Announcing Fourth Annual Creative Competition

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
Kauaibackstory.com, an online literary journal, announces its fourth annual creative competition. This year’s theme, “Postcards” is sponsored by the Garden Island Arts Council.

This year’s competition differs from previous years in two distinct ways.

First, cash prizes will be awarded in the following manner: First place, $100; second place, $50; third and fourth place, $25 each. Winners and other noteworthy contributors will be posted on www.kauaibackstory.com and invited to read on a special night later this fall. (Date and place to be determined.)

Second, in keeping with the theme, written and visual entries must “fit” on a postcard. For writing, entries must not exceed 100 words. For visual entries, submissions will be evaluated based on their impact when viewed as 4”x6” images (either horizontal or vertical).

Writing form does not matter—essay, story (imagined or real), memoir or poems are all welcome.

As in previous years, entries must be relevant to Kauai, in some manner. Kauai Backstory is a venue for rigorous writing with a view about Kauai. We look for writing that builds understanding, not walls. We encourage writing and imagery that engenders respectful dialogue for we believe one way to build community is through conversation. KauaiBackstory.com values the expression of all voices and delights in words and images that shift thinking and open minds threading us ever closer together in this calabash of a world in which we live. Entries will be judged on whether they achieve this vision or not.

A student category will be created pending interest and writing quality.

Contest participants may submit one written entry and one visual entry; however, you may not submit more than one written entry or more than one visual entry.

The deadline for submitting entries is midnight HST November 1, 2009. Text entries must be pasted into the body of an email (no attachments) and sent to kauaibackstory@yahoo.com.

Images must be sized to 4”x6” at 75 dpi and sent as a jpg attachment.

Kauaibackstory.com is intended to serve as a timely, interactive forum. Readers are encouraged to visit often and post comments.
###

Omiyage

by Sherilyn Lee

“Grandma,” I said, “Can we stop here? I'd like to get some taro chips.”

I had seen the familiar packages of taro chips at the market when I arrived on the island for my annual trip to see my grandparents, but I chose to purchase mine directly from the source in Hanapepe, just as my family always had.

“Oh sure,” she replied. Time is plentiful on Kauai .

I pulled off the two lane road and parked under the shade of a tree near a cottage thick with green and white paint. An empty wooden bench sat in the yard like a child just slightly straying from his mother's side. A carved sign below the window frames read, “Kauai Taro Chip Factory.”

We called out a “hello,” and as I opened the screen door, it was so light, I first thought I had torn it off its hinges. As the door closed behind us, we stood in the middle of the factory’s production floor, a large kitchen. An old, black stove sat along the far wall where during previous visits the blue gas flames blazed beneath the two large woks of simmering oil. Frying taro sounds like an island storm so thick with rain that even the windshield wipers can’t keep up.

By the time we arrived today, the kitchen was cool and quiet. An elderly Japanese woman greeted us, wiping her wet hands on her apron. She and my grandmother were about the same age and height.

“Are you done for today?” I asked.

“Oh yes,” she said smiling. She and my grandmother nodded slightly and smiled at each other, a respectful, friendly greeting among the locals.

The woman stood behind the table filled with clear, soft plastic bags filled with taro chips.

“My granddaughter,” Grandma said, touching my arm, “is visiting from Los Angeles . She likes your taro chips.”

A white and green “Kauai Taro Factory” sticker on each bag listed the ingredients, but not the irrelevant calorie count or fat content. Even though it has been fried, the chip remains white, with fine purple threads, like an embroidered potato chip. The bag doesn’t reseal. Once it’s opened, all of the chips must be eaten.

“Oh, Los Angeles ,” she said as if I had traveled all the way from Antarctica .

I asked her for two packages. As the woman wrapped them in a plastic bag, I noticed that her knuckles were still swollen from years of planting and harvesting taro roots, a task that must be done by hand while hunched over a humid, swampy patch. I learned from another visit that the years of this hard work made her back ache continuously.

“Where’s the man who greets the tourists?” I asked, “My father enjoys talking with him every time he visits.”

“Oh,” the woman said slowly, “He had a stroke. He passed away last year.”

“I'm sorry to hear that,” I wished I hadn't asked. The floor creaked beneath my feet as I shifted my weight and wondered what I could say next. I wanted to say something to make it better.

My grandmother asked, “Who’s this?” looking up through her bifocals at a photo of the old man who used to sit on the bench.

“That’s him,” the woman said, “my husband.”

“Is this your husband?” replied Grandma.

“Yes,” the woman nodded, “A tourist from the Mainland took that picture. It was one of the last taken of him. When it came in the mail, he put it right there.”

She pointed to the precious artifact on the old refrigerator, a magnet that still held his touch.

“I remember him,” said Grandma.

“You do?” asked the woman, her voice just above a whisper.

“You do?” I turned to my grandmother.

“Yeah, he used to sing at the Bon dances. Oh, he used to sing big! Sometimes, he made up words as he was singing them,” said Grandma, turning to me, laughing.

The woman nodded and smiled, “Yes, he did,” she added, “And when he sang, people would tape record him. They even videotaped him.”

“It’s not the same without him,” said Grandma.

Car doors slammed and a tourist couple walked towards the factory.

“Grandma, we'd better go, she has customers.”

The Taro Chip Lady handed me an extra bag of chips, “Omiyage.”

Omiyage (oh-me-yah-geh), a little gift for or from a visitor given in fondness and remembrance.

The Never-ending Revolving Door at Art Pod

by Carol Yotsuda

Today was Open Studio Day at Art Pod in Niumalu
Glazing tiles and making murals was the plan for today
I woke up early and spent an hour organizing the patio for glazing and clay

Before I make my coffee, I will start the laundry, water the plants,
move the cars to make space for parking, take a quick shower
and load up the Nissan for a dump run

But here is Beau, bright and early, to start painting the patio,
So let's get him started with roller and paint; catch the coffee later
While he's painting, I will pug 200 pound of clay...
Be ready for Jungle George who wants to make a mural today
The flower picker comes and says the big "H" hits on Monday
I start to worry about everything outside that can blow away
So I start to move things under the studio

Jodi shows up to update Van Go data, but she knows how to do that,
so Beau and I start tearing down tattered blue tarps that "H" would surely blow away
Nissan is parked ready for any and all rubbish, but I am dizzy with no breakfast and Beau has to meet his wife for lunch...so...
I head to the kitchen, but Jodi has a minor computer crisis so I detour into the studio

We square away the computer problem, Jodi remembers to "SAVE" often
I can go make breakfast now; it's already noon...."Someone is here", says Jodi
John and Mara show up and they are clay novices and need serious instruction
So back to the patio to get them going with everything from A to Z in glazing
Perceptive John notices that Carol is cranky and hungry
Offers to make me food...kind soul...I race back to my kitchen
Mango, Avo, Banana, yogurt, spirulina, ice pile into the blender...but....

I hear a truck and see Jungle George striding by
"Wait! I be there!" and stuck a spoonful of chunky peanut butter in my mouth
"Where's your mural design?" "I need to draw it."
"Here's paper and pen...draw what you want. I be back!"
I check on John and Mara and they are glazing their tiles slowly and carefully
with 2:30 pau hana deadline when the mosquitos come to feed.
I race back to the kitchen and whirred up the blender, chugged down a cupful,
and ran back to patio...George's design too complicated

"Let's just work with the clay and just have fun and play
We save the complicated design for another time...not today"
Lessons in rolling out clay, transferring design, carving out design...
but his heart is set on Catalina Tiles.....whoa!
Special tools, special process, special glaze mixture
Simple suddenly got complicated.

He has a 3:00 date to build beehives in Koloa so he does what he can
"I be back tomorrow!" he says and roars off in one of his four trucks

"Somebody's here!" Diane and Donna show up to glaze
"John, you teach them how to glaze" (My smoothie is waiting)
He was attentive; he repeats everything I told him about glazing
...and at 3:45 I finally guzzle my breakfast/lunch smoothie ... the whole blender

The mosquitos are ready to carry Mara off, so they are ready to move on
But before they go I make a pitch to John...he would be a great board member
He likes the idea...I think he's sold...what a SCORE!
I load their pieces into the kiln and they race away from the mosquito feeding frenzy
I sit down with Diane and Donna ...we chat, we glaze, we solve the problems of the world
I am finally beginning to feel sane today.

A friendly voice floats in...."I brought you dinner!" says the awesome Sabra Kauka
holding high some plastic bags with yellow chicken curry from Pho. YUM!
She needs to eat first; I need to digest my smoothie to make space for curry.

Donna and Diane proudly admire their glazed tiles and then they are on their way
Sabra gets a lesson on making fish tiles...she is loving it and catches on quick
I keep glazing my test tiles...but...."Someone is here!" says Sabra

"Sorry we are so late!" yell out Melissa and Beau. "We came to glaze our starfish!"
They know the ropes....they can do it with just suggestions.
The smell of the yellow chicken curry got to me and I had to have my dinner.

