Güd wrtr

(Thanksgiving Day, Poipu Beach, Kauai)

At the beach park the tourists
gather near sunset, not to gawk at
the ball of fire descending into the sea

but at the bale of turtles who have
trudged their way up the beach, leaving
tracks the size of truck tires on the sand.

They fall heavily on earth, gravity
working against them, as it does us all,
but they also fall quickly into sleep,

which the lucky among us do, too.
And there, working the crowd tonight,
two expert saleswomen disguised

as young girls, one carrying a large
aluminum pan, the kind that might
accommodate a small bird for roasting.

Would you like to buy a lei? the older girl
asks as we step into the park. The littler
one holds up the pan in which long,

dark green twists of ti leaves rest.
I peer into the pan. Ti leaf lei! I say,
and both girls brighten at this

old lady tourist’s recognition
of their craft. How much? I ask.
Ten dollars, says the proud seller,

citing the going grocery store price.
Did you make them? I ask.
Both girls nod and beam like the sun.

lowering itself toward the horizon.
I’m instantly sold. Always buy things
from little girls, I tell Dick later,

harkening back to the Girl Scout
cookie selling days when it
took every ounce of courage for

my sister and me to go door to
door and ask grownups to buy
what we were compelled to sell

to raise money for our troop.
We didn’t even make the cookies,
we girls in light green uniforms,

but these girls, who likely learned
their craft at school or from older
female relatives, wove deep green

ti leaves into long strands, now
carried by hopeful hands, brave
enough to approach strangers.

I’ll take two, I say. Will you pick
them out for me? And the lei makers
do—a shorter one for me, a longer

one for Dick. The taller girl holds
up the lei for me, and without
a thought, I bend my head and

receive the blessing and protection
of this lei made by young hands.
And after the exchange of cash

with our mahalo and aloha, I
I drape the longer lei around
my beloved’s neck and bestow

a kiss upon his cheek, a bit
of aloha amid admiring fans
of locally grown turtles on this

sweet day of thanksgiving.

•••

bale: one of the collective nouns for a group of turtles (also a “dole” or a “nest”)

(In memory of Ed Kato, artist of Kalaupapa,
on this day of thanksgiving)

There, on a peninsula of great suffering,
nearly a hundred years after thousands

were banished to die, an artist picked
up his paintbrush again and again

to record in oils what he saw around him,
on canvas, on the Welcome to Kalaupapa

sign and dozens of others—not least
on rocks he left around the settlement.

Smile—it no broke your face, reads one
next to a grinning countenance.

At the grave of the nun who later became
a saint: Peace to all who enter here.

And the simplest of all, from a man
branded a leper, who thrived and loved,

who lived and died with a grateful
heart: Mahalo.

•••

Dick and I have been fortunate to make several trips over the years as volunteers through the Sierra Club to the Kalaupapa peninsula on Moloka’i. Dick first hiked down to Kalaupapa on a Sierra Club outing in 1970, not long after the site was opened for tours to a limited number of visitors. We continue to be moved by the stories of the more than 8,000 people forced to live and die there in isolation because they were afflicted with Hansen’s Disease, commonly known as leprosy.

The first patients were sent there in 1866. With new drug therapies developed in the 1940s, there was no need for further isolation, but it wasn’t until 1969 that the century-old laws of forced quarantine were abolished.

Many former patients continued to live the rest of their lives at Kalaupapa, though, one of the most beautiful places in Hawaii, honoring the legacy of their kupuna (ancestors) and many who served there, including Father Damien De Veuster and Mother Marianne Cope, who have been venerated as saints in the Catholic church.

Today Kalaupapa is a National Historic Park, but visitors are allowed only on a limited basis. No tours are currently available as they have been in the past.

However, Ka ‘Ohana O Kalaupapa is a nonprofit group that promotes the value and dignity of every individual who was taken from their family and forcibly isolated on the peninsula known as Kalaupapa on Moloka’i, Hawaii, due to government policies regarding leprosy (now also called Hansen’s disease). 

Ka ‘Ohana has produced an array of educational materials and exhibits, helped more than 900 descendants learn more about their Kalaupapa ancestors, created a virtual concert, “The Music of Kalaupapa,” and worked with the state Legislature to designate January annually as Kalaupapa Month.

Their biggest project is The Kalaupapa Memorial, which will display the names of everyone who was admitted to Kalaupapa. Ka ‘Ohana deeply appreciates those who would like to support their efforts to honor the people of Kalaupapa and to perpetuate their lives and legacies. You can learn more about the group and, if you’re so moved, make a donation to Ka ‘Ohana O Kalaupapa here.

