But this isn’t about my neighbors; it’s about the chickens.

Chickens roam free on Kauai. The moa, as named in Hawaiian, arrived with the first Polynesians and, so, are some of our island’s first residents and protected, at that. I’m told the fine for harming one on state land is $500. Centuries later, when the Filipinos arrived, they brought their cultural practice of cockfighting (although illegal here) across the sea to Hawaii—a decided insurance policy to the island’s chicken population. (Those pup-tent-looking structures you see lined up in various communities around the island house roosters bred for fighting.)

On Rice Street in downtown Lihue—not to mention every other road around the island, paved or not, one lane or two—it’s not unusual to see traffic stopped waiting for a hen and her line of chicks to cross the road. Not all make it, of course, especially on the highway. We have very little animal life on Kauai—no squirrels, no rabbits, no mongoose—and so on those occasions when the chicken does not reach the other side of the road, they become not just road kill but the road itself. You see, while the county sends out its animal control paddy wagon to pick up the occasional cat or dog that meets the same fate, I’ve yet to see a dead chicken scraped off the road. They’re left until they’re so flattened that they're imbedded in the pavement; you'd need a backhoe to pry them up.

At our previous home—the rental overlooking Aliomanu Bay—we sat perched 60 feet above the water. For some reason, the chickens rarely ventured up our steep drive. But the first night we moved into our new, half-built house, however, one chicken roamed right up to our bedroom window—the same one in which our neighbor’s lights shine—and crowed. It was 3:00 a.m. Since then, I’ve learned not all roosters crow alike, and I think it’s related to age. That, or just different personalities, like you and I have different laughs, say. But before I came to this knowledge, before I made my peace with chickens, before the first cockle stopped bolting me upright at 3:00 a.m., I wasn’t so unruffled about the chickens. And neither was Eric. He would rise, sneak outside—picking up a few rocks leftover from the foundation’s base—and lob them at the rooster. (Well, I don’t know if lob is the right word, but I don’t think he ever mortally wounded one.)

They say Kauai has more chickens than any other island, because of one incident at Nawiliwili Harbor maybe a hundred years ago when a crate of mongoose were sent to all the islands. A dockhand, so the story goes, tossed Kauai's crate of the critters into the water after one of the rodents bit him. And now we are the only Hawaiian island without a mongoose population problem.

In the new house, it wasn’t long before my alarm of roosters shifted to ticks. It seems we’d moved to the center of tickdom. The actual breeding grounds of the bloodsuckers. The Mecca of all ticks. My little Penny became infested. They’d latch on the poor girl, suck her dry and when the "fattie" was so bloated with Penny’s blood that it couldn’t hold on anymore, it would fall off and roll into the cranny where the hardwood floors stopped and the sheet-rocked walls started--a veritable protected, womb for hundreds of tick eggs to hatch. And it usually happened at night. Because our bed was then on the floor—no hand-carved teak bed from Indonesia yet—the hatched babies also crawled up our mattress, under our covers and latched onto me, too. I'd wake several times a night and pick the creepy crawlies off my body. It seems about this time I stopped noticing the crowing and bumped up "installing baseboard" to the top of the to-do list.

With virtually no predators—except rats which, for some reason, don’t eat all the eggs—chickens reproduce faster than rabbits, and so they’re everywhere. Pecking along the fringes of the beaches, cleaning up at the outdoor eatery down the street called Ono Charburger, even at the top of the mountain in Kokee State Park. Another story shares that Hurricane Iniki freed the fighting roosters in 1992 and spread them to all corners of the island, leading to an island-wide spread of chickens and roosters in the most unusual places. Tourists love them—so much so I’ll bet more pictures of chickens depart the island than those of endangered Humpback whales in winter.

Months later—after lifting the bed onto a frame and picking hundreds of ticks off Penny at a time—we got the tick problem under control while chickens paraded across our yard with chicks in tow. I learned how territorial roosters are. How they are not monogamous; they have a harem, in fact. How they crow all day long, at any hour, not just dawn.

But I still hadn’t made my peace with them. Not quite. It wasn’t until a friend told me about her laying hens. How she let them out of the coop to roam in her yard during the day. How they ate the bugs in her yard. The mosquitoes, the beetles, the roaches, the centipedes. And, in a moment of insight, I blurted, “The ticks. The chickens eat the ticks.”

And that’s when I made peace with the chickens. They rose another rung on my ladder of respect when watering my soon-to-be magnificent hedge of native white hibiscus I discovered holes in its leaves. Almost every other leaf had been nibbled through like ornate, Italian lace. I plucked a leaf off one of my sweet-smelling prizes and took it to Marit at Growing Greens Nursery. “Night beetle,” she said and suggested I place solar lights around the plants to drive off the beetles which only feed at night. With the light, she said, they’d mosey on—to another unsuspecting plant, no doubt—and leave my beauties beetle-free. Of course, I was also counting on my newly-discovered secret weapon to gobble up those beetles in their tracks.

After a year of hearing roosters crow in the night, I’ve grown used to them. Still, every now and then, one plants himself below our bedroom window, blasts a cockle-doodle-do, and I wake up, but I don’t mind so much anymore. Not as long as they eat a few ticks and night beetles at the same time.

# # #

PARADISANOIA

by Gae Rusk
copyright 2005

I will attempt to be
less bewildered by hate
less surprised by insult
less appalled by malice and
undestroyed by lies
however
there are snakes in this paradise
and they can walk
and talk and
stand on my land
and gloat at my home

What can I do?
What can I do to
stop them?
Where can I go
that they are not there
and there and
there!