So there I am 12 hours later....200 pound of clay pugged and sitting there...
waiting for Jungle George;
the Nissan full of rubbish never made it to the dump;
the laundry still in the washing machine;
the hurricane preparedness aborted mid-stream;
we have a new board member;
Sabra's happy with her imaginary fish;
Melissa and Beau happy with their Starfish ....
almost all the fish tiles glazed and ready for firing...I start the kiln at midnight

Oh No! It's the FINALE NIGHT for "So You Think You Can Dance!"
and it already started.

"Sorry, folks, I have to go watch my TV....just finish up, leave the lights on...
I will be back to finish my work"....and I race out my never-ending revolving door.


Carol Yotsuda
2:30 am August 7, 2009

Lois Ann Ell

Kauai Backstory welcomes Lois Ann Ell to our editorial team. Lois Ann participated as a judge for our 2008 Creative Competition, as well as organized our first Kauai Backstory Reading Series night. So, it's about time we gave her an official title, editor.

Lois Ann is a freelance writer and regular contributor to The Garden Island newspaper. Her story Makauwahi Cave was a winner in the 2006 Kaua’i Backstory Creative Competition. She has poetry published online and is currently working on a collection of short stories. She lives on Kaua’i with her husband and three small children, who are often the inspiration for her work.

The Sensitive Plant

by Susan Ullis

I know you are shy
It is in your
Mimosa pudica genes
A little shake
A light backhand
You collapse
Fold into yourself
Like a wallflower
Sometimes just one branch
Clams up
The offense
Not affecting the whole

People find this habit of yours
Rather endearing
School children marvel
At the timid potted plant
In the wild
You lay low
Fan out
Thorns drawn
Once in a while
You bravely lift up
A bright blushing
Blossom

Aki Sitting on the Crater at Raraku

by Brian Doyle

Let’s say a reiki healer called Aki makes a haiku at Raraku.
And, for once, let’s not go any further at all with this poem.
Let’s just stop right there and not arrive at any conclusions.
Let’s just happily contemplate the absolute Akiness of Aki,
The tart wind off the ocean whipping the pages of her diary
So that she has to maneuver her whole left arm to pin them,
And just as she calculates syllables for the seventeenth time
One of the enormous statues below her, the legendary moai,
Topples over, face first, and plunges its immense schnozzle
Into the dense ancient soil with the faintest plop! imaginable.
There’s a split second that could be said aptly to last forever,
During which dust swirls and an albatross is vaguely curious,
And that seems like a really excellent place to end this poem.
We’ll never know if Aki leaps up and runs down to the moai,
Or if she just sits there astonished up on the rim of the crater,
Or if she starts to scribble another poem altogether, or maybe
She gets all totally absorbed in the albatross, I mean that bird
Is the size of a biplane, and how often do you get to see that?

Come. Listen. Read.

Kauai Backstory announces the “Kauai Backstory Reading Series.” These periodic events will invite writers to gather and read their work out loud to an audience.

Our kickoff event will be Friday, April 24, 2009, at Small Town Coffee in Kapa’a, starting promptly at 7:00 p.m. and ending at 8:30 p.m.

Keynote writers Patricia Wood, author of the critically acclaimed Lottery, and Kealoha, world-renowned slam poet, will share their art and answer questions. After that, Kaua’i writers are invited to read. Writers will be allowed a maximum of five minutes to read, on a first-come basis. Fiction, nonfiction and poetry welcome.

This is not a workshop, a critique session or contest. You will not receive feedback. You will, however gain a startling new perspective on your writing as you read it aloud to others. Think about this as an “open mic” night for writers. And, of course, you do not need to read to attend. Your presence as a willing listener is greatly appreciated.

Pikomanawakupono

by Brian Doyle

In recent weeks, while wandering among islands in the ocean,
I met people named Hua, Wao, Tufu, Tutu, Puna, Wi, and Hu,
Not to mention a totally silent man from Estonia named Hooh,
Who the whole extent of his conversation was to nod six times
In the twenty minutes we spent together, this was in Kapiolani,
But perhaps the most rivetingly monikered lad I met in Hawaii
Was a youth named Pikomanawakupono, who was a startlingly
Silent fellow also, and in the couple of cheerful hours we spent
Together, this was in Hanalei, he only spoke twice that I recall,
And both times he uttered words in a tongue I don’t understand
Yet, but to be fair I don’t think anyone else quite caught his gist
Either, because Pikomanawakupono has just recently arrived on
This island after a voyage I cannot even dimly begin to imagine.
You could say, with complete accuracy, that his traveling began
With dreaming, and we do not often enough salute how a vision
Insists on being born, how what we imagine so often takes shape
In this world, in this air, on all sorts of islands, in all sorts of seas.
It’s really amazing when you think about it, which I think we are.
Anyway, the two words I caught sounded rather like piu and bub,
And then his mother smiled, and gave him more of her holy milk,
And Kauai sailed on to the southeast at roughly four inches a year.

Ocean Death

[Editors' note: This is the final post that recognizes the runners up of the third annual creative competition sponsored by Kauai Backstory. This year's theme: Surf. Congratulations everyone.]

by Laurie Barton

A young man from Rzeczpospolita Polska

hiked into a valley, powered by waffles and latte,

some blackened ahi from the night before

Reached the shore of Hanakapi'ai Beach

and flung himself in--

so far from the traffic and chill of his city,

so warm for October--

Feeling sure there was nothing but pleasure

to find, his long legs splashing a flutter-kick.

Slow currents no match for his shoulders.

Pulled to the deep--faster than it takes a cresting

wave to flatten. The pilot looked down at his body,

floating in surrender to the north swell.

Took him to Black Pot, imagined what no one

would say. How none of us

know what it's like to die strong, in the blue grip

of something much stronger.

Watching Daughters Surf

[Editors' note: This is the sixth in a series of posts that recognizes the runners up of the third annual creative competition sponsored by Kauai Backstory. This year's theme: Surf. Congratulations everyone.]

by Sandra Krawciw

Once leashed to me,
by the undulating braid of an umbilical cord,
I see them go now,
joined by a thin black thread
to a slice of wood.

Seeking the sea’s heartbeat,
they dip their way to the horizon,
like polite princesses,

but they return like warriors,
riding their shields through the plunder,
of waves and foam.

Our eyes meet, cords real and imagined,
tighten and deliver,
gift after gift from God.

Surf Northshore

(Double-click on image to enlarge)

by John Ullis

[Editors' note: This is the fifth in a series of posts that recognizes the runners up of the third annual creative competition sponsored by Kauai Backstory. This year's theme: Surf. Congratulations everyone.]

Return to the Surf

[Editors' note: This is the fourth in a series of posts that recognizes the runners up of the third annual creative competition sponsored by Kauai Backstory. This year's theme: Surf. Congratulations everyone.]

by Alison Hummel

I hear the crash and thrash of the waters.
I listen.
In my mind, I listen.
No, no.
In my heart, I listen.
Listening now--eyes closed.
I scream, "Yes I hear you!"
Quickly opening my eyes to look around.
Nobody notices my outburst.
I close my eyes again.
Tightly.
Like I am five years old again.
Hiding from monsters under my bed.

Back to the thrashing and crashing.
I have been hiding from you.
Hiding behind the bushes in my parents back yard.
Still crashing and thrashing
like the waters that you are.
When can I see you again?
I am longing to feel the crashing and thrashing.

Of course these days, in my throat my heart lives.
It's like stuck in there.
ahem.
I try to cough it up.
But no that won't work.
Fighting the tears.

And then they come so hard,
like out of the blue.
It's sort of funny.
Tears: like the surf running down my face--salty.

When I open my eyes, I look around.
I am on Fourth Street, in Philadelphia.

And then I remember that in my heart there you are.
And of course my heart's in my throat.
And when I let it up--the tears.
And then you are on my face again.
I cry so that I may return to you.

Return to the surf.

Surf

[Editors' note: This is the third in a series of posts that recognizes the runners up of the third annual creative competition sponsored by Kauai Backstory. This year's theme: Surf. Congratulations everyone.]

by Faith Harding

I hear the surf in wee hours of the morning from my bed. It’s my natural alarm clock. Sometimes it sounds like it is coming right over Poipu Rd. As I am waking up, I imagine the surf crashing against the `aina, enveloping cars, washing the debris from the vacant developer’s destruction away…I can hear its mighty crash over and over as I lay in bed not wanting to get on with my daily rituals. Birds chirp all around me, I hear cars racing on the bypass but I can still hear the surf crashing against the shore. I think it’s coming from Shipwreck’s as it echoes throughout the open space behind where I live. It’s a fierce force. I have tumbled only once in its surf and I’ve never again gone in at Shipwreck’s. It could be from Brennecke’s too as I have boogie boarded on that surf a few times which has scared and thrilled me. I toss and turn in my bed contemplating if the crash and swish is as foreboding as it sounds. I snuggle and smell my pillow and sometimes think that the surf could come and wash me away at that very moment. I would be a castaway on my used Serta mattress with my 300 thread count sheets. However, that would be polluting the ocean and I would just sink and have to swim to shore. Reluctantly, I shake the cobwebs from my head, turn off the electric alarm clock and begin surfing through my own waves of the day.

