Gathering clouds

 IF YOU ARE NEW to our site, "Gathering clouds" is the latest installment (written and published around each New Moon) of a story being written to keep the spirit of wander and wonder alive and surprising. This is a story inspired by the unfolding life of our family -- Christopher Kawika, Maleka and Carter -- who lives on the windward-side shore of O'ahu in Hawai'i. 

The story began here.

The story continued here.

Went here. 

And now ... you are here. 

Sam's phone vibrated and chirped at exactly the same time as Iliahi's whistle cut across the distance of two vendor's stalls. The chirp -- Song Sparrows -- was his tutu's ring. She'd recorded the Song Sparrows in the woods where she lived. Sam turned it into "Tutu's Ring" on his phone. She was sending him a text, with pictures. The two thousand mile separation between this boy and his grandmother was a heart-skipping distance. Never seen, but never not felt. 

"I think this connection," Sam's dad used to joke, "started when he'd try to eat the old iphone ... when Mom was on the screen." Mamo Black knew better, "That, began way before the iphone, honey." Mamo Black's right hand was pulsing over her heart. Mothers know things about love and this mother was particularly atuned. Having never seen and never allowed to ask questions about her mother, Sam's mother developed her unseen senses ... love and intuition were boundless, but they required space. Mamo Black learned early to make space for love. Intuition happened. Mamo knew things without needing reasons. The computer engineer part of Sam's dad cross-referenced all information. For all the details involved in coding language for computers,  the man had Uranus sextile his Virgo mind. Revolutionary elements tweaked his take-care-of business thinking at mysterious times. 

The man nodded and grinned, "Raised by Mom, the mysterious was usual."

Samuel's birthday was a few months away. Before the end of this year he'd be twelve. That meant, next year he started to step outside the circle. Twelve was an even number, connected it was a circle. Thirteen meant it was like the moon shell, a spiral growing beyond a closed loop. All of these thoughts raced easily through his young mind. He and his Tutu had talked about this since ... when did they start to talk? Sam smirked and saw Iliahi closing in with his own circle. The Sing Clan was here. 

"Wow, glad we saved some bread," the twins said in unison. "If Aunty Pualani doesn't get her sour dough that would not be a pretty picture." 

There were eight of them this afternoon, including Iliahi. Sam spoke first, "So you must have done good cleaning yard." Sam looked at his phone to check the time. It was just after four. 

"Pretty good," Iliahi shrugged, looked to see where Aunty P. was then quickly showed Sam his newest blisters. "We putting in new fence with the o'o. Had to dig up the rotten wood first but." 

"Where the small fries?" Sam loved the toddlers. Iliahi motioned sleep, then said, "Down for the count." There was plenty of yard to clean, and everything done to Pualani Sing's yard was done by hand and with hand tools. She did not own, nor allow gas-powered or motor-driven tools on her place. Weeders Ho'i, the name of her business. The play on words was everything. The weeders returned, again and again. That's the ho'i part. The even dozen who lived in the old beach house were the weeders, and when they weren't weeding other people's yard they weeded and worked their own. 

The small business started at about the same time Mamo Black's grandfather showed up at Pualani Sing's beach house in his white Datsun truck. Best guess, 1982. The bed was filled with metal rakes, two pitch forks, three kinds of shovels, a lidded metal tool box, two buckets with shears and scissors for both lefties and right-handers and two heavy o'o the digging sticks.

Mamo Black's grandfather had been a renegade and a beach boy. Too easy to call him good-for-nothing, because he was good at many things: he was a city boy, loved the ocean, women and could imitate any bird after hearing it once. Back then, Mamo's grandfather was called "Black." His arrow straight thick hair and eyes deep as night sealed the nickname. No one actually knew, or perhaps couldn't connect him to his real name, Kaulana Black. Son of a famous and most loved minister of the Kaumakapili Church in the Kapalama neighborhood.  He finished high school, barely, but had by that time developed a new kind of love. It was Clarence Pang, his high school shop teacher who saw Kaulana Black for the man he would become: a man who loved tools.

Kaulana Black loved and left more women than he cared to admit. He loved women, but rarely stayed with one. 

"If you make babies," his Ma told him before she died in his arms when he was fifteen, " take care them. Whateva," his mother's breath came in small waves, "you gotta do. Take care your babies" The cancer was supposed to be cured. All those people at his father's church prayed day and night for her, and the treatments should have worked. How holy was this God his father kept talking about? Kaulana Black never forgave his father, and the Hawaiians of his congregation. He's never stepped into a hospital nor a doctor's office. The beach became home, his church, his healing place.

By the time "Black" turned twenty-five he was known by all as "Pops". For obvious reasons the many children who looked undeniably like him called him "Pop" not Dad, or Daddy, just "Pop." To keep his promise to his Ma when he wasn't in the ocean or keeping company with a woman, he was within six to ten feet of Clarence Pang. The Pang's garage became his job shack: the tools hanging on peg-board or on the old workbench kept his hands busy and slowly a neighborhood became Kaulana Black's  yard family. One yard at a time, usually one full day at a time, he cleaned/raked, weeded, trimmed hedges and mango trees, and hand-mowed. No poisons. Clarence Pang used white vinegar and a squirt of dish soap in a gallon jug of water, or plain salt if, and when, weeding wasn't enough. 