But this paradise
of walking snakes
is an island
and I go round and round
for family’s sake
I go to high ground
and sit here
and wait

A Note from Auntie Logy

[Editor's note: This is the third in a series by Gae Rusk.]

On Helicopters
by Gae Rusk

Today, seven helicopters went over Auntie Logy’s house. Each time it happened, Auntie panicked. Each time, Auntie ran down the steps and out onto the grass and hovered anxiously between farmhouse and orchard, tortured by the rotors’ whacking roar. Seven times today, Auntie’s heartbeat was sabotaged.

It is possible Auntie’s extreme reaction is due to being a citizen-veteran of two small wars. Being a citizen-veteran means Auntie has an exaggerated startle response. As a citizen-vet, Auntie fears the helicopters will fall from the sky.

This fear is real, helicopters do fall from the sky all the time. Auntie personally knows dead pilots and dead passengers from more than one helicopter crash, so it would be better if they all stayed offshore. If helicopters stayed above open water instead of above us, when they crash, which they will, at least they will land on water and not on Auntie, but helicopters give hostile excuses about needing to be over land for safety reasons.

I ask you, whose safety do they mean? Not the safety of people cowering below, that’s for sure. Not the safety of Auntie. Helicopters believe they are more important than Auntie, who lives and works at ground level. Helicopters have gotten away with this bizarre thinking, backwards thinking, opposite to logic thinking, to the point that no one knows how to stop them from chopping across the sky over our homes.

This enrages Auntie. Yes, helicopters flying over her quiet neighborhood incite rage in Auntie Logy, and not just for safety reasons. Some helicopters come over way too low, even though a minimum altitude rule exists, and Auntie’s neighbor has landed one in his front yard more than once. He did not care that Auntie had panic attacks when his machine spiralled down over her roof. None of those helicopters care that Auntie rushes outside and runs in circles with the desperate dogs, the horses next door fleeing from end to end of their pasture, eyes rolling wildly and all of us risking broken legs.

Auntie screams, “Sky scum!” at the helicopters. Hoarse from the effort, Auntie yells, “Bastards!” and Auntie vows yet again to paint this across the roof of the barn. Then, crippled by the rigor of her startle response to yet another murdering of peace and air, Auntie Logy limps inside and runs cold well water over her wrists.

Obviously, Auntie cannot stop those helicopters from going anywhere they want. They’ve had their way so long, since 1962, they claim a common law marriage with Kauai’s air space.
And Auntie cannot change the fact that living in war zones has shaped her response to helicopters. Auntie will never heal if they continue their wilful ways, violating and damaging Auntie from above. Seven times today, so far.

Is Auntie Logy the only one thinking this? Are there other citizen-vets disabled and destroyed by helicopters in our sky? Is there a County Council member who agrees with Auntie that helicopters should stay offshore? If so, may the island’s God of Peace and Quiet bless you forever.

There now, Auntie Logy spoke her mind. Auntie feels much better. A hui hou.

Please note: Antilogy is an inconsistency or contradiction in terms or ideas,
causing controversy and discussion.

Gae Rusk copyright 2006

(c) Kim Steutermann Rogers

Hibiscus

by Pam Woolway

I never gave you a second glance;
scrappy, gangly hedge.
We met in California,
where the air is cracker-dry.
You were all bony hips and elbows,
interrupted by green leaf
and only an occasional bloom.
How wrong I was,
Senorita Hibiscus,
parachutes of color prostitute
themselves to bees and butterflies.
The buttery length of your
stamen, aptly approves
of bee legs and bee bottoms
to nudge, lift and probe
the long column of throat
that leads down to microscopic ova..
Your flowers are clownishly huge
and you wear your leaves,
you wear them like a flotilla
or the ruffled skirt of an Orisha;
all fabric layers and brown legs
with a face that dares the sun.
The wind tugs at your
soft petals, big ears of a beloved child.
And, oh what a nose!
You are not a shy flower.
Two hours ago
the hot pink of your playera,
tight as a Cuban cigar,
uncoiled.
But, tomorrow,
the seduction is over;
a flaccid wet ribbon,
spent and gray,
stares glumly at the grass.

Earth Mover and Earth Tender

by Juan Wilson

Author's note: This story was written in 1993 about a place that if turned inside-out, is a lot like Kauai. The setting was Chautauqua Lake in Chautauqua County, New York, a place where a small body of water is surrounded by an ocean of land--instead of the other way around. This cautionary tale seems, unfortunately, to apply just as aptly to Kauai. This piece was originally published in "The Gobbler,'" a newsletter published by my wife and I.


Once upon a time a couple lived together just as you might find couples living today, except they weren't folks like you or me. You see they weren't folks at all, although one of them was much like a woman. She was the Earth Tender. The other was much like a man. He was the Earth Mover.

Some people today might say they were gods. Well, nothing could be farther from the truth. They hadn't made the world. They just lived in it and to some degree changed it. Other people might call them giants and make up fairy tales about them. But they weren't really the giants of fairytales either, although they were big and could get a lot done in one day if they set their minds to it.

Earth Mover and Earth Tender spent most of their days working and their nights relaxing and having fun. During the day they worked on current projects. Sometimes they worked together, and sometimes apart. Often they worked on different parts of the same project.

At night they would rest. Most nights they would talk about what they had done that day, or their plans for the next day. They talked as they watched the sky while the world revolved slowly across the moon and stars. Earth Tender especially liked it when Earth Mover told funny stories about his day's work. Earth Mover liked best hearing from Earth Tender about what a good job they were doing and how much she loved doing it.