Tank in Sand

[Editors' note: This is the second in a series of posts that recognizes the runners up of the third annual creative competition sponsored by Kauai Backstory. This year's theme: Surf. Congratulations everyone.]

by Susan Ullis

Surfer Cake

[Editors' note: This is the first in a series of posts that recognizes the runners up of the third annual creative competition sponsored by Kauai Backstory. This year's theme: Surf. Congratulations everyone.]

by Laurie Barton

Then I snuck into the kitchen of the condo

and plundered the cake, waves of blue frosting

that tickled a white foam sea, the plastic palm

trees almost real if I squinted so that Happy

Birthday Kimo read like petroglyphs at Waiopili

stream. Jim had removed the toy surfer, licked

smudges of blue from its surfboard, stashed it away.

How I would argue with him at Lihue not to bring

that extra bag of golf tees, cake candles, those empty

cans of board-wax. How close I would come to telling

him, I don't love you. After my knife slipped through

the sea, cool frosting gave my teeth such a shiver that I

could not wish or remember, nor feel anything but

the rush of sugar, fingers mashing the blue. Then I

pictured Cook sailing into Waimea, greeted by men

on koa boards, welcoming Lono. Those giant swells

pushing them up, teasing them to prove their ocean

skill. Only ali'i allowed to ride, each one snug in his

place, known for it, hailed. In the morning I would

catch a plane, look down at the waves. Wish for a

village, breadfruit and chanting, a glide to my shore

with friends waiting.

Untitled

[Editors' note: This is the fifth in a series of posts that recognizes the winners of the third annual creative competition sponsored by Kauai Backstory. This year's theme: Surf. Congratulations everyone.]

by Emily Rider

(Student at Kula High)

Putting a wave in a frame doesn't do it justice.

It has no ceiling, no floor, no walls, just a back door.

It allows me freedom,

Immersion in unfiltered experience.

Its blue eyes are unforgiving,

Never shy in punishment.

Yet it leaves me wanting more,

A path to a spiritual ecstasy that could never fade.

When I sit, stand, and paddle,

There are shadows that follow me,

Signs of reassurance yet, a deep vulnerability arises.

Finally able to let go, it starts,

Allowing me to slide into that parallel universe,

Where time changes.

It flies, runs in circles, flows backward, and skips around.

The subdued voices disappear,

And the winds take direction.

Finally, there's nothing left to be concealed.

In water all my thoughts are pure.

It takes me away from dull existence,

And brings excitement, danger, escape.

It is the peak of my life, the segment of rainbow I have clutched.

Remind Me I'm Alive

[Editors' note: This is the fourth in a series of posts that recognizes the winners of the third annual creative competition sponsored by Kauai Backstory. This year's theme: Surf. Congratulations everyone.]

by Ben House

When I was a kid I asked a neighborhood boy how to pray. He described something like a person-to-person phone call. I tried it once but no one spoke on the other end so I figured it didn't work.

Later I met many people who said god spoke to them, but not in the way that people speak to each other. Some hear god in the in rustling leaves or waterfall's roar. Others hear it in guitar's plucked strings or see it in an artist's brushstroke. Maybe god's voice comes in a baby's cry or a loved one's embrace. In his novel Contact, Carl Sagan wondered if we might find a message from god in the infinite digits of the number pi, a code written into the laws of geometry.

Light waves bring the world to my eyes and sound waves to my ears so I can perceive my world but what about the waves traveling across the ocean to the shores of Kauai? What do they bring? Is there a message for me or for us?

As I stand on the cliff to check the surfing conditions at Hideaways I wonder if my mind is big enough to grasp the enormity of what the sea would be saying if waves were words. Maybe it's more like music, with all the winds of the Pacific blowing a song ancient and unimaginably
complex.

With my feet on the motionless ground all I can do is wonder. But in the water on my surfboard I'm no longer a spectator. If the language of the ocean is beyond my mind's comprehension, I can still experience its motion in my body.

Maybe that's what I didn't understand when I tried to pray as a kid. Maybe god doesn't speak in the words we use because there are no words for what god has to say to us. It's only through experience that we ever really understand, anyway. I don't know if I could say what I've
learned surfing Kauai's warm waters. Is god loving or wrathful? The ocean can be both. Ecstasy, frustration, humility and more are all there. Above all, I always want more and the ocean always has more to offer.

I'm one of those people that wants answers but the ocean only gives up its secrets on its terms and it's more like poetry than prose, more like the moon with its shifting rhythms and cloud dances than the sun with its daily, decisive brilliance, more like a feeling than a thought. Maybe my body can feel the entirety of what my mind can only wonder at. It looks like a good day to go find out.

Watching Lincoln Surf

[Editors' Note: This is the third in a series of daily posts that will recognize the winners in the third annual creative contest sponsored by Kauai Backstory. This year's theme: Surf. Congratulations everyone.]

by Sandra Krawciw

now you are four months old

propped against your pillows

between the mountains and the sea

like king kamehameha

your smile is sunshine

your baby gap nightie is soft as sand,

fresh with fallen stars

yours surfer toes stick out the bottom

but it is your arms

that give you away

they are paddles

your eyes ask for the ocean

you stand on the board of my lap

balanced between my hands

your face parallels the lip

your knees bend for the cut

your toes are on the nose

trade winds own your hair

barrels meet you from the left and right

you ride through

your people watch from the shore

of the bed

they are amazed at

this extreme performance

aloha sprays over us all

like a wave

The Waterman

[Editor's Note: This is the second in a series of daily posts that will recognize the winners of the third annual creative contest sponsored by Kauai Backstory. This year's theme: Surf. Congratulations everyone.]

by Michelle Dick

Surf Dog

[Editor's Note: This is the first in a series of daily posts that will recognize the winners of the third annual creative contest sponsored by Kauai Backstory. Congratulations everyone.]

by Frank Reilly

I moved to Kauai from New York nine years ago. Made a pretty concerted effort to leave as much of the New Yorker I knew myself to be there. But, you know, you can pack your bags as lightly as you’re able – and it’s still baggage.

I worked at a Manhattan advertising agency for fifteen years before that. And for fifteen years, I picked up speed. More to do and less time to do it, faster and faster, until my work life felt indistinguishable from the blur of images that blew by the window on my late night train ride home. Or was it my pre-dawn commute in? And did the direction matter?

At the end, the money was good. So good I didn’t think I could do without it. The urge to chuck it all was always counterbalanced by the fear that I couldn’t succeed at anything else. That I wouldn’t feel the same adrenaline rush I had been taking for granted for so long at the agency. That I wouldn’t be driven by the same ambition that had gotten me to where I was. And that drove me harder still. It was like I was trying to outrun myself.

Which begged the question: How to stop?

Remember that movie, the depression era period-piece? The one where the railroad bulls have the winded hobo cornered in the last box car of the freight train? And the hobo’s ready to jump, but the train is moving quickly enough that jumping promises the same beating that the bulls do? Maybe worse?

Well, I do.

Kauai was going to be my emergency brake. My stop sign.

* * * * *

We got the dog shortly after moving here, my wife and I. A lab mix from the Humane Society. He was sure to be the lap dog we needed. Every night he was going to climb onto the sofa lazily, drop his head in my lap, and fall asleep there. I had it all planned out. I could feel my blood pressure dropping just thinking about it.

Instead, he took to the water.

Turns out he was a surf dog.

We took him to Kealia every day so that he could swim. And he swam like he was made to do it. Like he wouldn’t choose to do anything else. I don’t remember coaxing him into the ocean. I don’t recall tentative pawing at the water’s edge, or the obligatory game of tag that anything young feels compelled to play with the comings and goings of sea
foam at the shoreline. He was just in the drink, always, as if he’d been given the gift of two mediums in which to thrive. He was amphibian.

But being in the water didn’t seem to be enough. He needed to be in the water with intent. He needed to be swimming toward something. And the horizon, as jaw-droppingly beautiful as it can be on Kauai’s beaches, doesn’t offer much to the goal oriented.

So after a while he’d just stand at the shore line–and bark.

Only a dog could get away with that, with a loudly voiced complaint aimed squarely at the Pacific Ocean. Imagine a tourist at the water’s edge, screaming “but it’s listed in 101 Things To Do as an activity! I’m sorry, but gently rolling waves are not a “Thing To Do”!

And so, the lab owner’s favorite verb: fetch.

Which quickly evolved into a routine as complex and unvaried in execution as high mass at the Vatican. He’d burst out of the barely open car door, catch sight of the tennis ball I hadn’t tried hard enough to hide (because chasing sticks was passé after week one), and bounce and spin in front of me wildly, his front paws lurching forward, trying to gain footing on anything – the passing thigh, abdomen, testicle – that could be used to vault him within snapping distance of that tennis ball. That tennis ball!