"Who said, that one is weed, anyway?" Clarence Pang came from a family of Chinese herbalists ... growing medicine and making soup, tea, poultice. The shop teacher kept a full-plate curricula going day in and day out. He and his wife Alma had no children. "Chicken pox when I was small. The kids at school began our family." Alma Lee was a music teacher. Her love was singing. When she first heard Kaulana whistle, she fell in love, as did any woman, girl or mahu who heard his trill like a bird loving the first sighting of a new day. 

"E Kaulana," Clarence Pang knocked on the garage door. The sun was not even blinking his way over the Ko'olaus. There was no answer. He knocked again, louder this time. Clarence's usual voice was somewhere just this side of a whisper. 

Still sleepy from a late night out, Kaulana slid the old garage door -- a barn door -- a remnant piece of dairy farming history. "Morning Uncle. What's up?" 

"Let's go for a ride." Clarence had a thermos and two tin mugs. 

"Coffee with lots of milk and sugar." He knew how the boy had always loved instant coffee with his evaporated milk. Clarence Pang grew up with Kaulana's Ma, knew her as a sister and knew her morning habits though he never expected her love in return. "Us Pakes and Hawaiians, always had this ... magnet thing going ya?" Clarence voice would drop off at this point. His near whisper thinning to clouds. 

"Where we going?" 

"Neva mind. Bring towel and that sweat shirt." He pointed to the brown hoodie dangling near the shovels. 

This was the morning of Kaulana Black's twenty-first birthday. The ride they would take was in a white Datsun truck that would need some body work, but had a good engine. The ride was to Makapu'u Beach on the windward side of O'ahu. 

"This going be your truck Kaulana," Clarence patted the dash pulled up to a place just above the Naupaka growing on the sandy dune looking over the horizon and Manana, Rabbit Island. 

"Something else Kaulana." Clarence never called him anything else. "Your Ma loved that name," he'd remind the boy anytime someone called him Black, or later Pops. "She loved your father, and she loved you. Same same. Same name. Same kine love." Those were a lot of words for a man who mostly whispered. The something else was a plain thick legal envelope with writing he recognized immediately. His mother had written, "For Kaulana when he turns 21." Inside was a set of keys and two folded documents. One was a copy of Kaulana Black's mother's Last Will and Testament. The other was a Deed of Title. 

The two men sat on the hood of the white Datsun still warm from the drive along Bamboo Ridge and the beautiful coastline that never stopped creating magic in Clarence Pang's heart. They drank hot, milky sweet coffee as Kaulana Black learned he was now part-owner of a small business. His Ma and Clarence Pang had a dream together, and it included a way to always take care of the children. Before the sun was overhead on Kaulana Black's twenty-first birthday he watched Ka La, the Sun, rise, drank three mugs of sweet milky instant coffee, had his first car and keys to a small storefront in Kaneohe. 

Pop's Hardware. The place was on a corner lot with an alley running back of it, divided in two by a back wall: upfront a small and tidy counter area and four walls of tools; only hand-tools, nothing powered by an engine or motor. The back wall was one of those Clarence Pang innovations. 

"We going double wall this one," Clarence explained during the six weeks it took to transform the liquor store. "because we going use the back for repair the tools, and, cook when we get busy and cannot go home eat Alma's ono food." There was a soft and windy lilt to that comment. Gentle and sustaining love. So, the back room of Pop's Hardware was part repair center, part kitchen. 

"Funny," Kaulana mused. "You and Ma owned a liquor story."

"Ya, we figured who better to sell beer and liquor than two tea-tottlers. The inventory was always safe with us." Clarence winked. Kaulana let out a whistle. He could see his Ma's face crumble with the sound. His heart broke a little more.

As Kaulana learned what tools could do the work he wanted to do: quiet, unencumbering (that was Alma's word) Kaulana preferred simple, and repairable he sometimes wondered how the business would live if people never bought any new ones. It was Clarence who taught him to notice how a tool fit the hand, and how the fit was connected: fasteners, bolts, washers, screws. Clarence also taught Kaulana to weld. Alma taught him to cook.

"You gotta be smart about fire. Always smarter than you, Kaulana. Fire. Get to know how the heat and metal marry." Again, these were a lot of words for a quiet man. But he never repeated himself, so Kaulana learned to listen carefully the first time. 

Right from the start Kaulana and Clarence stocked tools that kids, or grown-ups with small hands could use easily. Kaulana had an older brother. "The scissors was my bruddah's idea. When he came back from Vietnam, cutting grass with scissors was his therapy. More cheap den one shrink, and if his hands busy no can drink." 

The list of hand tools grew and changed a little over the years, but mostly, they were the same tools, cleaned, kept sharp and repaired and if they couldn't be repaired Pops had a source in America, a small company in Wisconsin that made tools right. Turns out the guy who made the tools was a war buddy of his brother's. "Matty" Mathew Paulson was a blacksmith before Vietnam, became a mechanic during the war; and knew metal like a lover. 

These were stories the boys heard again and again at those family parties when more than soda and ice tea flowed. Aunty P. was a tea drinker but she didn't expect everyone to be. But what she did expect was no one getting 'stupid.' Any form of that just wasn't gonna happen. 