Their jobs consisted of making the world beautiful and a better place to live in. They searched the world for unfinished places, and places that could stand a little improving. It was hard work, but it had its satisfactions. Earth Mover usually started the new projects they worked on together. If he was in a lake building mood when he woke in the morning, he might spend half the day wading through a virgin timber forest as high as his waist until he found just the right spot. When he found it he would check around the site to see if his first intuition about the place was right, and then he would begin work.

Once he started it was hard to distract him. He would work in a frenzy. He'd kick down rows of trees. He'd scoop out the earth in a broad flat bowl-shape with his bare hands. He'd pitch unwanted boulders over his shoulder. He'd pack the ground hard and flat with his feet. Finally, he'd use a large tree trunk to scratch out new paths for the surrounding streams. When he was done he would sit down leaning against the trees at the edge of the forest. For a while he'd watch the streams trickling in to fill his new creation. Then he'd usually fall asleep. He called this napping.

Often this is how Earth Tender would find him. She'd come across Earth Mover during one of his siestas. That's when she'd begin her work on the project. In the case of a lake, Earth Tender would usually start at the bottom, planting grasses and weeds to feed the fish and other creatures who would live in the lake. She'd mend the rough edges of the shoreline where there were dead stumps. She'd hide them in fresh cattails. She'd spend hours planting wild meadow flowers and find the best places to put little sandy beaches. She'd even smooth out the jagged broken stones, turning them to rounded pebbles. She'd cover the boulders with moss and lichen. By the time Earth Mover woke from his nap she'd be done and ducks would be landing in the sparkling water, and the deer would be sniffing its coolness from beyond the tree line.

Earth Tender will tell you, as nice as Earth Mover's work was, he'd always leave a real mess behind him. Sometimes he'd leave muddy streams behind him all stirred up. She'd calm them down and make them clear again. Sometimes when he was working on new land he'd underestimate things and cover much of a newly finished rain forest with steaming lava. You can be sure, if you've never dealt with steaming lava, its quite a mess.

"Oops!" he'd say, and look at her out of the corner of his downcast eye. Then she'd have her hands full.

Although Earth Mover would never say so, Earth Tender had a tendency to go a little overboard in her own way. She seemed to have a weakness for bright colors. Occasionally she'd just smother a hillside in magenta petalled flowers, and Earth Mover would just shake his head. And if a particular creature pleased her, she'd just make millions of them. Sometimes it was bunnies, other times butterflies. It usually fell on Earth Mover to fix things up if they got way out of hand. Like with the dinosaurs. They were just too damn big. If things got too bad he usually made it very dry, or very wet, or very cold, or very hot for a while and then the trouble would just go away on its own.

Earth Mover and Earth Tender passed century after century working together this way, and thousands of years passed. All in all, the world was getting more beautiful all the time. He would cut and fill the hillsides and she would blanket them with life. They were both very happy. But, as is usually the case when things are just about right, trouble was coming.

It all had to do with the people. Oh yes, people were around even then. There weren't many of them. Mostly they ran around with pointed sticks yelling at each other. At night the people made fires and told scary stories to each other. They didn't know much about Earth Mover and Earth Tender and didn't care. Frankly, this was because they were stupid.

Of Earth Mover's work they would say:?"What did we do to deserve this?" or "Maybe it's God's will!"

Of Earth Tender's forest work they would say:?"Cut 'em all down! Don't worry, they'll grow back."

Or sometimes, when pressed about a nasty mistake, they would say:?"Time heals all wounds."

They went about hunting down everything in sight and making at least as much of a mess as Earth Mover himself. When a place was ruined they would simply move on to the next place.

As I said, they were pretty stupid. But Earth Tender had taken quite a liking to the little creatures anyway. When Earth Mover wasn't around she'd make sure it was easier for them to get along in the world. She thought it was cute the way they fell in love and cared for their young. Soon the little pests were everywhere.

She spent time that might have been otherwise used to complete unfinished projects, to make sure people had plenty of animals to hunt and plenty of nearby fruit trees to pick. Instead of planting a sturdy stand of trees against the rough alpine slope of a new mountain, she'd be watching her pets build bigger villages.

None of this was of serious concern to Earth Mover... until they started getting underfoot. One blissful summer evening he was just settling back to rest. He planned to tell Earth Tender a particularly funny adventure he'd had while carving a cliff face for a new waterfall. Then it happened. A group of people had made a big fire right behind him. First he smelled the smoke. It reeked of burnt game. Next the smoke was in his eye. Confused, he roared and tried to roll away. In so doing he crushed out the fire and several of the little creatures as well.

Earth Tender was furious. She called him a brute. Unfeeling. Insensitive. Earth Mover felt terrible. So next, he tried to rebuild the fire for the people that survived and only succeeded in burning down a fairly large section of forest. Earth Tender didn't speak to him for a week. And the people were furious too. They had never been too happy with his work anyway. Soon they were calling him a wrathful god. A fire god. A thunder god. A volcano god. An earthquake god. As Earth Mover saw it, he wasn't a god... Just a guy trying to get his job done.

To make up to Earth Tender he tried to stay as far away from people as possible. He walked far from their settlements to start his day's work. These hikes to distant places must have inspired him, for he did some of his most dramatic and breathtaking work in these remote parts of the world. But staying out of the way of people proved impossible. Earth Mover couldn't even finish a new part of the world before the people were underfoot again. They would make more fires and wave even sharper sticks at each other and occasionally even torture one of their own number thinking this would make Earth Mover happy. He thought they were crazy.