Within a few months, I’d come to the beach armed with a canister of tennis balls, because he’d never relinquish one if there wasn’t another to pursue. I’d throw them out to sea, again and again, farther and farther, and he’d dutifully retrieve them all, his snout piercing through breaking waves five times his size – like some bizarrely hirsute surfacing submarine – just to get at them.

After 45 minutes of frenetic activity, it would reach the point where I’d be approached by tourists, usually-land-locked dog lovers with worried looks in their eyes, asking me pointedly if it was a good idea to have him swim out so far, if I wasn’t pushing him too hard.

Then I would stop throwing so they could witness his fury. So they could hear, first-hand, his hoarse howls of disgust at a tennis-ball-less sea.

The writing, as they say, was on the wall. We had adopted a pet with a type A personality.

This dog, it seemed, desperately needed an emergency brake. A stop sign.

* * * * *

It was a typical day at Kealia. Warmth in the light breeze, the clouds taking on the rosy tint that comes with a setting sun. The jetty side of the beach was clogged with young families, so my surf dog and I took our Spalding canister to the beaches’ mid-point, where we could engage in our fetch fetish without interruption.

The riptides in this section of the beach were well known to locals long before traffic cones and danger signs started sprouting there, as they have in the recent past, like the mature growth that had to come from our collective fear of liability. But me – what did I know?

When I threw that one ball…that one ball…I knew, somehow, that it had gone too far. I was pushing my luck, our luck, a little too hard. And that was before I realized that I had broken the cardinal rule of tennis ball fetch.

My dog hadn’t watched me throw.

And if he didn’t see the ball arc over the sea, if he didn’t see the splashdown, then nothing had been thrown.

So he sat there, dumbly staring at my hands, waiting for another launch.

I only had one ball left. And one ball meant one thing. After every throw, I would have to wrestle to get that one ball back. And that wrestling match would involve all the attendant teeth baring and flying saliva you would expect. From me and the dog.

So I dove in.

A hundred yards out, no big deal, I could use the exercise, right? And the swimming was easy. It was only when I got to the ball and turned around that I realized why the swimming was easy. Because the swim back wasn’t.

You take those public service announcements for granted. I had no idea it was a waste of time to swim against a rip tide. So I swam against a rip tide. And I kept swimming, blind to my predicament, convinced that I had plenty of energy to get back to shore.

And then I felt that paw come down on my shoulder.

My surf dog saw what I was swimming for, and he’d be damned if I’d get his ball.

I recognized something in his insistence as he was pushing me further and further under water. Something in the adrenaline-crazed look in his eye, in his naked ambition. And that thought rolled through my head a while before I had the presence of mind, when I came to the surface, gasping, to throw the ball ahead of me, to give unto the surf dog what belonged to the surf dog.

* * * * *

Metaphors and allegories are powerful things.

And there’s no sense in writing if you’re not prepared to see the makings of them in just about everything in life. Sometimes those real-world moments of inspiration can be comically over-the-top, too – so much so that they’re completely unbelievable on the printed page. I once watched a bird feather its nest with a ropy strand of bright yellow police-crime-scene “caution” tape.

I remember thinking “that bird will never get published”.

But sometimes you’ll see yourself at the center of a real situation that’s perfect fodder for a story. And if you feel the urge to write it, it is my contention, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, that you have that realization for a reason: Because you’ve refused to acknowledge all the rough drafts that came before it. Like the one where a tightly-wound and less-than-self-aware New Yorker is gifted with a type-A dog. Or the one where the type-A New Yorker, who is unable to acknowledge the type-A-ness of his dog, feeds said dog’s frenzied instincts with too many well thrown tennis balls into the raging Pacific.

As my swimming stroke weakened and I saw the situation for what it was, I calmed down, oddly enough. It was like I had passed through heavy rains of panic and settled into the eye of what I knew to be a nasty storm. Then I had one of those random moments of clarity. The kind that only seem to accompany tragic situations, like those you’d read about in pulpy, Back-From-The-Grave testimonials.

At that moment, I saw the metaphor I was flailing through for exactly what it was: I was swimming harder and harder towards a beach that wasn’t getting any closer. I might as well have been back in New York on that early morning train to work, falling asleep, a three-page To Do List slipping through my fingers.

Then I was out of the eye and back into the storm. I swam as hard as I could for as long as I could, so fearful that I would look up to see that I hadn’t moved forward an inch that I just didn’t look up. And when I couldn’t swim any more, when I was completely drained, I let my legs drift down. And I was beyond relieved to immediately feel sand
between my toes.

As I staggered back up the shore, my surf dog was right beside me, looking none the worse for wear, the bright yellow ball locked tightly in his teeth.

I sat down heavily and looked out at the vast, undulating carpet of blue-green that stretched out to the horizon, the tennis-ball-less sea. And my surf dog lay down lazily at my side and dropped his head in my lap.

No, really.

Then his jaws loosened and the tennis ball rolled back down the embankment and into the water. And we both watched as it was sucked out again by the same tide. He started to move toward it, too, but a gentle tug on his collar was enough to restrain him. He was dog-tired, after all.

It felt good to just cradle him there.

And the ball got harder to see as it drifted farther away. Another metaphor, and fairly over-the-top, too. Still, a pretty clear lesson:

It’s a tennis ball, for Christ’s sake, let the ocean take it.

Reading Date

The reading date for winners and runners up of the 2008 Kauai Backstory Creative Competition is Monday, January 26, 2009 at Small Town Coffee in Kapaa, starting at 7:00 p.m.

All winners and runners up are invited to read and asked to RSVP to kauaibackstory@yahoo.com, so we can plan accordingly.

Kauaibackstory.com Announces Winners of 2008 Creative Competition

Kauaibackstory.com congratulates the 2008 "Surf" creative competition winners Michelle Dick for her image, "The Waterman," Sandra Krawciw for her poem, "Watching Lincoln Surf," Ben House for his essay, "Remind Me I'm Alive," and Frank Reilly for his story, "Surf Dog."  And 11-grader Emily Rider for her untitled poem.

Winners and runners up (see list below) are invited to read and share their entries at a time and place to be determined in January.  Submissions of the contest winners and runners up will begin posting on www.kauaibackstory.com after the public reading.

Kauaibackstory.com is a venue for rigorous writing with a view about Kauai. Year-round, the on-line literary journal welcomes high-quality writing and thoughtful images from the public. All submissions are moderated by a three-person editorial board, however, not all are posted. Kauaibackstory.com encourages the expression of all voices and delights in words and images that shift thinking and open minds. Much like an on-line blog, kauaibackstory.com encourages interactive dialogue with the hopes that the time-honored tradition of kama'ilio, talk story, will build community and understanding.

Runners Up:

Laurie Barton for "Surfer Cake" and "Ocean Death"

Faith Harding for her untitled submission

Alison Hummel for "Return to the Surf"

Sandra Krawciw for "Watching Daughters Surf"

John Ullis for "Surf Northshore"

Susan Ullis for "Tank in Sand"

Clouds and Sun Sing Hallelujah in Golds

Sharon Douglas

Haiku by Catherine Pascual-Lo
Image by Carl Lo

When day is over
turtle doves return to roost
at their comfort zone.

Pete

by Brian Doyle

I’ll tell you a surfing story, and this is the rare surf story that has no oceans or surfboards in it, because it’s about a guy who spent almost his whole life surfing situations and relationships, never falling in, never over his head, never breathless, always on top of the situation and never in or of it, you know what I mean? And he went half a century without ever getting his feet wet, and then, as so often is the case when we talk about hearts being startled awake, it was a kid who knocked him off his board and into the sea where hearts get hammered and startled and shivered and born again.

But I get ahead of myself. The guy’s name was Pete. He had been a terrific athlete as a kid and then he was a terrific hand with money and investments. He made boatloads of money, got lots of girls, traveled everywhere, did every dashing thing you can imagine, but after a while even the coolest girls would gently disentangle themselves, because, as one of them said with real affection, you never get tangled, Pete, and in the end we see that you don’t want to bother, and even someone who just wants to have fun can’t stay long, you know what I mean?

He did know what she meant, too, which is what stung.

He got all the way to age fifty like this, looking cool on the outside and not getting birthday cards from anyone, and no one except the doorman at his condo knowing when he was sick with the flu, and finally he sold his condo in Boston and bagged his lucrative master of the universe job and moved to Poipu and bought a condo on the beach and spent his time paddle-surfing, but nothing really changed and he had girls but no lovers and companions but no friends, you know what I mean? But finally what happened was he was driving drunk and got busted, and during the whole process of getting that fixed he met a detective who showed him the world of meth babies, kids whose parents were addicts and dumped them or burned them with cigarettes and dangled them from highway overpasses and evil shit like that, and there was a kid named Kimo who was four and both parents dead from meth, and this kid says to Pete one day, at the cop orphanage, how come you never look at me with both your eyes? and Pete says that was the moment everything cracked. He says it wasn’t like in the movies where there’s swelling music and the lights get brighter, in fact he said he wanted to slap the kid for being rude, but he didn’t, and eventually he adopted Kimo, it’s a long story and there’s no happy ending neither, because they argue like hell, and neither one of them can cook worth two cents as yet, and Kimo just got his face tattooed like a Maori for some reason, which sent Pete into a roaring fit like you read about.