Pualani Sing's thick wavy hair radiated like spun silver escaping from the wide-brimmed lauhala hat anchored with a long bronze hat pin topped with a small old ivory ball the size of a marble. Her eyebrows had thinned with time but the effect of her countenance was still no less dramatic because she was never without sunglasses as dark as you could buy them and the frames changed almost as often as she changed her tee-shirt.  With mask in place (a copper printed cotton) her six-foot frame was super-sized and super-powerful. 

"Aunty!" Sam's sister and brother shed any hesitation at the sight of the giant Hawaiian goddess. She was mush in their hands and the goddess loved the condition. If it was possible the wide luscious smile could get any bigger, the sight of the twin bake sales kids stretched her lip-glossed mouth from ear to ear and that's with a mask on. 

"What's good? And where's your daddy?" Pualani Sing inhaled deeply when Sam sliced into the last round of ulu and rosemary sourdough. 

"You going love this one Aunty. The black sesame seeds in the butter are ono." 

"Can we get couple more loaves for this weekend?" she asked even before taking her first bite. "They would be great for sandwich. The weeders are celebrating. Kupuna-keiki hookup time." Mamo was listening to the banter and nodded across the table. There was that super-duper energy that surrounded the experience of Weeders Ho'i, and that energy grew with time. Or, was it just the woman who charged everything and everyone she touched with the mana?

Mamo asked, "How many now, Aunty?"

"You mean how many all together in the weeding gang?" 

"Yeah, Maybe you could try the bagels for the kids. Same recipe, but we're making small kine goodies. The kids would like it." 

"Sold! Our crew is now my even dozen plus eight to twelve aunties and uncles depending on their this and thats. You know, the stuff life throws at us when we blink," Pua paused for a long moment, trying not to complicate her answer with unknowns. "So let's say couple dozen bagels and two rounds. But the second question. Where's the baker man? I got a proposition for him." She circled her free hand (the other was holding one of those small sleeping fry toddler boys) around the brim of her hat, "Idea brewing in here and it's ripe." 

Sam watched as Aunty Pualani took her first bite of liliko'i buttered rosemary and ulu sour dough. Then, he remembered to look at his Tutu's text and pictures "Clouds gathering. What are they saying, Samuel?" 

Circle Sourdough and Sweets and The Safety Pin Cafe Spoon, Spice & Herb Shop

 Story and metaphor rise like bread dough ... imagine the potential!

The story growing here on this blog is the metaphoric sour dough making itself real over there in Kaneohe on the Windward-side of O'ahu where fresh-baked bread and sweet goodies are happening in our family --Kawika's and Maleka's-- HOME BAKERY.

Read "ABOUT US" on the new Circle Sourdough and Sweets website, and get the story behind these two delicious photographs of our son Kawika, Maleka Cook his partner and their keiki Carter.

I'm a great believer in medicine story, and the recipe for magic or the magic of a recipe winds itself into a lot of what my writing life is all about. Gina Rae La Cerva writes beautifully about food, recipes and history in her essay "The Life Story of a Recipe," 

"I think of all those bodies full of bacteria, and their genetic recipes migrating from one person to the next. Across the country. The world. Across generations and time. My carnagione, my skin tone, darkens deeply with the summer sun. My wavy hair finds its curl in humid places. I inherited these traits from some Sicilian ancestor, lost to history but alive in my story today."

What I have loved doing by writing story in installments, is to craft a recipe for POTENTIAL, over time. Allowing story to tell me what to add next while paying close attention to the world I imagine being part of. The Safety Pin Cafe (this blog) began as a story with just that sort of attention! 

Another wonderful quote from "The Life Story of a Recipe" is this one

"The pleasure of food allows us to feel the abundance of being alive in this ever-dying world."

This morning I woke early, rested and re-committed to making the adjustments needed to live where we live and be who we are. Tomorrow is Pete's birthday, a really good reason to celebrate the 4th of July. I have a new recipe to try out and I'm excited. Kawika, Maleka and Carter are growing a fantastic new dream where "locally-milled grains meet artisan junk-food" . For the time being, as the new HOME BAKERY gets going, you get to place your order on-line and drove up to their Kaneohe home on O'ahu to pick up your fresh goodies. LUCKY YOU.

I have a story still to finish, and not even I know exactly how that recipe will end.  But as Barry Lopez once said, 

"Everything is held together with stories. That is all that is holding us together, stories and compassion."

Welcome the sun

IF YOU ARE NEW to our site, "Welcome the Sun" is the latest installment (written and published around each New Moon) of a story being written to keep the spirit of wander and wonder alive and surprising. This is a story inspired by the unfolding life of our family -- Christopher Kawika, Maleka and Carter -- who lives on the windward-side shore of O'ahu in Hawai'i. 

The story began here.

The story continued here.

And now ... you are here. 

Chapter Three

Welcome the sun

Sam and Iliahi stood in the ocean faces still tattooed with sleep. Sam wore a stocking cap tugged over his ears and the saggy old brown hoodie that was his tutu's. The morning was always cool before sunrise. The smell of rose water lingered in the cotton fleece. He inhaled deep, burying his nose in the sleeve covering his right arm, blinking  slowly to clear the sleep from his eyes, and the tears. The tears fell off his high cheek bones and joined the small waves that climbed his legs.