(South shore Kauai, looking due south)

I rise a bit before 4 a.m. on an errand
of the night, surf sounds pulling me
to the lanai to see what I might see,

and there, while we’ve been sleeping,
the all-night star show spreads out above
like so many grains of bright sand

over perpetual waves that have lulled us
to sleep. The foreverness of it all strikes
me again, as it does when I think

to put myself amid the vastness and simply
take it in—not get out the star map
to remind myself of the names

of bright celestial objects I once knew,
resist the urge to identify, quantify,
instead to do what humans

have done since the beginning:
stand under that dome of forever,
inhaling our part

in eternity, too, we tiny bits
of starstuff who voyaged over
the sea to these islands,

who came from the sea
to walk upright in this
tender world, gently,

stopping now and then
to stand humbly before
its majesty

carrying nothing but
our awe.

•••

(for Sue Lester, the original BFF, on her birthday)

(Lihue, Kauai)

We haven’t been on the ground
for more than a couple hours

when we hit the ABC Store
for milk and granola just as

a lady in a green uniform
comes out with a tray and

a pair of kitchen tongs and
begins transferring plastic-

wrapped chunks of hot rice
topped with Spam and wound

with seaweed into a warm
display case. And though we have

just eaten, and I’m not in this
moment hungry, I ask the lady

for one, and when she moves
to hand me the tightly wrapped

package of not-at-all-good-for-
you, she realizes how hot it is,

so she tongs one to the counter
for me, which I purchase with

the milk and the granola, and two
bottles of Hawaii spring wada.

A lady at the checkout counter
rings me up as another puts

the items in two small paper
sacks and hands them to me.

I walk to the car cradling one
bag of cool, one bag of hot

on a day that has unleashed
a goodly amount of rain, so

the air has that only-in-Hawaii
blend of tropical petrichor and

slightly muggy intensity that
lets me know I’m home again—

in a place where I’ve never had
a permanent address, truly not

kama’aina, but oh, how I feel
I am thanks to a little Spam

and rice and seaweed—
the kind I traipsed down

to the hospital cafeteria for
after another rough night

on the pullout chair/bed
upstairs as he hovered

somewhere between here
and gone—

the one upright and opening
the car door for me now—

as my heart whispers,
mahalo nui loa for landing

us here together again.

(Keoneloa Beach/aka Shipwreck Beach, Kauai)

Every big leap entails a huge risk,
but the literal ones have us gasping
as we watch young people hurling
themselves off a golden cliff
into the sea some 40 feet below.

Still, we walk up top to see the view—
not least the turquoise and royal blue
water where ginormous honu swim,
doing their finest rock imitations,
flippering effortlessly in the surf
to nibble on limu on the real rocks
hugging the ocean floor.

There they are, the brown saucers
huge even from four stories up,
and we smile, our day made.

A young woman hugs the edge,
deciding whether to take the leap
as her boyfriend in the water calls up
encouragement from below.

Don’t do it! I want to say. Never take
a leap for someone else—only if
everything in you insists that you
must leap and your heart leads you to.
Otherwise, stay put.

As she debates, two young men
come up barefoot, clearly ready to
make the jump—college kids, if I’ve
ever seen them. Vacationing from
Utah, they tell us later. They seem
ready, confident but not cocky.

We offer to watch their fanny pack
cradling their phones while they’re
gone; they grin and thank us,
move to the edge. Logan stands,
back to the water, makes a graceful
backward arc into the water.
Preston says, “I’m a jumper,”
and leaps, arms in the air.

Both land safely, wave happily
as they bob in the swells,
Preston calling, “Turtle! A huge
turtle!” as one of the larger honu
swims near. We laugh. They can
grow up to five feet long and live
some 80 years—

as one of us at the top of the cliff
has done in his eight decades
on the planet. Together we gaze
at the big fellow in the water,
wish him an equally long life—
with no leapers landing on him—
and all the limu he can eat,
easily found.

•••

• honu: Hawaiian green sea turtle

• limu: seaweed in Hawaiian

(for Kai Owens, our seatmate on our Nov. 19 flight to Hawaii)

They start them here young,
as little as two or four,
on boogie boards in swells
so small they barely qualify
as waves.

But that’s how you learn,
my rangy seatmate on the plane tells me,
as he heads home for Thanksgiving.

“Pitched, pummeled and pounded,”
his dad likes to say about surfing—
a risky sport—but I’ve never met
a surfer who didn’t happily
embrace the thrill and try to
ignore the potential for harm.

He’s 18 now, going to college in
Northern California, but he can’t wait
to get back to Haleiwa to throw himself
off the tall rocks at Waimea today
and tomorrow hit the predicted
6 to 8 footers.

He’s just beginning to maneuver
through the world like he shreds waves,
for the first time filling out the required
state form on the plane by himself—
though he’s forgotten his town’s ZIP Code,
transposed two letters in his middle name
and signed his name with a squiggle
because his handwriting doesn’t
lean to cursive.