But he roared, you know what I mean? If you are furious you’re not surfing, right?

Announcing Third Annual Writing Competition

Kauaibackstory.com announces its third annual writing competition. This year’s theme is “Surf.”

Entries will be accepted in the following categories: essay, story, poem and visual image. A student category will be created pending interest and writing quality.

Entries must focus on Kauai. Participants are urged to express their thoughts, feelings and observations about the theme, “Surf” through the lens of their own unique experience and viewpoint.

Prizes will be awarded. Winners and other noteworthy contributors will be posted on www.kauaibackstory.com and invited to read on a special night later this fall. (Date and place to be determined.) Writers may submit up to three entries. There is no word limit--brevity is encouraged but not required. Visit www.kauaibackstory.com to view the quality of works posted and the blog’s mission statement.

The deadline for submitting entries is midnight HST November 15, 2008. Text entries must be pasted into the body of an email and sent to kauaibackstory@yahoo.com. Images must be sent as a jpg attachment.

Kauaibackstory.com is a venue for rigorous writing and imagery with a view about Kauai. The journal is intended to serve as a timely, interactive forum, and readers are encouraged to visit often and post comments. The editors look for writing that raises thought, not walls, and encourage writing that rouses respectful dialogue. The editors hope to build community and understanding through conversation. Think of kauaibackstory.com as a conversation about Kauai.

###

E Kala Mai Ia’u: A Reflection on Paddling

by Dena Cassella

In the matter of canoes, there was nothing to be understood. Everything was instinctual. Paddling canoes is the sport and spirit of Hawaii. A way to preserve a sacred culture in just seconds: spurts of remembrance when wave touches wood. It was a rite of passage. For me, it was a chance to redeem a fair complexion. I had always been a strong and structured girl, with broad shoulders and thick trunks of legs. Sturdy is what my father called me. Only feeling small and delicate while nestle in the sands of Makapu’u beach, sinking deep into the moist crumble of earth, feeling the sun boil and birth our connection as we’d melt into ourselves.

Digging deep into the current’s white splashed tips, I became a paddler at age ten. I became useful, fluid in motion and incredibly effective in a canoe. Dragging 600 pounds of hollowed Koa wood great distances with such elegant intensity sent shivers down my shoulders and awakened my body to the miracle performed by our crew of six girls. The canoe cradled me, positioned so neatly in its flat plank seats. It was my kumu, my teacher, nurturing my learning. I knew how to navigate the current of an open ocean, and keep the balance of the canoe in treacherous winds and unforgiving waves. Paddling was my being—I’d sweat salt water and breathe ocean breezes. There is no sensation more powerful than feeling as mighty as the sea.

In late May when I was nearing seventeen, something went wrong.

With the six of us seated and alert, we lined our vessel up to our starting mark, an empty gallon milk jug bobbing above its anchored self. We sat up straight and listened for our commands. Our coach, a tall, tan man screeched with intensity, hut ho, and we were off. Blades following one after the other in sync with our lunging bodies as we pulled the canoes down the murky stretch of canal. I dug my paddle hard and wrenched my body upright sternly. Harder and faster, the stroke count rose and we followed intently, not like young girls, but like brutish creatures with unstoppable resolve.

Without warning, it happened: I could not feel anything. Nothing. Not the dried layer of salt blanketing my skin, not my wrists, not my fingers, I could not feel the waxy wood of my own paddle in my grip. Nothing. I looked down at my limbs, for reassurance, and they still seemed intact. The sensation distracted me and our boat slowed down as we neared the finish. My crew relaxed breathing heavy sighs of exhaustion. I lay my paddle on my lap and stared at my fingers, plump and tense, and watched as my hands uncontrollably shook and twitched. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know what this was. I panted, turned to the girl in the seat behind me and displayed my hands in her face. My eyes releasing a flood of tears made her panic and share in my numb terror. She held them still with her own tired hands, trying to stop the shaking, but she could not. The weary head of every girl in the vessel perked up, confused and frightened by my condition. The shaking grew worse. It weakened my body, stripping me of my sturdiness, causing me to slowly slip out of my plank seat in the canoe. Only my weeping strengthened. Mixing with the salty film of dried canal water, my tears rushed down my cheeks, bombarding my lips with a rotten taste.

Carpal tunnel syndrome said a doctor, who suggested surgery and I refused it. Damaged nerves, said another doctor, frequent ice baths. But they did say one thing in common you cannot be fixed. But I could not stop paddling. Though my body pleaded with its mental, and my performance as a paddler weakened, I did not know how to exist with out it. I did not want to exist with out it. After two more years of numbed races and practices, my parents told me to quit. But it is hard to leave your successes behind you. It is harder to leave your entire being behind you. The sacrifice of belonging: the trade off of ethnicity and identity, pale and tan, an existence and a life.

I still go to races, to sit, and watch the canoes take off. I nest near the shorelines, by old hala trees and smooth water-washed stones, and I wait. Feeling all I can in my sandy burrow, the tiny dips of indented skin on my thigh from the clinging granules, never letting me go, and the warm sticky island air rushing from ocean to meet my face with humid kisses. I wait to remember the delicate neck of the paddle and the miraculous sensation of muscles moving. Digging my hands deeper into the grainy surrounding, grasping what I can of the sodden sands beneath my body, holding it tight and desperate. With browning skin blistering in the sun’s rage, I silently request forgiveness from the waves, and understanding from the wooden vessels fighting the tide out to the starting mark. E kala mai ia’u, I beg them, pardon me for sitting these races out.

Open Yo Maka

by SistaG


Paradise
where everything's nice
palms are swaying
and folks are saying

things in pidgeon
it's almost a religeon
this way of life
the illusion of no strife.

Paradise
where everything's nice
on the surface at least
Just don't look too deep

Paradise
where everything's nice
yeah, right
we've all been asleep

wake up sweet brother,
little sista too
your folks are old
it's up to you.

and it takes more than
stink eye
to get the big guys
to change.
listen to your heart
don't get shame,

we still got
more than a lot
to work with
to get them to stop.

and remember
even folks that do
stand firm and true,
even they get shaken
when more is taken

by those in power.
can't you see the hour
is drawing near
for all we hold dear,

All that we love
all that we say
we put above
all else?

It takes a very strong man
or woman or child
to have the vision
to keep it wild

here in Paradise
where everything's nice

so let's be wise
for a change...

In the Heart of a Kauai Winter

by Sharon Douglas


A symphony of bird song celebrates the clear, blue, what will become an 80-something-sunny day. Doves coo. The white and black shama thrush click, and sing their complex little songs. Red cardinals sound like melodious cars starting their singing engines. A rooster, or two, or three … punctuate the cacophony with a “How do you do?”

Green lushness, on closer inspection reveals a color splotched canvas: Papaya trees laden with sunrise papayas; yellow edged palm fronds form green splayed fans; hand shaped hau leaves on tangled trees with flowers that change from yellow to a red-orange when they drop; ti leaves splattered in intense yellow or pink blotches; and pink and white tipped snowbush. Splotches of color-on-green.

Drive down to the west side and see light green breadfruit footballs growing in trees, protected by waxy dark green leaves. Or see tall, tassleless sugarcane grass swaying gently as it still grows.

Even more vivid are the intense egg yolk scrambled flowers etched high against blue sky on the yellow shower trees. There’s the one near the Koloa fire-station, and then there are a few as you head out of Waimea Town. This yellow scramble of color, high up and, then, lower down, the yellow hibiscus smile brightly. Or there are the cup of gold vines that compete with the intense cerise and purple and hot pink bougainvillea.

There are also the African tulip trees with their vividly orange cup-like blooms. These are profuse and their abundant color can be seen almost everywhere on Kauai.

And, should you head up to Holy Cross Church from the west side into Kalaheo: the flaming Mexican vine, ablaze in orange as it drips off, garlanding green shrubs and trees in the valley to the south.

At sunset, a bikini clad walk, on Kekaha’s long wide soft champagne colored beaches can be enjoyed. Shawl of water fringed by waves lapping onto silky shores leads to foamy feast fondling naked feet.

The sound of the ocean: huhwash!sh..sh and silence… Gahwash! Sh…sh and silence is the background music, as the watermelon-gold sun-orb drops behind the Forbidden Island, Niihau, huge whale-like silhouette, and slowly withdraws its energy in long rays that trail across the now pearly gray-mauve ocean.