Iliahi had his goggles up over his forehead. His head and torso covered with a brand new camo hoodie. His hair was braided and hung down his back. Standing to wait for the sun, the boys let the cold ocean recalibrate their bodies' temperature. 

"Whoa, feels kinda cold today. Taking me long time to get ma'a," Iliahi closed his mouth to keep his teeth from chattering. Sam just nodded, silence was easier for him plus Grog leaned into him so close it was like wearing an old wet rug.

Grog was immune to cold. His black coat was thinning but he was a beach dog, born raised and tempered by the ocean. His first home. He looked for the okay from Sam his short legs paddling to keep close as he waited to be unleashed and with a swift sweet ruffle to his head, Grog was unhooked reaching for the sandy shore, then sprinted like a pup. 

Sunrise on the windward side was exactly like pulling the huge ball of fire up and out of the ocean with throw net. Well, that was the way the boys talked about their morning ritual. But, in the bigger picture they both knew they were welcoming Ka la, the Sun, and it was the chanting that would do that. 

Iliahi's Aunty P. short for Pualani (only Iliahi could get away with calling her "Aunty P.") taught him the chant E Ala E when he was four. Mamo Black did the same with Sam, at the same age. "To welcome the sun you make connection with the sun outside, and the sun inside you. Sun outside. Sun inside. Same same. The heat, the light when Ka la comes and you oli him, you wake up, too." Aunty P. was twice the age of Sam's mother and had been her grandfather's side-kick for many years. Aunty P. was mother to an even dozen. Newly-toddling keiki (two of them at the moment), three almost teens (among them Iliahi), four high schoolers (including twins originally from Seattle) and two young adults who made the twins but weren't strong, healthy or willing to parent. 

Pualani Sing's beach house was built in the '50's by her parents Mabel and Kekoa Sing. They were musicians and cooks; both of them did both activities equally well, but it was Mabel who had the touch and her family's recipe for Portuguese sweet bread. The kitchen was built like a well-kitted restaurant. The oven was both gas-powered and ingeniously created to be a wood stoked outside oven for the bread. A single story redwood home with three big bedrooms, bunk-beds in two rooms, two bathrooms inside, an outdoor shower and a wraparound lanai screened and louvered to be extra bedrooms for all comers. The living room was airy and divided from the kitchen by a half-wall making it easy to move food between the two main rooms. An old stand-up piano lovingly tended and tuned for decades held up the wall to Pualani's bedroom. When she was not at the keys, and someone else was Aunty P. loved to feel the vibration of the chords against the strung metal. It didn't matter what music. A stand-up bass held in stand and covered with a fine-mesh breathable cover of deepest almost navy blue was silk-screened in swirls of wind and ao, clouds like smoke. The two, piano and base -- guardians -- to those who slept. Lauhala mats, woven by Aunty P and her gang of weavers covered every floor except for the bathrooms. 

Iliahi was a child made for the ocean, and the ocean cared for him. The hour before sunrise was his special time to be with the salty womb of all memories. With Sam, Grog and his goggles, fins and net bag Iliahi was fully at home. The first glow of orange began to puka over the horizon. No clouds to hide the dawn, but streaks of feathery wings of the manu absorbed the light to come. The boys clapped, and began to oli:

E ala e

Ka la i ka hikina

I ka moana

Ka moana hohonu

Pi'i ka lewa

Ka lewa nu'u

I ka hikina

Aia ka la

E ala e

The two boys repeated the oli until Ka la, the sun was fully awake and visible above the horizon. The pace was quick, upbeat, invigorating. There was really nothing like it! 

"Whoa, he is big, and look," Sam pointed after a few silent moments. The sound of the oli reached across the top of the morning's ocean just as the brilliance of Ka la reached across the ocean's skin to oli back to the boys. 

Bam! Ignition! The two friends hand slapped and hip bumped their signature sunrise moves and Iliahi walked out of the water to pull his hoodie off, and reach for his net bag from the sweatshirt pocket. Short diver's fins dangled off a twist of purple bandana around his neck. The bandana went into the pocket of his nylon shorts, at the water's edge Iliahi pulled the fins onto his feet. He spit into the glass of his goggles and rubbed. The goggles were old, but well-tended. They were wood, and real glass, not plastic so they were heavier than masks sold today. 

Making the sign of the cross and asking for protection from Mary, Iliahi waded in and stroked. Sometimes he would gather limu, seaweed or he'e if it was the right moon. He didn't usually use a spear to fish. "No need," was all he'd say if someone asked. But. Mostly people never ask if you going fishing. No need be niele. There was a protocol. 

Today, it was limu and that's what would go into the bandana. Small gathering. Enough to season the kukui nut and raw ahi inamona for tonight's dinner. Sam watched as Iliahi swam out to the reef and waited to see that the small bright inflatable orange float marked his spot. He would spend his sunrise swimming within sight of the float, backstroking each way, making it easy to keep an eye out for his friend. "Never dive alone." First rule. Iliahi did not like having someone too close. Sam was a strong swimmer and more than that a loyal friend, though he was that. He could feel Iliahi. 