As their numbers grew, the people spread out, moving into more of the earth's places. This began to be a real chore for Earth Tender. Now she was spending half her time trying to clean up after new cute little people in places she had thought were just about perfect until they arrived. Earth Mover and Earth Tender began to argue a lot. He said she wasn't getting her work done. She said he didn't care about anything but himself.

Finally, one night when Earth Mover was feeling tense and unhappy about the way things were going, Earth Tender asked, "What's wrong with you? Are you upset? Tell me what you're feeling."

At first Earth Mover was silent. He knew that by asking him what he was feeling usually meant she was going to argue with him. But this time he sensed something different about Earth Tender. So, he decided to go into it one more time.

"It's those people of yours. They're underfoot all the time. They are making a holy-hell of the places we completed millennia ago. New work is getting almost impossible to do. Those people are even moving into unfinished areas. They seem willing to live anywhere, as if it didn't matter where they were. To get anything done now I'd have to flood their overflowing villages, or bury their teeming cities."

When he finished he hunkered down, waiting for her angry words. But they didn't come. Now it was her turn to be silent for a moment.

She turned to him and said,?"You're right. I've known for some time that they were spoiling their own nests and ruining things for other creatures. There are too many of them and they don't seem to know what they are doing. Sometimes I even think they may be stupid or something. They certainly don't seem so cute when there are so many of them."

"Okay! Let me turn the heat up on them then," he interrupted.

"Not yet!" she answered, "Before we do anything rash, let me talk to them. If they won't listen to me then we'll just start all over again. And this time, if there are any people, we will make sure they don't spread around so much, make such a mess or ruin the fun for all the others."

Earth Mover was glad to hear this and drifted off to sleep, dreaming about digging out a valley he'd been thinking about in his spare moments. Earth Tender was glad too. She resolved to get up early the next morning to tell the little creatures about the new rules. As she drifted off she was sure they would listen.

The End

Juan Wilson says he is a recovering suburbanite active in trying to slow growth and make the island of Kauai self-sustaining. He resides in Hanapepe, where he and his wife edit the website www.islandbreath.org

Walt Whitman says...

“Now I see the secret of the making of the best persons,
It is to grow in the open air and to eat and sleep with the earth.”

Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass

A Note from Auntie Logy

On Menehunes

by Gae Rusk


Auntie Logy once believed everything flight attendants said, but that was when they were called stewardesses. Their job appears the same now, same duties, same benefits, and they still make instructional announcements when a flight enters Hawaii air space, usually glib accounts of Captain Cook discovering these islands. Coming into Kauai, flight attendants often announce that magical elves called Menehune still haunt Kauai. Auntie once believed this information, but now Auntie knows history as told by flight attendants is suspect.

Yep, Auntie is done with listening to HVB’s and KVB’s theme park lies. It is mostly inaccurate and completely insulting information, aimed at a childish, ignorant type of Visitor who possibly doesn’t even exist anymore in this info-saturated, well-traveled era.

Isn’t it time to stop trivializing Hawaii in general and Kauai in particular? This thought stimulated Auntie. This thought made Auntie squirm on the library chair when researching for information. This thought kept Auntie looking into discoveries by archeologists in Oceania and studying details found in Polynesian chants.

It was fun. It was healthy too, because, unlike when watching television, Auntie does not eat Cheetos when reading. So, from all Auntie Logy’s research, here are a few historical facts to replace that drivel now spouted with such authority at every arrival.

First, Captain Cook was a latecomer to these islands. True. Even the Spanish passed through here before he did. Traveling between California and Asia, the Spanish impacted Hawaiians at least two hundred years before Cook’s gnarly, diseased crew landed, and there are Spanish maps and Hawaiian oral history to prove this.

Second, Tahitian warrior/explorers landed on these shores at least six centuries before the Spanish. These ali’i surging north from the Society Islands were powerful and sophisticated voyagers looking to claim and conquer, but even they were not the first to reach Kauai.

Third, the first people to reach Kauai were very probably the Menehune voyaging out of the Marquesas. Auntie discovered the Kauaian word menehune is uncannily similar to the Marquesan word manahune, which means “common man”, and not “little man”. This explains so much! Other evidence indicates the Marquesas suffered reoccurring drought, and drought was a major impetus for Polynesian migration. Oral history and linguistics indicate Marquesans sailed northwest, following the birds as they migrated, thinking there must be land in that direction and maybe it would have fresh water.

Before the Menehune arrived, who knows. There is a lot of wishful thinking, but no way to tell for sure, although personally Auntie favors clues indicating Polynesians first voyaged west out of South America. Anyway, the point is, when ali’i from Tahiti reached Kauai, they found a population already established. They found farmers and fishermen, common men, whom they drove into remote valleys, where they either died out or were assimilated into the newer culture.

Somehow, this wonderful, complex, fascinating history got all turned around by late arrivals - otherwise called revisionists – so it became Cook who discovered Hawaii, and the Menehune became a joke. The Menehune became a cartoon, which is damned insulting. To portray the First Nation of Kauai as elves on steroids? Come on! Auntie’s girlfriends, and even her bowling league too, everyone thinks this is insulting.

Let’s look at it another way. Auntie has been in the islands full time since 1979. Let’s say the ali’i began arriving about twelve hundred years ago, which is forty times longer here than Auntie. Let’s say the Menehune arrived from the Marquesas a couple of hundred years before the ali’i, which is no less than fifty times longer here than Auntie.

