It’s a beautiful Waimea day and I’m envious of my neighbors. I hear weed whackers, lawn mowers, hedge trimmers and blowers at work. I wish I could join the fun. Soon I know the BBQ grills will be coming out and the smell of steaks and hot dogs will be perfuming the air. That’s the neighborhood we live in. It’s kinda like an old street where old friends meet. One day Caleb I hope to send you a photo. Spent some time working on my ‘Mutterings of an Old Hawaiian Man book.’ Trying to get it  done by summer’s end with inserts from my brother.  

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August 14, 2023

It’s a beautiful Waimea day. A perfect day for sitting on the porch, rocking in a chair, pipe in mouth, book in hand, thinking about old times. Old times when Parker Ranch was the epicenter of our economy. Cowhands could still whistle and ride their steeds on the highway. Those days are past. Uncle John Kauwe was the saddle maker. Mr. Baybrook was the agronomist. Mr. Brand kept the books. Mrs. Makino ran the ranch restaurant. Made the best stew in the world. Uncle Jack Puhi kept the electric plant buzzing. But these are just memories. Just memories never to be replicated as we join America USA. Change is the only constant in life. Au’e.

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Can you believe it? The year is one half gone, my oh my I mutter but you know, I find I’m making better use of my time. Got no choice. Keep reading or hearing about folks I once knew with black hair, now on the other side of the river. I know you know what I mean. There are things I wish I could do over again, but it’s too late now, got to look ahead. Look forward. In Hawai’i  what Iwe say IMUA. Hope you’re having a nice day wherever you are. Wherever you’re roaming. Just keep rockin and rollin.

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August 18, 2023

Aloha from Waimea, Hawaii. My writing journey continues, slow but sure. Like the caboose who muttered ‘I think I can’ climbing and chugging up that hill. Most of you my age probably read that little picture book in lower elementary school. single-finger. Of course he could and did.  You can too.  My writing road is a single finger road. My weary and loyal index finger. I’m a one-finger typist. Never learned how to type in high school as I got a waiver and took something else. Great Ideas class  I believe. Now I regret it sixty years later. Should have took typing. Oh well. We make choices. It's too late now but that’s okay. My index finger works, keeps saying to me. ‘you can.’ And so we try everyday to be like that caboose. Type two thousand words.  And we always  get to the top of the hill. Back of everybody else but that’s okay.

 

‘Better late than never.’