Deep in the Heart of a Kauai Winter

by Laurie Barton

We watched Candace and Roy
exchange their vows in Hawaiian
on a beach whose name was changed
by a letter getting blown off a sign.

Anini Beach had heavy wind that day.
Waves were knocking hard against the reef.
Candace and Roy promised to stay together
though their parents hadn't
(and neither had most of our parents--
inundating us with partners, step-sisters,
second ex-wives.)

Candace's dad showed up in a sailboat,
telling big stories of the Baja Ha Ha
rally. Passing beers all around on the beach.
Candace's brother had sailed in, too,
the kind of guy who wanted solitude.
Pacing the shore,
keeping his eye on the ocean
that would swallow him up again soon.

Winter Wonderland

by David Dinner

Is Creativity the Answer?

by Hannah Rees

My heart is aching for all the senseless killings
that go on all over the world. Yesterday was
supposed to be a day celebrating love – the respect
and cherishing of one human being for another - yet
someone thought it would be impressive to re-create
the St. Valentine's Day Massacre and walked into a
lecture hall at Northern Illinois University – the
same university our daughter attended a few years
ago – and shot 6 students attending the lecture,
before shooting himself.


A few weeks ago 5 shoppers were shot down in front
of a Lane Bryant store in Chicago. We read of
suicide bombers and missile attacks all over the
world.


As we bask in the aloha – the celebration of the
breath of life here on Kauai – I am saddened by
these news reports and by the anguish that must
reside in the killer's heart for his/her life to be
filled with the wish to destroy.


I have read that “creativity is the antithesis of
destruction” and I''m wondering if our consuming
world has negated the basic joy of creativity. We
are encouraged to opt for any ready-made product
instead of making anything ourselves. Our children
are often taught to be entertained, to play games,
to win, to use and to waste. And when the budget
gets tight, what do our schools eliminate from the
curriculum first - the art and music program! Of
course there are exceptions, but overall the
classroom is thought to be a stepping stone to
earning money to buy things. Things do not provide
one with the joy of self discovery found through the
process of creating.


Creating takes time and intention. Relationships
need both time and intention to develop, just as the
building of a house, planting a garden, keeping a
pet, cooking a meal or writing of a poem. Creativity
requires a person to invest of himself, his ideas,
his dreams. I wonder if more energy were used in
creating, perhaps the dissatisfaction that leads to
suicide and the destructive killing that is
encompassing our world would lessen.


One can only hope.

Jungle Jam

by SistaG

Remember me?
I live here in Haena
under a tree
where I like to spend a
day at the beach
so I'm gonna send a
fax or an e
to get you here with me!

I have a little place
in Hanalei
a river runs thru
we could spend the day
walking thru the jungle
careful not to tumble
in the hila hila
I just wanna steal ya!

Come spend the day, baby
come spend the day
You'll love the jungle
you'll love the bay

Come spend the day, baby
into the night
Then in the morning
ahm onna take you chicken fight!

Take me down the coast
we'll sail to Wainiha
Park our little boat
out on the sand bar
build a little fire
pretend we're castaways
tell me what you require
to be led astray!

Come spend the day, baby
come spend the day
You'll love the jungle
you'll love the bay

come spend the day, baby
into the night
I'll feed you mangoes
you'll love every bite!

And then I'll dance the hula
and you'll dream the kama sutra. . .

The Biggest Cockroach in the History of the Universe

by Brian Doyle

Lives in a house on the north shore of the island of Kauai,
The one island never conquered by the old Hawaiian kings,
And you can see why, if there were insects the size of cars,
Which there are, and there are stories of roaches who tried
To catch and eat Hawaiian monk seals, and of even larger
Roaches who banded together to try to conquer Honolulu,
And of one roach, this was a heroic and mountainous one,
Who flagged down a truck and ejected the terrified driver
And tried to digest the truck, which is a phrase you never
Hardly hear, and there are still stories, and I believe them,
Of roaches who occasionally get such a yen for cable TV
That they break into houses and overdose on NBA games
And are found days later staggering around in the forests
Muttering about assist-to-turnover ratio and similar stuff,
But a story like that you have to take with a grain of salt.
Anyway the biggest cockroach in the history of roaches,
Periplaneta Americana is his name, lives in Hanalei Bay,
Right near Michael Crichton, who is the famous novelist,
But the people of Hanalei, they misdirect you on purpose
If you ask for where either of their most famous residents
Live, and you can understand that, it’s a form of affection
And respect really, so the thing is, when I tell you that the
Biggest cockroach in the history of the universe, an insect
Big enough to have its own area code and zoning precinct,
Big enough to change the weather, bigger even than Oprah,
Lives on the north shore of Kauai, well – don’t tell anyone.

A Note on the Birds of Hawaii

by Brian Doyle

There is of course the ‘a, the booby with the red feet,
Says a tiny man at the Foodland, to whom I had said
Merely wow, is that a frigatebird over the parking lot?
And then of course there is your ‘akikiki, the creeper,
And ‘i’iwi and ‘o’u’ and nukupu, also honeycreepers,
And pueo, the little owl, and ‘io, the Hawaiian hawk,
And ‘ulili, the little tattler who wanders, and our ‘o’o,
She is the honeyeater, the cousin of the honeycreeper,
And ‘elepaio, the flycatcher, and ‘alala, old man crow,
And huna kai, the sanderling, her name is ocean foam,
And hoio, the shearwater, he lives in caves by the sea,
And ao, she is another shearwater, what a lovely word,
Shearwater, don’t you think? And then uau, the petrel,
And aukuu, the night heron, and koloa, he is our duck,
And of course you know nene, the goose, and ewaewa,
The tern, and kolea, the plover, he comes every winter,
And ukeke, the turnstone, and amaui, that is the thrush,
And the curlew who balances on one leg, she is ‘kioea.
Did you get all that? Are you writing down every thing
I say? Are you a book writer? Do you speak Hawaiian?
Do you want more names of birds? There is the mejiro,
That is the Japanese word for the little bird in the bush,
And piha’ekelo, that is the mynah, he comes from India,
And manumele, the canary, he comes from oversea too,
And shama, the thrush, he comes from elsewhere, India
Also I think, although I am not sure about that, I am not
Very knowledgeable about the birds. My dad, however,
He would tell us stories about birds he loved as a child,
Birds who are no more on any of the islands of Hawaii,
One was the mamo, who drank from flowers like a bee,
And another was a very tiny green one who ate crickets
But who never got a name because no one ever saw her.
That is all I can remember and say about our birds here.
Do you have any other things that I can help you with?
Yes sir, I say. I am curious about a word for this place,
May I ask what is the name for where we are standing?
Why, this is Foodland, he says, and we lose it laughing
And both go in to get whatever it was we came to buy.
By pure chance we cross paths a little later as we leave,
And he says here is one last name for you to remember,
That is ‘iwa, the thief, the frigatebird, and yes, that was
Her over the parking lot a while ago, isn’t she glorious?

Deep in the Heart of a Kauai Winter

It is way too quiet this winter at Kauai Backstory, so we are tossing out a writing prompt: Deep in the heart of a Kauai winter.

Use this as a place to start writing or photographing. Does it conjure up an image? Maybe write a poem, then. Does it conjure up a scene? Write a story, then. Does it make you want to preach about something? Write an essay, then. Or, get out in the blustery weather and take some pictures. Basically, take it and run. Have fun. Then, send it to us. We won't guarantee we'll post everything we receive, but if we like it, if it moves us, if we laugh, cry, scream or sigh, we just may publish it on Kauai Backstory.

We'll accept submissions on this theme through the end of winter--whenever we deem that to be or, more accurately, whenever Mother Nature deems that to be. Please send your submission to kauaibackstory@yahoo.com.

As always, thanks for writing. Thanks for sharing. Be sure to visit www.kauaibackstory.com often.

Aloha,
Gae, Kim, Pam
Editors

Blue

by Kerith Edwards

When morning stands fresh
dilated cool with wind and sun
my heart—
having totaled rainy workadays—
remembers instead
long-sighted swell
watched to here!
wave mounted
ridden to low.
Lure me again, darling
yours today and forever,
my blue Kauai.

Not Today

by Lea Marie Taddonio

The tsunami alarm sounds off the first Tuesday of
each month.

Cane fields are stirring like water just before
wind.

The cat on the step ignoring.

The gecko pipes once.

A truck backfires up the canyon.

A cloud becomes turtle
then a dragon that eats the turtle
and it seems like such a waste of time to die.

Big Boat

by Lea Marie Taddonio

Where do boats come from?
Arriving as tiny miracles
We look up from the want ads
pause in the middle of polite conversations.

This boat is different.
It boasts about the horizon’s secret
loudly so you can’t miss hearing
the exact bulk of its bank account.

I had a lover who was bigger than this boat.
Every time I looked at my ocean
He was there, nodding on the waves.
Until finally
I created a hurricane.