But Cook? Hey, he’s recent, only ten times longer here than me. Everyone beat him here but Auntie Logy. There are even chants in Polynesia about a blonde Viking-type who beat all other Euros to the Pacific, so why in the world does James Cook get top billing?

Because he returned to Europe and published his damn journals and maps. Then, half the population of the northern hemisphere moved in or passed through Hawaii, and it was always all about them, that’s why. As to historical facts that weren’t convenient, or were misunderstood, or were too complex to tell easily, well, it seems history got highjacked and dumbed-down and fed back to us by Visitors as the gospel truth.

Auntie now knows all those details were twisted into pretzels that favored the published. This means returning to the sources of cultural knowledge and studying the evidence of scientific analysis to find all that original information and have any chance at truth. Lucky this Auntie has one stubborn streak to know the facts, all the facts and just the facts, so it actually worked out well.

Now Auntie says shame on all revisers of history, and shame on us for letting it happen. Shame on HVB and KVB for sustaining lazy myths. Shame on flight attendants for repeating them, and shame on Visitors for not asking if those pre-landing announcements are some sort of joke. So much shame, this island. Is Auntie the only one thinking this?

Is there some Marketeer at KVB who would care to re-introduce Kauai to the world, this time with dignity and integrity and accuracy? If so, may the island’s God of Truth bless you forever.
There now, Auntie Logy spoke her mind. Auntie feels much better. A hui hou.


Please note: Antilogy is an inconsistency or contradiction in terms or ideas, causing controversy and discussion.

Gae Rusk copyright 2006

Leaving Legacies

[Editors' note: Please help us finish the last line of this poem. Simply click on "comments" to submit your suggestion.]

by Kim Steutermann Rogers


What do you want to be when you grow up?
Robert wants to be an environmental lawyer.
Paul wants to be an organic farmer.
Jean-Michel wants to save the oceans.

What do you want to be when you grow up?
Sally wants to adopt all the world’s children.
Bono wants to feed them.
Oprah wants to cure them of AIDS.

What do you want to be when you grow up?
Toyota wants to be green.
Dove wants to build girls esteem.
BP wants to be beyond petroleum.

What do you want to be when you grow up?
Switzerland wants to be neutral.
Brazil wants to be self sufficient.
Greenfield, Massachusetts; Bennington, Vermont; Santa Cruz and San Francisco, California want to be Big Box free.

Kauai wants to be…?

Remembering Lawai Valley

[Editors' note: This piece originally ran in the Honolulu Advertiser.]

by Mahealani Perez-Wendt

My corner of the world began with the bounty of a family garden, ranged beyond it to fruit-laden trees in a yard unremarkable for this part of the country, and extended to wild orchards tantalizing from low rolling hills to Norfolk mountains.

In the garden, a tangled vineyard of cherry tomatoes spilled over its lattice onto rows of chickpeas, carrots, radishes, green onions, and many other edibles. These were hedged in by the dense foliage of Surinam with its tart, pumpkin-shaped fruit, protecting against burrowing animals like Junior, our pet mountain pig.

There were mango, banana, avocado, and sprawling mountain apple trees, strategic blinds to friendly but sometimes overly-inquisitive neighbors who vigilently reconnoitered vehicles traveling the jeep road in and out of the valley.

Thickets of wild tangerine, oranges, strawberry guava and roseapple grew along the hillside. Green tendrils of liliko`i hoisted above kukui nut trees, forming arbors with topmost branches. Wild achote, oregano and cilantro grew in abundance, planted by my grandparents many years before.

There were flowers and ornamentals in the yard manicured by my Hawaiian mother – roses, calla lillies, ice pink akulikuli, canna, gardenia, hibiscus, innumerable varieties of ti and Hawaiian medicinal plants.

The roadside displayed miniature bouquets of fiery lantana, and lavender curls of manaloa hung from weathered fenceposts.

A stream traversed the pasture beyond our garden, its banks choked with reedy Job’s Tears and succulent white ginger. An old stonewall still assembled, its crevices ablossom with shell-pink and orange flowers. They were cheerful and resonating in the sun, a subtle aurora at day’s end. Eucalyptus, white paperbark and hau – these sentinels added to the magic beyond our garden.

Across the stream, an aging Auntie Louisa and Uncle Dionicio sunned themselves on their front porch, contentedly smoking black twists of Toscani. Their home smelled of freshly baked bread, and not infrequently, she stood on the porch, singing out and calling to everyone within earshot to come for fresh malasadas.

There were rituals of men, rituals of women. The men were consummate hunters, skilled with horses, livestock and cattle. My earliest memories were of tall, dark men in black saddles with leather riding crops and boots. The children were weaned on horses and cattle; they understood roping, branding, methods of slaughter. They listened as their fathers swapped hunting stories – some chilling, others full of country humor.

The women often worked as seasonal trimmers at nearby Lawa`i cannery, and were skilled with knives and techniques of butchery. The slaughter of animals occasioned a marathon of activity – cutting, sorting, wrapping, labeling and provisioning for families as well as market.

Sometimes they would gather to make sausages. At these times, the women would don kerchieves and spend the entire day bent over heaps of hot, savory spices and mountains of onions, peppers, parsley, garlic and pork for mosilla and linquesa.

This was a community of devout Catholics, and there were many discussions about church and the holy sacraments. How does one pray a soul out of purgatory? I wondered about these things.