E Ala E. Welcome the Sun. And yes, Ka la welcomed the boys.

Mahalo nui, special mahalo Mapuana, my mo'opuna's (grandson's) Hana, Maui tutu, for permission to include the sunrise photo in this piece of slowly growing story.  Two tutuwahine contribute to this mo'olelo inspired by one kupu. 💕 Wow and wow!

You rescue me, I rescue you

The Safety Pin Cafe was the original name of this blog inspired by a medicine story of the same name. Years later-- now -- this blog grows a tail to its name, and along with it a new story is being written. One chapter at a time, The Safety Pin Cafe Spoon, Spice & Herb Shop, is being inspired by our first grandchild. This boy and the creations of bread and bakery goodies coming from his family kitchen inspire the growing of this story. Myth and memoir pin themselves into story.

Like learning to 'oli chant in the Hawaii language and lifeway tradition (which Pete and are doing as I write this!),  I put together the meaning of our real life to raise my vibration with all of life. This blog and story begun with a safety pin is a way for me to share what can be learned, at any age, at an advancing tutu age, and share using the technology of this blog page. 

It's awesome, surprising, and life-affirming!

I share the process of imagining worlds here one chapter at a time ... enjoy, feel the meaning, get confused? There might be some of that. Don't be afraid. Ask about it. Slip out of your every day head, leave your skin and taste a spoonful of story.

ABOUT LANGUAGE:

There are words in Hawaiian throughout this chapter and story. In most cases the meaning of the words is explained through the dialogue or narrative; you'll be able to flow with it. At the end of the storytelling I will gather a definition of terms, but if you are curious? Consult an online Hawaiian dictionary or just leave me a comment with your question, I'm pretty good about checking both the comments and my email.

Life is a fiesta!

The Introduction and Chapter One "Samuel & Favorites" is here.

Mokihana

Chapter Two "You rescue me, I rescue you"

"Farmers' markets are a great place to collect gossip. Even with everyone masked and distanced, you can't hide your soul," Mamo Black carried the youngest of her children in a bundle wrapped up and around her shoulders tied in a knot below her belly. She was talking to the twins Kepa and Kalei who loved eavesdropping. Agile and fluid, the two did not look at all alike. Kalei was an ink black haired, kukui nut brown-eyed boy, and his twin had hair like molten Pele and eyes like lightning. 

"Why would a person want to hide their soul Mama? Is it something to keep secret?" Kepa could no more keep a secret than stop breathing, unless she was diving. Then, it was a matter of testing and she was known to go for ninety seconds before surfacing. 

"Honey, people, adults mostly, forget the connections we make ... with everything," the baby was squirming and wanted to eat. The table of baked goodies was nearly full with rounds of sour dough breads, long thin baquettes, and nets filled with fist-sized steamed buns. "You and Kalei can set-up camp under the table while I feed Nani. Don't get too niele, yet. People are just getting used to being in big crowds again. So, tune it down." She made a gesture with her right-hand dialing down her ear.

"Got you Mama." That's the thing about Samuel's family he loved best. The things that were important to his Mama and Dad weren't easily 'seen' but felt. So to talk about the soul and masks in the same breath made sense to the Blacks. In the everyday everyday, 'school' was everywhere.

Samuel was in charge of sales. He was good at math, but even better at selling. Though the big temple bell that was used to signal the start of every Wednesday afternoon market had not yet GONGED, people were circling, sighting the freshest looking fruit, the greenest leaves of bok choy, the most generous bags of poi and the best prices. The regulars knew him, many called him Kamuela.

"Eh, da bread smells ono." That was one of his neighbors, Mr. Santos. "I smelled um this morning but had to wait. So this better be good," He winked and Samuel knew the old man would buy a bag of the buns shaped like manapua, and two rounds of the rosemary and ulu bread. "Your regular, Uncle?" Samuel was already filling the denim bag, and had his bread knife ready to slice a thick hunk to toast and butter for the small brown man shaped like a tea pot. 

"You got my numba, Kamuela. Your daddy coming today?" While the smell of rosemary and ulu filled the stall and beckoned along the airways above the Windward Marketplace, Samuel nodded. "Later but. He had to work." Samuel fingers mimicked being at a keyboard.

"They cannot let him go, right?" 

Mamo Black chimed in, now the baby was fast asleep satisfied and full. "Part-time part-time is stretching to the end of the year."

"Then we can have our full-time baker and you folks gonna move to the new shop?" It was hard to keep secrets in the small town Mamo had known all her life. She stalled thinking about the complications involved with the new shop. 

"Fingers crossed, Uncle." That was safe and not a lie. There was nothing wrong with crossing your fingers and asking for help with a dream still catching stardust and fertile dirt. 

"Okay." Jeffery Santos nodded, letting the subject ride for now. "Whew, that bread smells delicious!" The toasted slice was just hot, very lightly brown and ready for a of spread Samuel's Butter, a mix that included black sesame seeds today. 