Skullwalking

by Lea Marie Taddonio

Tourists at Ke‘e Beach pound over the skulls
of ancient ones.

Quietly urinate in thickets, spin tires in fine sand
groan about the clot of cars
trying to circulate out the parking lot at sundown.

The rhythm here is not the ocean
but a collective heartbeat

I am I am I am

The Paving of Paradise

by Jerry Von Schott

Dreams
covered in concrete.
Hardened reality
poured stony gray.
Hopes paved over
in flowing
unconciousness.
Paradise
gasps in darkness.
Crushed
under the weight
of cold slab.

Young Fruit

by Caleb Odam


Green is the smell of grass in my face
when I take a nap at the park

or the deep flavor of arugula.

Green is dancing dandelions, soft soccer fields
and sticky spirulina.

Green is young fruit

and the ferns that
crawled out of the ocean
at the beginning of the earth.

Come Alive Dream

[This is the final post from our second annual Creative Contest. This year's contest theme was "Green."]

by Craig Davies

First open your ears; now hear my plea.
Peace is a Dream that will come to be.

It all starts right here in our little home.
From this tiny island, Peace will be born.

Many have come here knowing not why.
The answers elude us; perhaps we should pry.

"Why are we here?" I ask of our Gods.
Surely They know why we do trod.

"To be an example”, They say to me,
"Of Love, of Peace and true Harmony".

“Energy of Ages has been given to you,
So that you may be leaders...you know what to do”.

To be a World model , that is our deed.
The spark of ignition, we will be the seed.

To feed all our people, no more need we seek.
We have fertile lands and the best of technique.

Self-sufficiency, the spirit is there.
We have all we need with plenty to share.

Alternative energy, so many options.
Wind, solar, hydro...without any toxins.

All said and done, great heights we’ll have soared.
The time has come to cut the cord.

Hawaiian sovereignty, a strong energy.
On this we must ride for then we will be...

A sovereign nation unto itself,
No need of war, guns on the shelf.

Peace we can have; Peace isn’t for sale.
So let's get to work, we must tip the scale.

The One Hundredth Monkey, have you heard of this?
If my vision is true...Kaua`i is it!

Awaken old souls, the time has arrived.
We've been called to Kaua`i to Come Alive.

Kekaha Signal Light

[This is the sixth of seven runners-up from our second annual Creative Contest. This year's contest theme was "Green." Each winning and runner-up entry will post on successive days, so be sure to make daily visits to www.kauaibackstory.com.]

by Juan Lugo

While traveling to Kokee with my grandchildren, driving past the small town of Kekaha, we came upon a broken and neglected signal light. One of the children asked, “Grandpa, that light is old, broken and not working. Why doesn’t someone remove it and take it to the dump? It could fall on a car and hurt someone or cause an accident.”

Memories flooded through me and I was so overwhelmed with emotion, I pulled off to the side of the road to compose my thoughts. The children must have thought they had said something wrong and after a few moments of silence, I decided to share with them a couple of stories of what the light meant to me and to those that grew up on the Island of Kauai. We stepped out of the car and I began to share my memories of the Kekaha Signal Light.

“This signal light on the road leading to Waimea Canyon represents the Marquesans, the first group of people to settle these islands. They introduced the sugar cane. They did not realize that this plant would attract a group of businessmen and cause the eventual overthrow of the unformed Hawaiian Monarchy. It represents the legacy of the sugar cane industry. This industry brought together a diversified group of people from all over the world. Each group being very proud of their rich ethnic culture and equally proud of their neighbor’s culture providing our Island of Kauai with an exotic flavor. It represents the agricultural greening of Kauai and of Hawaii. The light also reminds me of my childhood. This light was magical to me while growing up on this beautiful island of Kauai and it opened my heart and eyes to that magic.”

I pulled drinks and snacks from the cooler and gave them to the children. I continued my story. “In those days the trains would bring in the harvested sugar cane from the fields to the mill for processing. The method of harvesting was to set the fields on fire and after the fire died down, a dozer with a rake in the front would push the burning cane into rows. A crane with a grappling hook would load the burnt cane onto the train. Sometimes the dying embers would be re-ignited and a blazing inferno would occur. The train had to make it back to the mill very quickly. The light was installed to stop the little traffic that made its way up or down the Waimea Canyon.”

“The Kekaha Signal Light is a reminder of simpler times. We listened to nature’s whispers and to stories of our past. Today, it is the home of a family of Myna birds with the glass broken by those individuals that do not know of that time.”

Clearing my throat and fully immersed in the story, I continued, “I grew up in the Wailua Homestead on a Pineapple farm. Working in the fields was hard work and I hated it. My parents had a twenty-five acre farm and we grew pineapples as our main crop. We also had milk cows, pigs, chickens and vegetables to care for. Since the pineapple was our main source of revenue, my siblings and I had to work in the fields after school and on week-ends. We could not afford hiring outsiders.”


“So, when my father would announce on a Friday Evening that we would be going to Kekaha to watch the signal light change colors, we could hardly control our excitement! Not only would we be treated to an absolutely wonderful display of magic in seeing the lights change colors in the middle of nowhere, we would not have to work in the fields that week-end!”

“That night we would ready our surfboards, fishing poles, Hawaiian Slings and camping gear. These activities would be interspersed with talking about the magic of seeing the signal light change colors. I remember thinking that the changing colors were magic in the purest sense and it would send me spiraling off into the world of my imagination! We would talk late into the night and my mother would finally scold us and tell us to go to sleep.”

“Early, Saturday Morning we would finish our chores and then load up the back of our pick-up truck with the surfboards, fishing poles, Hawaiian Slings, food, drinks, guitars, ukuleles and camping equipment. We would be balanced precariously amidst all of the paraphernalia as we made our way to Kekaha from Wailua.”

“Once we reached Kekaha, we would set-up camp on the beach and then we would start doing everything we had talked about the previous evening. Whether it was board surfing, body surfing, fishing, spear diving, or simply lazing about and eating, whatever activity we were engaged in, would come to a halt, when we heard the sound of the whistle from the train as it made its way to the mill from the fields. We would run, helter-skelter through the small town of Kekaha and reach the light as it changed colors! I remember, jumping up and down, cheering, clapping my hands and joining in with my adult ohana and siblings as the train approached and the light would change colors! It was so incredible and I never tired of seeing the magic!”

“Later that evening, with my opu full, I would drift off to sleep listening to the gentle strumming of the guitars and ukuleles. I would listen to the songs and watch the dancing by the campfire. I would be lulled to sleep by the rhythmic pattern of the waves as they splashed upon the beach. I would look up at the sky and watch the moon and the stars play hide-n-seek behind the clouds. Many happy memories filled my memory banks. Happy memories, that I could make a withdrawal from, when my life was filled with strife and challenges. Those happy memories would see me through the troublesome times of my life.”

“And, that is why,” I whispered to my grandchildren, “I will always be grateful to the Kekaha Signal Light. It showed me how to believe in magic and to live my life open to daily miracles! A magical beauty that it is all around us! We only need to open our eyes and our hearts to see it.”

First Visit to Kaua'i

[This is the fifth of seven runners-up from our second annual Creative Contest. This year's contest theme was "Green." Each winning and runner-up entry will post on successive days, so be sure to make daily visits to www.kauaibackstory.com.]

by Laurie Barton

Red was our first impression:
Martian soil, as if we'd landed
in a dream of Mars, spinning

around a very hot sun.
One mountain, like a man
or giant creature dozing

in a bed of wild sugarcane
greener than anything, ground
still wet from all the raining

that spilled into a commotion
of roosters. Nothing sounded
like home, there was nothing

alive in our dry imaginations
like the green tunnel we found:
leafy arch to Koloa, swaying

interlocked trees, shiny green
passage to history, to a town
of sugar-ghosts, humming

The Power of Peace

[This is the fourth of seven runners-up from our second annual Creative Contest. This year's contest theme was "Green." Each winning and runner-up entry will post on successive days, so be sure to make daily visits to www.kauaibackstory.com.]

by Kimie Sadoyama

Let us give peace the power of a seed
With the potential of a tree
Let us have peace spread
And grow like a weed, grass or wildflowers
Let us give peace the power to be fruitful as grapes
Hearty in its vines clinging unto rocks
Even in times of drought
It can produce the finest of wines
Aged to perfection and medicinal in its cure
Of hatred, anger, fear, stress and aggression
Let us spread this seed of peace as if it will take
hold
And heal this planet and its atmosphere
And its ozone and its universe
And let all the beings and ants and soil
And planetary heavens straight up to God rejoice
In its pure seed of peace and love and healing
Green, green, greenness
So full of earth and joy and fruits
And leaves and seeds and stems and roots
And peace and peace and growth and love and joy
That we can plant in our hearts and soul
Forever for eternity for my Keiki*
Let us plant in our hearts this seed of peace
So that we can breathe
So we can love
So we can dance, so we can live
So we can be free to fly like a bee
Let us give peace the power of the seed
The power of the weed
The power of the wildflower, the power of the tree
Let us be free to be at peace like the tree
Like the wind in the leaves of the forest
Clapping its hands to the wonders of the wind
The wonders of the wild
The wonders of the stars
The wonders of the universal me
The universal we, the universal us
The universe of peace
Let us give peace the power of love
The power of We, the power of free
The power to be
Let us be
And live in peace