There were festive celebrations and revelry with special wines, wonderful food, “katchi-katchi” music and of course, lively dancing. Everybody cut loose. I remember my uncles putting on their wives’ clothes, including brassieres, and dancing the rhumba. Unbelievable.

On some Saturday nights, families piled into jeeps and Model A’s for John Wayne movies at Kalaheo Theater. At these times, a great cheer would go up when the calvary galloped in against “redskins”. Times sure have changed.

It seems a child’s life in Lawa`i was an idyll of dreams – hours spent catching crayfish with guava branches and string; hours sitting on topmost branches of trees with forbidden shakers of shoyu, salt and pepper; exploring every trail, every fence, every foot bridge; knowing special rocks and secret places – we passed our time this way. We learned about family and kinship, and from the earth, we learned our place.

Nocturnal Visitors

by Ginny Wiehardt

[Editors' note: Ginny Wiehardt is a NYC-based writer who spent last summer writing in a shack off-the-grid in Lawai Valley. This piece was originally published on her blog of the experience at http://islehop.blogspot.com.]

Last night in the middle of the night I was awakened by a lot of noise. I sleepily assumed it was the rat, which often knocks things over in the night -- she's a rather clumsy rat -- but the noise was loud and seemed to be coming from all around the house. I looked over to see if Dasher was up, but she was on her pillow, as groggy-headed as I was. I decided that we definitely had more than one rat. Then I thought to myself, "What could they be doing?" And then, after listening another moment, "They must be really big." I waited for Dasher to start up in a rat-hunting frenzy, but Dasher, smart dog that she is, only looked at me as though to say, "Well, are you going to take care of this or what?"

Meanwhile, the banging around the house intensified.

It sounded as though something was rubbing itself against the walls. The shack practically groaned. I could hear things being knocked around, though I couldn't tell exactly what things or where they were; the sound seemed to be everywhere. I picked up the flashlight and sat up in bed. I aimed it at the kitchen, giving the rats a heads up so I wouldn't actually have to see them, and then got out of bed.

Out of bed I finally started to wake up, and I realized that the sound was outside, not in the kitchen or upstairs as I had thought. My situation was made worse by the fact that I had gone to bed listening to AM radio. On Friday nights the New Zealand station and Radio Australia both broadcast rugby, so I'm left either with Japanese stations, which sometimes have programs in English, or AM talk radio. The last program I listened to before falling asleep was on the mainland, where it would have been the middle of the night. It consisted of men calling in to describe their paranormal experiences. Some of the stories were pretty entertaining, but the last one was a guy talking about the "shadow man" who had visited him at the foot of the bed. This one was actually pretty creepy, so I switched it off before hearing the end, afraid that it was going to keep me up at night.

So there I was, in the middle of the night, visions of shadow men in my head. I bravely went to my window, nonetheless, as the noise was at this point really too loud to ignore. I immediately saw something big and solid move down the hill beside the house. My first thought was that it was a man, because it did sort of look like a man sliding down a hill. I ducked down so that he wouldn't see me. As I squatted under the window in the dark, I realized that if the thing I'd seen was a man, then that meant that there were many men, all around the house -- that the shack was being invaded for some reason, which was highly unlikely. It also struck me that the thing I'd seen was too big to be a man, and then that whatever I was hearing had more than two feet.

After listening for a few seconds to confirm the fact that it was a four-footed creature, I got up and shone my flashlight out the window. Unfortunately this mostly illuminated the screen over the window and ruined my night vision. I switched the flashlight off and peered into the darkness. There I now discerned four or five giant black shapes, negative fields against the white moonlight on the yard. "My God," I thought, "that guy had a shadow man, but I've got shadow cows."

Realizing that the idea of shadow cows was crazy, I turned the flashlight back on. In the beam of the flashlight, now that I knew where to aim it, emerged cow after cow, all peering back at me, russet- and white-faced, as normal as milk carton cows, except that these had extremely guilty looks on their faces. (One of them had been busy pushing everything off the porch of my bathroom/storage shed with his head; I'm not sure what the others were up to). Their expressions, the fact that they were there at all, and the crazy things I had imagined, struck me as hilarious and I started laughing. The sound startled the guilt-ridden cows, who all began to move away, practically running at first, back to wherever they'd come from.

I regretted scaring them, and stopped laughing, to watch instead. Without the flashlight they were again made strange -- great moonsilver creatures, moving together like pilgrims toward a shared destination.

The only sound was the sound of their hooves through the grass; they moved around the house, up the hill, and through the hole in the fence that must exist, but which I haven't yet been able to find.

A Note from Auntie Logy

On Kauai’s Hwy
by Gae Rusk

Auntie was driving home from Princeville Foodland, heading down that long, steep hill toward Kalihiwai River, when the rental car ahead of me stopped mid-bridge to photograph the waterfall. Vehicles coming downhill both directions screeched and skidded, some skewing sideways, and it was a near miss all around. Then, the car drove off like nothing had happened.

Auntie Logy was so appalled at the Visitor’s self-absorbed, hazardous behavior, Auntie followed him all the way to Kilauea Lighthouse. There Auntie parked behind his car and got out and explained why he was lucky he wasn’t singing the flat car blues.

Because of many hellish moments like this on Kauai’s Hwy, Auntie says we need to make some attempt to educate all these arriving drivers. The State of Hawaii has been rated more than once as having the worst road conditions in the USA, and Auntie Logy knows everyone driving on Kauai will agree with that. Since so many Visitors are driving these narrow, bumpy, crowded roads with us, why not bring them up to speed while they are still en route.