"On the house, Mr. Santos!" Kepa shouted from the curtain tent. The man laughed at the formality remembering that so many of his former students at the community college would tease him with the "Mr." thing when he got too serious about formulas and chemistry. Kepa -- a grandmother in a kid's skin --never stopped amazing Jeffery Santos. Kepa knew their neighbor was the best of customers and also knew Mr. Santos had a big family who loved bread! Where Samuel had a nose for sorting smells, it was Kepa who heard everything. The GONG sounded just as Kepa crawled from the muslin table curtains dyed in the big rusty enamel pot in the Black's backyard. A muted yellow from freshly ground olena, turmeric stamped with a pattern of ash-colored triangles decorated the hem. Customers had begun to line up in front of the Safety Pin Cafe's corner stall. 

"Wash your hands Kepa," Mamo Black kept two thermoses filled with very hot water for washing hands and a dispenser of unscented coconut oil soap. The twins were the kokua, the helpers who bagged breads and toasted the thick sour dough slices. Rubber gloves small enough for the young hands were necessary at this stage of virus on the brain times. Kepa pulled a pair onto her washed and dried hands. Everybody had their masks in place.

"Uncle," the girl said handing her neighbor the slice, larger than his palm. "Heard you folks going have a big pa'ina for graduation. Don't forget the baquettes." Kepa flashed a smile that could toast a dozen slices without thinking. Her mother was busy talking with customers, answering questions about the breads, taking orders and multi-tasking while never missing a beat. "Kepa," she shot the ehu-haired one a look that reminded her about the nosey-niele thing, and mouthed "Tune it down." But she knew Kepa wouldn't, couldn't and really ... who would want to squash all that light!

Setting up camp under the table was really code for stashing the latest variety of bread Samuel and Company (the tag everyone used to describe the Black Kids) stored for the final hour of market sales. It was a quirky idea the whole family had come up with. 

"In case some customers, like you Dad, cannot come early to the market. Why don't we put some bread out last minute?" That was Samuel's thought. 

"But the regulars who come early? What about them?" Kalei, born a full five minutes earlier than his sister liked being early. 

"I like the idea of rescue me ... the two jobs and more daddy types," the baker was listening to all the chatter about market and bread. But mostly he loved hearing how his kids paid attention to the people who were their neighbors and other folks who they knew as customers. 

"Yea," Kepa said. "You rescue me, I rescue you." 

So on that Wednesday market day, the bundle of bread surprises were "Last minute bagels." The child-sized experimental batch of four dozen lumps of dough with puka, holes, in them sold for $1 a piece or three for $2.50. A jar of Sam's Butter to go along cost $4.00 for a half-pint. The combo was a great package, a five dollar bill spent well, and gave customers a taste of the Safety Pin Cafe's signature sense of "a spoonful of spice and herbs at a safety pin price." 

Samuel felt his fingers itch and his heart twitched. It was his Tutu ... checking in. The pricing on the bagels was Samuel's idea though hisTutu did make a suggestion: "Make enough to share and enough money to make one more. My Tutu would have told me that one, Samuel." He set the "Last minute bagels" out in a calabash lined with two big napkins made from the same 'olena dyed muslin as their camp curtains. He stopped for a couple minutes freeing his hands up and pressed his thumbs onto the moons of his ring fingers. "To flow Tutu." 

A sharp whistle caught Samuel's attention. "E, Imagination. You saved some for me ... right?" It was Iliahi, and he was not alone.

Time

  The spacebarandkeysothebottomrowareworn  ... frombeing hit ... timeafter  time.

Rain is falling and the keys still stick, less often.

So much to say but maybe not until we replace the old. This one can be reconditioned. Probably.

 

The Safety Pin Cafe Spoon, Spice & Herb Shop

Introduction

The Safety Pin Cafe began as a story, a magical medicine story about a cafe for faceless runaways. A very tiny fairy woman and silver-haired raven, who knew his way around tea and cinnamon toast, made space for the lost, lonely and those unsure of who they'd become. Woven with fantasy on a day a duck could love (it was wet!) and told "with slant" that story saved an old woman's life by creating a world she could thrive in. That was nearly nine years ago. 

 

Story has a way of growing in the ravines of tree trunks, catching a ride on the winds that blow dandelion fluff or gusts that end up circling Earth like my ancestors who always considered the ocean one big 'continent.' Telling itself, the original stories grow legs and love situations bred from imagination. What appears finished, but is not, is testament to story's resiliency.  When logic,habit and all the best of plans lead to a circle revisited, but stale and oppressive, it is story that punctures unpredictable holes while also holding us together ... like safety pins impermanent yet commonly enough.

This time a mo'o --a grandchild-- adds just the dash of spice, language that includes trade wind, a spoonful of something to make a new story worth telling. An herb sprouted through a crack in spring time on an island ... 

 

Dedication

The mundane and messy work of real life is necessary. It is where the beauty rises. For ocean people like my ancestors, who believe the coral polyp is our beginning I dedicate this story to Carter Lanakila, my grand-son who grows on my home island; and to the radical and wonderful BIPOC  (Black, Indigenous, People of Color) in my neighborhood, on this island. People, I have waited  a long time to know and be with you. How glad I am to have persisted to see, and know you all.

And, to Ma, Helen Mokihana Calizar, on your 103rd birthday. I'm glad for the safety pins, the flashlight and the everything. I love you, Ma xoxo

He puko'a kani 'aina ... it does take time for coral reef to become an island.