He reminds me of some of my
former students, so raw and unformed,
so sweet and earnest. Yet I have every
confidence that this young kane will
get home, wax his stick, set the soles
of his long feet back on warm sand
after too much time away,

and be riding waves with his buddies
every day for the next week, sliding
into zippy cutbacks and elegant kick outs—
salt in his eyes, gratitude in his heart—
perhaps getting a little pummeled
in the process, storing up aloha
for the rest of the semester.

•••

kane (kah-nay): Hawaiian for “man”

When the rain lets up,
I walk to the next block,
stand beneath my favorite
ginkgo in a neighbor’s yard.

I knew its former caretakers,
but they are long gone, which
happens when you have lived
in a place going on four decades.

I’m leaving before all the leaves
fall, but they’ll be gone by
the time I return.

The new people aren’t home
today to see me admiring their
tree, pilfering gold fans like
coins from their lawn.

I forgot to bring a bag, so I
scoop up as much treasure
as I could, feeling the sweetness
of new drops on my palms,

and, leaf thief that I am,
walk home with my
bounty, carrying a whole
season’s sunshine,

feeling ever so rich.

(for Gerald and Lauren and Henry)

Out past mown farmland
sun crushed by rain-weary clouds
reflected in shallow pools
of emptied fields—

I have a trunk latch that needs
fixing and a generous nephew-in-law
ready to help, so I make a round-about
circuit, the back way

to reach him. The bonus is getting
to see my niece, the new mama,
him, the new papa, and their
grinning, toothless boy,

five months old, happy and
content to have arrived on
the planet after his long gestation
in the cosmos of his mama’s

universe. Now he’s in ours,
and all of us gaga grownups
cannot stop looking into his
blueblue baby eyes

taking in the world as a newbie,
his gonna-be hair the fawn color of
sweet grass shorn close to the earth,
his irises the shade of the last light

of the day reflected in those
spontaneous ponds dappled with sky,
full of tomorrow.

You’re a year younger than I, which might
account for your youthful… well, everything,
from your spectacular figure and eye-popping
blonde sheen—

not that I’m jealous, though OK, I was,
just a little, long ago—but honey, you
clearly have a whole team of pros keeping
you poofed into perfection. And that’s fine.
You do you, Barbara Millicent Roberts.

That’s the name you were given in the novels
I read about you when I was growing up.
It’s a long way from your hometown of
Willows, Wisconsin, to being a
full-fledged movie star.

Look at you, headliner of your own summer
blockbuster. That’s gotta be a bigger wow
than the best Dreamhouse ever. I know
you’ve been in films before—love you in
the Toy Story movies—but now you’re
up there on the Big Screen all pinked
out doing major dance numbers. Yeow!

I’ve imagined being your friend since I
first held one of your earliest incarnations.
I never mistreated you—pulled out your
hair or drew on you. I didn’t want to be you,
exactly, but I admired your can-do spirit
of adventure.

I’d love to hear what you’ve been up to,
now that you’re approaching sixty-five,
and I’m squarely there. What if you lower
your heels—the ones on your feet, I mean—
and we grab our tennies (not for tennis,
though I bet you still have the cute outfits
for it, not to mention a tightly-strung
racquet), and do something radical,
like go for a walk-and-talk?

I think it’d be fun, us two sexagenarians,
to stroll and laugh about so much in our
lives—sure, a bit about the men—
the long term (looking at you, Ken)
and the short term (hey, surfer Blaine).

But we both know those guys were only
part of our lives. I want to hear about
you flying planes, rocketing into space,
driving race cars, delivering babies.
You evolved so much from your initial
black-and-white striped bathing suit
self.

I knew you then, with your pointy
boobs and impossible figure, a real doll.
But in the decades that followed
so many other girls like me watched
you grow into more of a real woman,
as we do, if we’re lucky—

some of us as moms and professionals,
as scientists and mechanics and teachers
and veterinarians and singers and writers—

and some of us also blessed with a
perennially killer wardrobe and fabulous
legs that go on for days and days and days.

And August leaves of abundance
must abandon the trees of November
descending to stark silhouettes,
graphic and grey and attentive.

—from “Orchard 1,” Kathryn Hohlwein

•••

And now they are on their way
to that state of bare attention—

we see them tall and skeletal
even when modestly half-clothed,

their bones poking out from
the now-thinning opulence,

mourning the thriving canopies
that cooled us all summer,

the murmur of wind ruffling
so many leaves we couldn’t

count them. Now we can.
Like thinning hairs on a

sweet head, we see what
we’d rather not—the tender

underside that calls for
compassion, the opposite

of intolerance. They are
the innocents holding their

stripped arms in the air,
exposed, defenseless,

our longstanding neighbors,
worthy, at the very least,

of our concern, our care.

•••

(In honor of International Day for Tolerance, Nov. 16, 2023)