Grains of Rice – 1,000 words

It’s kaukau time at Tutu chan’s house, she taught me how to save every grain of rice when you wash and every grain from the pot when you save leftover rice. She treated each grain like it was a tiny, gold nugget.

At sunset, we would sit on the front porch. The steady buzz of pau hana traffic on the main road became muffled, then completely still. We’d watch the sky change colors, profiles of birds of all sizes, streaked across the broad space over our heads. As it darkened with the fading light, I could barely make out the shapes of the houses across the street, the termites began to dance. I observed Tutu very carefully. This was our time together. I’d look at her tiny feet and how her zoris were molded by the shape of her soles, her body weight on the zoris. I imagined how what once was a brand new zori became molded by her, and the uniqueness of its surface. What, over the years made that unique imprint of her tiny feet on the zori? I imagined her running to answer the phone, slowly scrutinizing the best sashimi at the fish market and standing in the long checkout line. All of these moments added up, and they made their mark on the shape of her soles on the soft, warm surface of the zori. I loved wearing her zoris when I didn’t have time to find mine. My lūʻau feet would struggle into them to get the morning paper or check the mail. The worn shapes of her feet made me feel so close to her.

This is the moment when Tūtū chan began to reminisce and reflect. Her tales about small kid time were—-different. I always wondered how the sights and sounds of the early evening conjured up the spirits of her distant past. And why, why at this time of day? What made this hour so special? Did the comforting anonymity of the darkness coax her into “talk story” mode?

Tutu chan never graduated from high school. Every Saturday afternoon, once the house was clean and the laundry hung on the lines, she escaped to the library. This is where she would learn about the magic of the written word and the outside world. She’d get lost in her favorite section, and she’d just stand there, waiting for a title to jump out at her. It never took long before she held the precious cargo in her hands.

A day came when Tutu chan had a chance to move to the big town. There was a labor shortage of male workers in Hilo. Her uncle, who lived in the big town, helped her find work in a rice factory. This could become a lifetime career — she thought. Until she met Kalei, my grandfather.

“Tutu chan, what was Papa Kalei like, when he was young?”

She looked at me, then up at the sky, like she could see him as that young man she met delivering cases of soda every Saturday afternoon to the Haili Fountain. Then one day, his hand truck was too heavy. It was over stacked by maybe one or two heavy wooden cases. She stretched her frail arms upwards to the dark sky to demonstrate the height of the two extra cases. She did it in such a convincing way, I felt I was Papa Kalei buckling under the unevenness of the weight of clinking bottles.

“When he came around the turn, the top two crates tumbled to the ground, leaving shattered glass and sticky soda everywhere.”

The Pākē cook tore out of the kitchen, shouting a long-winded curse in Chinese to Kalei. The young man stood with his head down, then asked for a broom to clean the mess. The Cook returned to the kitchen, fetched a broom and threw it on the ground before Kalei.

“I go call soda company now! Dey going fire you! You no come back again, you lousy, good fo nutting fallah!”

Tutu chan, the young observer, reached for her coin purse. It was a silk purse she received on the day she left home to come to Hilo. She wanted to help him pay the angry cook. Kalei watched her, not knowing how and why. She then looked at me and said, “The rest is history.”

I once asked him why was he in such a hurry that day. “Beeeg surf” he replied.

A cool mauka breeze then blew through the front porch; the wind chimes tinkled.

Today is a sad but memorable one. The house is empty and the “For Sale” sign near the front porch is standing at attention, waiting for new owners. I did my last inspection of the lonely house, something called me into Tutu chan’s bedroom.

A childhood memory guided me to reach up to the top shelf of her closet. There it was, her coin purse. The same one she reached for to pay for the broken cases of soda on that fateful day. It was so symbolic of her generosity. She would ask me to fetch it for her “holoholo shop” day, or for wedding and funeral cards. The vivid colors of silk patterns and threads had faded, bugs had left their powdery film when I lifted it off the shelf. A floor board behind me creaked. I reluctantly opened the rusty metal catch not knowing what ghosts would come flying out into the bedroom. I found a paper torn from a school tablet, folded neatly and intact, it was addressed to me, Pua Fumiko.

The letter read:

My dearest moʻopuna, you’re opening this letter because you finally found my “big money” coin purse. You must be cleaning out my room and preparing to sell our family home. I treasure our kaukau time days.

I shook my head in amazement at her ability to have known what the future held, her “grains of rice” wisdom and clairvoyance shone through the faded yellow page.