 

Chapter One

Samuel  and favorites

Samuel's nose twitched, nostrils flaring like sails. "Bread!"

"No way. What bread?" That'd be Iliahi, jabbering disbeliever.

"You got stuck nose, and no imagination, Ahi," Samuel teased. Still dripping with ocean, Iliahi gave Samuel a raspberry then blew the snot from his nose. "Yeah, well maybe I got stuck nose, but you ... you have too much imagination."

"There's never enough imagination. Imagination makes dreams possible." Squinting at the diver with squirming he'e making undulating shapes of the old flour sack Samuel spread his arms wide, and wider to punctuate.

Iliahi Clark raised the bag with his morning's catch and his goggles with his left hand, signing the cross with his right-hand. "Imagination  and dreams, cannot eat."  He lifted  the octopus to his lips smacked appreciatively, and shoved the bag into Samuel's belly. 

"Shoulda kept that to myself," Samuel said, but smiled to think of his grandmother who imagined impossibles all the time.

"I gotta go. School," Iliahi was Samuel's age, and it was a school day for him. Samuel and his twin sisters were home-schoolers. The beach was school. The lanky diver boy was a head taller than Samuel and glowed like sunrise with skin the color of  iliahi.Sandalwood. He shook a head of blond hair that stuck to his shoulders. Every morning, before sunrise the boys met at the same spot along the Windward shore. To be on the sandy shore and cool ocean while still dark took a lot of trust on their parents' part. Well, Iliahi was hanai, adopted in the traditional meaning and raised by his aunty along with a younger brother and a cousin. And Iliahi knew Aunty cast her mana, her protection over her boy, and nobody would mess with that woman, or her people.

"Later, Sam.Going to the market?" 

"Yeah. I'll be there."

"Me too, if I'm not pau with the yard work before you pau ... save me a slice of what ever your dad wiped up." Iliahi knew the  bread would be crunchy on the outside and smooth like all heck on the inside. His mouth watered as he reached to slap Samuel on the head. Samuel dodged his friend's outstretched palm, and caught his wrist. Kids didn't know to keep their hands off the po'o. 

"The head got important business to do, Samuel," his grandmother's voice clear as ocean. And this morning Samuel had a strange new feeling ... a kind of floating away. Then he felt his thoughts return to the moment. This moment. Have to remember to tell Ahi not to do that. Next time.

Samuel stalled his friend's exit, "You drying the he'e, even steven." Samuel used his hands to mimick a scale. He and his family loved the chewy tentacles eaten like long-lasting candy." 

"Nope, Aunty making squid luau, with he'e but." That was even better thought Samuel.

"Imagina-tion! See you." 

The sky was already lightening. One of Samuel's favorite times of the day. Like caterpillar breaking out of the cocoons. Was new. A new day, a new way. Drawing in a  deep breath he smelled the bread again.

"Prickly and sweet." Samuel said to himself. The dog gave Samuel a half-interested sniff. He heard the comment, but focused on the breeze coming off shore. The tide was low and the smell of rotting seaweed and small crabs trapped in the mash of green and purple enticed the low-riding, shiny black mutt. 

A poi dog sorta, Grog was mixed breed with one white ear, and one black which was notched into fringe. Rough-times tattoo's what dogs called the injuries they survived when they roamed alone and without a pack. The salty water triggered memories of those times. A small moan threatened to escape from his proud chest; he willed it down. 

Temptations--rotten crab meat and limu-- were hard to resist, but the dog knew they had only a little time before sunrise, and the run down the beach had been fun. 'Next time,' thought Grog.

Samuel at four could sort smell because he was trained to know the difference between something that was not quite right, and something that was way the hell wrong. 

"Don't go telling your mother I told you that." His grandmother was joking, mostly. "She worries I'll turn you hyper-sensitive and ..." Her thoughts trailed. Samuel picked up the dropped words.

"Don't tell Mom, you taught me to know that smell." Samuel pointed in the direction of the neighbor's dryer, and finished... "that smell, is way the hell wrong." They both knew it was the 'way the hell' part that wrinkled his mother's otherwise flawless smooth face. The two friends giggled at the thought, and shot a wink to seal the secret.  The wink shimmied mid-flow turning to stardust. Samuel could not be sure things like that happened to other boys his age. "It makes no never mind, honey," his Tutu read his mind as a matter of nature, like knowing the tides.

Samuel's grandmother -- his Tutu -- was his most favorite person. A person he wished would be with him every day, all the time. While she was with him, Samuel and his Tutu had great moments. Samuel, like most young children had a broad mind -- he was curious about everything --and had even broader heart. He had lots of room for people he loved. He also paid attention. The strange floating feeling rippled through him; tossed his heart.

He missed his Tutu. Samuel felt his heart squeeze in his chest thinking about her. He reached for his baby finger, something his grandmother had taught him. "Just a gentle jump," she'd say to him. "Anytime. Anywhere." A couple minutes was all it took for Samuel's heart to release the ache. He could almost hear his grandmother assuring him with her laughing eyes magnified in the old round wire framed glasses. He could hear her, "I'll be back." Of course she'd be back!

