At some point during the night you could count on some of the men to break out ukulele and sing Hawaiian songs, women and girls to jump up to dance hula. These gathering were like little luaus in drab military housing. Good fun and good for the soul.
“I cry when I talk about it. We have children out there and I want to reach them. In this day and age there is not supposed to be a child out there that doesn’t have footwear.”
"When I was younger and in elementary, my grandpa would always have a puakenikeni lei for my sister and I for special occasions like birthdays, graduations, and May Days. I always thought he was Hawaiian, because he was as local as they come, with a perpetual tan, pidgin as standard language, and a habit of eating onions raw with Hawaiian salt and finishing a bowl of poi with this fingers."
We don’t have that much in common, or at least I’ve always believed so. We don’t agree on religion. We are far apart on politics. We both are passionate about completely different things and always-- and carefully-- avoid all hot button issues when we’re together.
But on this day our conversation flitted from family to kids, to pets, to cooking. Mundane, boring, everyday stuff. Easy stuff.
And that’s when it sort of hit me—that’s enough. It’s more than enough.