Believe me, Auntie has thought a lot about how to do this when toodling up the Hwy at 38 mph, tenth car in a line of twenty, all of us behind one Visitor who thinks Kauai is a giant golf course with a super-size water hazard.

The best idea Auntie came up with is for incoming airlines to tuck laminated explanations of island driving conditions into seatback pockets. Flight attendants could indicate these sheets during their safety hulas. No doubt it would be good remedial info for Kauai residents on those flights, including Auntie.

As to cruise ships arriving at Nawiliwili Harbor, it would be simple to add island driving seminars to activities at sea. Lessons could be presented between islands, and even designed for each island’s road conditions. Cautionary photos could be displayed. Once they know what driving here is really like, Visitors might stick to the K-Mart shuttle, and everyone would be better off.

Designing and implementing such a program would likely take one tedious path through Kauai’s system of getting things done, so Auntie Logy will kick start it by asking Visitors driving here to recognize a few vital clues.

One, Kauai is not a theme park. Residents driving all those pickups and SUVs are trying to get to work, or to Wilcox walk-in clinic, or to the Raider-Warrior game at Vidinha, or to Otsuka’s for the one day mattress sale. Whatever reason, the point is, local drivers are not on vacation.

Two, the Hwy is already crowded with Citizens of Kauai even before Visitors drive into the mix. In fact, the Hwy is packed with Auntie’s daughters’ cars, and the cars of all their many friends, as they drive from Nawiliwili to Starbucks, from campus to Macy’s cosmetic counters, from the Kipu turnoff to the Kauai Collision Center after running into one big pig on the Hwy.

Three, Auntie does not like to honk her horn. Auntie believes there still exists here a faint but lingering patience with visiting drivers and with each other. Auntie knows several Kauai drivers are patient with Auntie when she has stupid, careless moments on the road, but what this means is few Visitors will ever know how much and how often they offend us on our Hwy.
My position on this Hwy problem? Aunty has had enough. Some effort must be made to improve the Hwy experience, so Visitors, you need to heed a few crucial rules while you are driving on Kauai:

• Do not stop mid-bridge to video the river.
  
• Do not read maps and drive at the same time.
  
• Do not creep along Kauai’s Hwy where others cannot pass you, then speed up where we can, especially on the hill at the old dairy, which isn’t there any more, so you just have to know.
  
• Do not rush toward Hanalei Bridge to join the end of a line of cars already crossing. It is likely the other side has been waiting and is ready to go, and you could be permanently crippled by stink-eye.
  
• If a line of pickup trucks forms behind you, pull over at the next wide spot and let us by. If you find yourself two feet from the rusted clunker ahead, there is really no where to go, so back off.
  
• If you find yourself in a turn-only lane, go ahead and make the turn and figure it out later, and do not try a desperate merge back into traffic that brings us all to a stall. Auntie is thinking in particular about the Foodland to Safeway merge, now a construction zone, where Hwy anarchy rules and drivers make enemies for life.
  
• And, pay attention now, do not flatten Auntie Logy in any crosswalk. This is the only time Auntie is telling you this.

To tell you the truth, something has to change soon, because the altered nature of driving Kauai’s Hwy is driving Auntie crazy. Auntie has stress when she drives her Hwy. Auntie has even waved with one finger at Visitors because of their bad Hwy manners, so something must be done before Auntie’s head explodes.

Is Auntie the only one thinking this? Is there any Kauai Educateer interested in developing this campaign with the Kauai Visitor Bureau? If so, may the island’s God of Transportation bless you forever.

There now, Auntie Logy spoke her mind. Auntie feels much better. A hui hou.

Please note: Used as a noun, antilogy is an inconsistency or contradiction in terms of ideas, causing controversy and discussion.

Gae Rusk, copyright 2006

Betrayal on the Beach

by Kim Steutermann Rogers

Hanalei River Valley

(c) 2005 Kim Steutermann Rogers

Going Home

by Mahealani Perez-Wendt

I. Stable

Dark horses
Black saddles
Cattle crying
Fire and iron
Slaughter and slice
the smokehouse waiting.

II. Prayer

Bless me Father
Holy Mary
Baby Jesus
Rose from ashes.

III. Valley

Too long not knowing the horses and
mountain paths of our valley
I rode with friends meandering the
ginger streams.
Now I remember the tangled hau, the old cabin,
the hunter’s waystation quite abandoned;
Again the thorn and scratch of lantana,
Up there oregano leaves mother told us long
ago;
Miles of guava, the gamboling cows
scatter tall grasses at our approach.
I remember that house, the garden still intact.
I remember horses, stables, and bridle days.
Skinny kids sun on rocks at the waterfall –
Who can forget racing through pasture to
be first at the swimming?

IV. Rain

Now the rains sweep through this valley
We find sheltering under trees
We crouch whispering ghost stories,
Sinking toes in sodden leaves.
When the rainbow arcs its blessing
We give thanks and ask for these:
Ever shall we swim stream waters
Watch the sunset hills ablaze
Ever savor sweet roseapple
Ever dream on valley days.

The Flashflood

[Editors' note: This is the third in a three-part series about the recent rains and dam break on Kauai.]

by Pam Woolway

I.

Fifty foot wave
Lids tangled trees with rooftops;
Avalanche of mud, wood & bone
Swarms down Wailapa Stream,
Hacking, a crevice into a canyon
Forests of trees snap free,
Lighting the sky with invisible fireworks, loping
Over asphalt and earth
Offering mud, wood & bone;
Delivered to the sea.