The smell of fresh-baked bread got stronger. The loaves were out of the oven. Samuel at eight almost twelve (his birthday was coming up) knew his dad would like it if he was there for breakfast, his mom would be getting the van ready for market, the twins were probably covered with more flour than was in the big rounds of bread scored with swirls and slit like ripe mangoes; and the baby would be wanting more milk.

It was farmers' market day, whatever bread his dad baked today would sell by the slice with a special blend of 'butter': a spoon full of liliko'i jam unsweetened, a pinch of spice -- sometimes chili powder, other times a pinch of black pepper, or black sesame seeds and finally 'swimming' herbs snipped weeks ago and packed in honey. That magical mouth-watering blend was a family secret: the exact proportions varied depending upon the ingredients. But what mattered most was how Samuel's Butter (for it was his nose that metered what was just right) led to the full spread of the family business: The Safety Pin Cafe Spoon, Spice & Herb Shop.

"Dad's baking rosemary and ulu sour dough. I hope he made extra. Extra ulu." Samuel reached for the soft spot behind the dog's ears, and scratched. Grog let out a long low sound somewhere between a groan and a bark. Ulu was his favorite food of all time. Samuel loved the sweet baked breadfruit too.

The small but sturdy pack sewn from bright highly visible nylon held Grog's leash and the lightweight scooter Samuel's father built from aluminum scraps, two steel conduits, and old tracks (skate board wheels). Black electrical tape trimmed with orange high visibility tape on either end of the shorter of the two conduits made holding on easier. Samuel pulled the folded scooter from his pack, tugged on the two hinges until he heard that click and lock, extending the riding surface to its 18 inch length. A battery operated light welded to the neck of the scooter automatic switched on when Samuel gripped the handle bars. His father was practical, and safety-first kind of guy. The light was 'old-school' not lithium. Two double AA-batteries in a thin case made it work. 

The soft leather leash snapped easily into the ring in Grog's collar. Short legs and a belly just barely above ground, Grog had a powerful thick neck and shoulder muscles and thighs like a sumo wrestler. Smiling and serious (a necessary combination for adventure), stubby tail wagging, Grog flexed shoulders and backbone, and recalibrated for Samuel's additional weight.

Samuel wound the other end of the leash over the handle bars. "Ready for some breakfast?" The boy asked. The dog did not have to be asked a second time. Samuel adjusted the pack so he'd be visible in the early morning light. Grog gave Samuel a steely look, "You ready?" Samuel nodded and the race for ulu was on.

Just as he suspected, the van doors were open. Grog skid to a stop before hitting it, Samuel braced himself using his left foot for brakes on the grass that was still wet from kehau. The chocolate colored van with bright purple letters flowed on both sides of the delivery truck. The Safety Pin Cafe... spilled over the side where the doors opened to neatly stacked shelves. Spoon, Spice & Herb Shop covered the passenger-side of the specially designed van. 

Samuel's mother, was just finishing up. Seeing dog and boy still wind blown from their adventure, and Grog's paws and belly covered with evidence of wet beach Mamo Black closed the delivery truck door, turned with that look of wonder that would not dilute. She didn't play favorites with her four children. But it was hard not to love Samuel without overflowing. He mea iki. It was a small thing ... to love him so. It took no effort at all. 

Grog waited for Samuel to unleash him then rubbed up against Mamo. Mamo was Grog's most favorite person. They had grown up together, rescued together. She pulled her gloves off once the bread was stowed and crouched to hold Grog's face. 'My pack,' she crooned. 'You did good pal.' The girl who was now a grown woman with children was the only one who could turn him to soup.

Water. Grog needed a lot of it, and where was that promised extra ulu?

 

To be continued. I'd love to hear what your heart has to say about this first installment.

👂...💗 Mokihana

THE ADD-ON: Spoon, spice & herb shop UPDATED

 

catch a clue with the view of The Safety Pin Cafe Spoon, Spice & Herb Shop's new homepage

The Safety Pin Cafe began as a story, a magical medicine story about a cafe run by a very tiny fairy woman and an awesomely hunky silver-haired raven who knew his way around tea and cinnamon toast. Woven with fantasy and told "with slant" that story saved an old woman's life by creating a world she could thrive in. That was nearly nine years ago. 

The cafe has been a venue for storytelling and the spreading of safety pins both literal and metaphoric. The old woman and the silver-haired raven teamed up, made mischief, pitched tents to keep telling; and stretched the world of blog for all it was worth.

Now with the virus who has sat down beside us all and made itself very comfortable with our sometimes silly-ways, The Safety  Pin Cafe has added ... a Spoon, spice & herb Shop. To reach you on the internet, I'm taking the advice of long-time blogger and astrologer, Elsa Pannizon of ElsaElsa: I'm innovating.

UPDATED: 3/11/21

With the coming Pisces New Moon, The Safety Pin Cafe Spoon, Spice & Herb Shop will launch IN TIME FOR that New Moon, March 13, 2021 as a letter. I'll write a newsletter mailed to subscribers once a month on each New Moon.

I've played and posted the content, and delivery and  after receiving personal messages from very  special people,  I'll send New Moon story or posts just as I have as a link sent through an email.

Much aloha,

Mokihana