Chapter 1
May Day is Lei Day in Hawai’i.
On the island of Oahu, the outstretched arms on the giant statue of King Kamehameha the Great are looped with hundreds of trailing leis made from delicate, golden‘ilima flowers. These tiny blossoms resemble the feathers of the now-extincto’o bird that once were collected and woven into elegant, long capes for the royalty of these islands.
Kamehameha the Great is remembered as a strong warrior who united the Hawaiian Islands. He and his descendants are still honored by the people of Hawaii. Whenever I see his statue draped with those fragrant flowers on May Day, I think of the great lady who stretched out her arms to me long ago, wearing a fragrant gardenia in her white hair. Her name is Charlotte Isabella Burroughs, and she is my grandmother. My Grand Lady.
I was thinking of Grand Lady on May Day this year as I arrived at the elementary school in Lahaina, where we live on the island of Maui. As a long-standing tradition, the students participate in a lei-making contest each May 1. In the eighteen years that I’ve volunteered as one of the judges, I’ve never seen a lei made from gardenias. I thought about how, if I were granted my wish for my daughter, Hannah, to go to Louisiana to meet Grand Lady, I would make a lei from the gardenias that exploded like popcorn on the huge bush by the Big House. I would drape my Grand Lady in fragrant flowers and let her know while she was still living that she was honored by her most enamored descendant.
Entering the cafeteria, I detected the faint scent of fried Spam and steamed white rice lingering in the air.Must be Thursday. Spam and rice every Thursday. With teriyaki sauce.
Two teacher’s aides looked up and smiled when I entered. They were busy placing numbers in front of the leis on the long tables, so I hung back and waited next to the open windows while they completed their task. I was glad for a breath of fresh air. After nearly twenty years on this island, I still had not taken to Spam the way my son and daughter had after their weekly school lunches of the local favorite. I was thinking of corn on the cob dripping with butter and my Uncle Burt’s hickory-smoked ribs smothered in barbecue sauce.
The gentle trade winds tumbled in from the ocean, treating the flattened window slats like welcome mats, wiping their wet feet quickly and asking the startled strands of my long brown hair if they wanted to dance. My hair, as usual, said, “Yes!”
I didn’t try to stop the familiar tousled jazz routine but rather gazed out at the sparkling blue Pacific and felt a rising sense of wild-eyed restlessness. West Maui has to be one of the most beautiful places God ever made. I love it here. Yet sometimes I think I know every inch of this island. I wonder what it would be like to drive