Mother Taro

[This is the third of seven runners-up from our second annual Creative Contest. This year's contest theme was "Green." Each winning and runner-up entry will post on successive days, so be sure to make daily visits to www.kauaibackstory.com.]

by Carrie Rautmann

I met Mother Taro once,
In the greenery of
John Pia's Taro Patch.
She was more plant than woman,
And yet more root than wing--
Though her heart shaped wings
Repelled water as well
As any albatross or nene.
A rare bird in spirit
She shared her plight to me
Of time after time
Watching the changes
In the faces of human kind.
She remembers being a Goddess
And providing for all the people
In a time where She
Would travel with the people
Over waters near and far
To share her spirit
With new families.
And now, She feels like a story
Told and retold by the elders
Alive more in the memories
And less on the land.
As she spoke, the message
Became more and more clear.
When might and power and speed and money
Seem of more value than
Root, wing, earth and pluck
We must take the time, take the time
To tend each keiki and tend with care
So they may multiply
In healthy soil, water and air
So We the Living
Can live into eternity.
For the winds of time
Will spite the might,
Power, speed and money
She said.
Seize this time
And take the time,
Take the time
To tend
We the living.

Living on Island

[This is the second of seven runners-up from our second annual Creative Contest. This year's contest theme was "Green." Each winning and runner-up entry will post on successive days, so be sure to make daily visits to www.kauaibackstory.com.]

by Risa Kaparo

Through the sea of soft tissue I call my body
liquid landscapes pulsing
I sense the heartbeat this blue planet
the vigorous yes green
longing itself toward light.
Here where rolling water
and upright water meet
where I call home.
Here things of the world crash
like my own relentless chatter
as waves upon the shore.
For a moment
I disenthrall from the turbulence.
I am
an ocean reconciled
depth to surface.


I am brought into remembering --
waves of time atop the formless.
Brought to freedom
by obedience,
listening choicelessly,
the way monks abide the monastery bell.

Brought here by devotion,
brought here as a parent.
The chimes—
blood insistence of children.
The discipline—
each purpose giving way.


(“Living on Island ” was originally published in the book “Embrace” by Scarlet Tanager Books in 2002.)

Heart Chakra Symphony

[This is the first of seven runners-up from our second annual Creative Contest. This year's contest theme was "Green." Each winning and runner-up entry will post on successive days, so be sure to make daily visits to www.kauaibackstory.com.]

by Sharon Douglas

Sunday morning KKCR classics
And I, in our timber home
Tucked on a Kalaheo hill
Gaze out on a symphony of green
Seeing sacred sound.

Members of the tree orchestra
From darkest emerald
To vivid, vibrant
Yellow infused chartreuse and lime,
Together creating harmonies of green

Ferns join the
Green sonata heart soaked song
furl and fray their leaves
Their many fingered hands of green
Playing the wind
Faster faster

Then drop away
Play a background tune

So now we see

Trees silently sing
their chlorophyll saturated songs
eucalyptus, mango, hau, albizia -
Iron wood too.

Breathing in
Their lungs and hearts expand

And from the background beat of green
Lillikoi lullaby,
Rainbow shower ruckus
Mass of pink-white butterfly petals
Softly settling raucous song of joy
Building crescendo
Pele’s Poinssiena posies
Passion exploding scarlet

All Harmonizing with
life giving, transformative
vitality of green

And off to the side
a tree trio
Sway, dip, bow
Rise, swoop, sweep
throw up green leafed arms
Celebrating the green grand finale

I am from

[This is the fifth--our student winner--of five winners from our second annual Creative Contest. This year's contest theme was "Green." Each winning entry will post on successive days followed by the seven runners-up, so be sure to make daily visits to www.kauaibackstory.com over the next couple weeks.]

by Katie Ceria-Johnson

I am from the busy roads on Kauai.

I am from my mom’s lectures and my father’s unseen face,
From days of my brothers being too protective;
From surviving life’s problems, and getting stronger every day.
From hearing “think before you talk.”
I am from a place of a different kind where today is only borrowed ‘cause you’re not promised tomorrow.

I am from warm “Smores” over the campfire,
Loud fireworks, laughs and giggles at Grandma Ursula’s house on New Years Eve.
From sweet “Korean Chicken” and tasty “Chicken Papaya,” and
the satisfaction of a cold “Berry Delight” on a hot summer day.

I am from sun-kissed faces and red-faced pictures on a blue-skied, clear-water day.
From believing that friends and smiles are all you need to be happy.

I am from a difficult background, faced with stupid boys and tracks of tears rolling down my face.
From days of hoping for a better tomorrow.

I am from missing the warmth and touch of a dad and his daughter;
Where a memory is the only thing that lingers on.
I am from reminiscing the past and living for the future...
Where the story never ends and bumps on the road come from nowhere.

I am from understanding that everyone deserves a second chance and from believing that everyone is just trying to get by, and experiencing that God and me are the only ones that know the truth.

I am from...

Obake Bite You

[This is the fourth of five winners from our second annual Creative Contest. This year's contest theme was "Green." Each winning entry will post on successive days followed by the seven runners-up, so be sure to make daily visits to www.kauaibackstory.com over the next couple weeks.]

by Kimie Sadoyama

She used to say, "Obake bite you." She was one strong woman, who made everything from scratch, even the long string lines full of tin plates hanging in a row, to chase the birds when the wind blew. JoAnn was so small, she always looked up to this big strong obake woman, as if she could scare anybody off her small plot of land, so full of everything. Not only did she have pigs and ducks, but she had all kind fruit trees and vegetables, some Hawaiian fruits not everybody had. But the most precious thing to this big obake lady, although you wouldn't think to look at her, was the cascading blue jade flower that only blooms every once-in-a-while. So you can see she did have a gentle heart. And JoAnn, so small and skinny, would follow her around as if she too would grow up to be as big and strong as her obachan. But no way. And every night when JoAnn would say, in the dark before she go sleep, "Good night Obachan," her obachan would only say back, "Obake bite you..."

When JoAnn was old enough to drive, her mother, she tell JoAnn, "Your obachan, she dress in all kind rags, I shame take her go shopping," So JoAnn, she tell her obachan, "I take you go shopping." When JoAnn went to pick her obachan up she was shocked to see her in a nice blue muumuu. So JoAnn, she figure, this obake woman, she just trying to teach my high-class mother a lesson. In fact, JoAnn, she always smiles when she sees her obachan walking around in public looking like the raw earth of her back-yard or a scarecrow she once made for her garden. For the clamor of tin plates, the quacking of ducks, and a greenhouse full of flowers and red earth was a world her obachan always carried with her whether she was in public or not.

When JoAnn went to college, her obachan, she feel so lonesome in a real Japanese way, so sabushi, that when she found out that JoAnn was coming home she would get into her nicest dress and sit on the chair outside her porch. And when someone walking by asks her how come she dressed up, she would just say, "JoAnn's coming home." For two weeks straight, everyday till dinnertime and even after the sun would go down, she would sit and wait for JoAnn to come home.

This obake lady, she not so strong no more, and the days, they all stretch together like birthdays and summers until JoAnn comes home. For she always sees inside this little runt JoAnn, the big obake lady she once was.

SKEPTICS: The Green Flash

[This is the third of five winners from our second annual Creative Contest. This year's contest theme was "Green." Each winning entry will post on successive days followed by the seven runners-up, so be sure to make daily visits to www.kauaibackstory.com over the next couple weeks.]

by Dawn Kawahara

Sandals sliding along
the sloping mat of grass
toward the curve of sand,
warm, your hand in mine,
salt breeze rumples our hair, chills our skin
as the sun falls out of a winter solstice day--
last of the century.
We do not hurry toward sunset.
The spangled sea splashes foam,
dashes, lays bare
walls of buried sandstone.
High waves launch a steady assault
against the black and jagged cliff
that marks the end of the beach.
Cloud veils sift, the sun bounces once,
rays stabbing the line of cool blue at the western edge,
settles, slims to a narrow disk,
thin
and thinner still--a fiery slice
slipping,
slipped below horizon,
transformed, becomes an emerald prism.
We blink and stare
held by the spell of that slow jeweled wink,
stand vesper still,
then lift our arms, whoop, giddily spin,
splashing along the silver fringe
of the cove’s dusk roll and tumble of velvet purple.
When colors merge to gray on gray
your fingers lace through mine,
leading me home slowly.
As if at a signal
we both glance back toward the darkened portal
of that iridescent green flash
we’ve longed to see
but half-believed as myth
and only, now, perceive as lucid magic
presaging our new millennium gift.