II.

We wake her at 4 am from her slumber,
in the cottage by Wailapa Stream.
Imagine a locomotive snarling
Down on her house.

We tell her to get in the car. Drive
away from this valley.
We replay the fifty-foot wave;
teeth of Ironwood, chewing
house parts to splinters with red mud saliva.

The moment in reverse,
We call to her,
“Get out, the reservoir is about to breach!”
She wakes the man beside her.

They glide through a dark hall,
the unmade bed,
sheets kicked to the bottom edge,
the front door left ajar.

The Search

—Garden Island Newspaper, Hawaii, March 23, 2006

by Pam Woolway


I.

misting rain clouded mountaintop,
a grim tableau, helicopter
slowly flies
upriver

circles dam, thoughts
and flowers
twirl
e a r t h w a r d.


II.

Search continued Tuesday:
Four Kauaians
missing

Seven days after a flash flood
swept


Two homes away in Kilauea.
Search

efforts ended at dark

Yesterday.

Phear on Kauai

[Editor's note: This is the first of a three-part post on the recent rains and dam break on Kauai.]

by Gae Rusk
copyright 2006

I was already afraid of almost everything. Flying, eating, running, sleeping. Tsunamis, earthquakes, tornados, global warming. Snakes, centipedes, bears, sharks. Bullies, terrorists, street racers, CEOs.

See? I was already afraid of almost everything, and now I add Phear of Reservoirs to my list of phobias.

Still, I am an intelligent citizen. I know the reservoirs on Kauai are living treasures. They are cups of life spilling one unto the next all the way to the sea cliffs, nurturing the island’s farmers along the way. Because I am informed, I know that plowing under a reservoir would be a form of murder. It would be the killing of water, and thus the end of us, which means death by water is not always a drowning.

Four days after the March 14 disaster and while it was still raining, Kilauea farmers gathered with County, State and Federal officials and spoke out to save Ka Loko Reservoir. These farmers pointed out that taking away ag water by destroying even one reservoir would be a form of farmicide. They explained that the reservoir system is the only alternative for agricultural water when rains stop and seasonal drought arrives. Even if farmers could hook up to County water, an action that would require endless subsidies to pay for the millions of gallons required – even if farmers could do that, County water is chlorinated and fluorinated and mixed with other chemicals. Not only would using County water break the bank, the resulting produce would no longer be organic. Even if farmers could pump well water twenty four-seven to irrigate fields and orchards, at today’s fuel prices what farmer could afford that? Besides, if the loop of rainfall, reservoir and gravity is interrupted, pumping well water for half of every year will suck the aquifers dry in no time flat.

Yep. Death by water? Not always a drowning.

So please, Makers of Decisions, remember: the reservoirs, the ditches, the streams, the level of our water table – all are connected in one logical, holistic system that filters and cycles and replenishes the whole. Destroying one part will destroy the system, thus sabotaging Kauai’s ability to sustain itself.

If, against all advice from the truly informed, Ka Loko Reservoir is destroyed, or any of the reservoirs on Kauai are abandoned and flattened, I phear the makers of that decision will need to start another list, a very long one, for all the future victims of this disaster.

A Definition

Webster’s Third New International Dictionary
Main Entry: rigorous
Function: adjective
Etymology: Middle English, from Medieval Latin rigorosus, from Latin rigor + -osus -ous

1 a : manifesting, exercising, or favoring rigor : allowing no abatement or mitigation : inflexibly strict : INEXORABLE [liquor smuggling…has been another problem…to vex governments seeking to maintain a rigorous policy of liquor control, D.W.McConnell] b : extremely or excessively strict : HARSH, STERN [a rigorous academy where the girls wore uniforms, were forbidden to correspond with male contemporaries…and were not given diplomas until they passed college entrance examinations, Robert Rice] [juries are now rigorous, now indulgent, F.A.Ogg & Harold Zink]

2 : marked by extremes of temperature or climate, barrenness of comforts or necessities, or other strenuous challenging obstacles [ life was rigorous, conditions primitive, American Guide Series: Texas] [a combination of high altitudes, rigorous climate, poor drainage and thin soils giving rise to poor land, G.P.Wibberley]

3 : scrupulously accurate : EXACT, PRECISE [the reader, missing…poets whom he expected to find, may complain that my criterion of significance is too rigorous, F.R.Leavis]

The Backstory

In the tradition of literary journals and salons everywhere, kauaibackstory.com supports good writing and healthy discussions. All submissions are reviewed by a three-person editorial board made up of Kim Steutermann Rogers, Gae Rusk and Pam Woolway. We value the expression of all voices and delight in words (and images) that shift thinking and open minds threading us ever closer together in this calabash of a world in which we live.

Kauaibackstory.com wishes to honor the circle of fearless writers from the 2006 Hanalei Writers Retreat for spinning the thoughts and stringing the images that wove kauaibackstory.com into shape. Great gratitude also goes to the brave Terry Tempest Williams who also reveres language and landscape and who introduced us to rigor and inspired us with these words, “To be a powerful writer is to be a human being engaged in the world.”

And, so, this is how we engage.

Submissions

If you would like to submit to Kauai Backstory, copy your submission into the body of an email and send it to kauaibackstory@yahoo.com. There is no word limit—brevity is good; however, quality is better. Please acknowledge if the writing has been previously published and where/when. All submissions will be read by a three-person editorial board, although not all submissions will be posted.