"The collection just evolved," he said, "starting with a school at Kipahulu, Maui, in the '50s." A Mrs. Butler invited him to speak to a graduating class of one. "I was charmed," he said of the quaint rustic schoolhouse. "There were all the aunties and uncles ... red 'ukuleles (decorating) the wall, a red piano — and a red kerosene lamp for light. When the school eventually closed — and you have to remember, this was over 40 years ago — Mrs. Butler saved this lamp for me.

"This office is full of my moments," said Krauss. "If you don't catch your moments, they slip away."

Coming from a 10,000-circulation newspaper in South Dakota, the then-27-year-old faced a steep learning curve when he arrived in Hawai'i in October 1951, starting at the newspaper on the very day of his arrival. "I was learning like CRAZY," he said in his trademark emphatic style.

The first person to befriend him in the newsroom would become an icon herself: Tsuneko "Scoops" Kreger, then Casey, The Advertiser's beloved "Miss Fixit." Photographer Yoshiaki Ishii soon took the new reporter in tow, too, introducing him to a traditional Japanese New Year's celebration.

With Ishii's help, Krauss started a weekly column, "Our Neighbors at Work," gaining entry into the workplaces and homes of Hawai'i's people. "Ishii took me to a Japanese blacksmith shop in Kaka'ako. Where else but Hawai'i would you get that?" Krauss recalled.

Krauss read everything he could on the Islands, from Robert Louis Stevenson to John Papa I'i. He became known both for his stunts — rafting down the Ala Wai in 1954 to prove that the members of the Waikiki Yacht Club migrated from Kapahulu — and for his charitable efforts, which included raising money for a child's heart surgery and spearheading an effort to save the historic sailing ship Falls of Clyde, now a waterfront museum. His travels took him from Tahiti to Vietnam, and into everyone's back yards and living rooms.

"A basic reason I'm here is the cultural complexity (of these Islands). The bells and whistles (of stunts) help," he said, "but the real hooker is the people. People are friendly all over, but Hawai'i is unique. We mingle more here."

The Krauss collection is as varied as Krauss' career. "When they were moving from the ('Iolani) Palace to the (new) Capitol, I said to myself, 'Now this is a historic moment!.' I walked to (then Gov. Jack) Burns' office. Mrs. Isa, his secretary, was cleaning out his desk. She found half a carton of Camel cigarettes left in the bottom desk drawer, long after the governor had kicked the habit." Bingo, thought Krauss, and the collection grew by one.

Not long after, however, someone stole the half-smoked historic cigarette carton from his office collection, not realizing its significance. Said Krauss: "A lot of people miss a lot in life by not paying attention."

Other items in the collection include a koa wastebasket thrown out after editor "Boss" (Raymond) Coll's departure. Krauss snagged it. Years later, publisher Thurston Twigg-Smith stopped by and blurted: "Damn! That was my grandfather's (Lorrin A. Thurston)," from Thurston's all-koa office.

While Krauss' office chair had more pedestrian beginnings in the women's restroom, the most glorious item in the office is the circa-1900 grand oak, double pediment rolltop desk, originally belonging to "Old Man" (Toichi) Eki, of Eki Cyclery. A rendering of the old King Street shop hung over the desk. The matching filing cabinet was later given to Krauss by Eki's son, Jack. His ex-wife found the matching glass-front bookcases at a thrift shop. "She was the one who (established) the office's 'Mark Twain' style," Krauss said. The nostalgic rocking chair, which has supported countless interviewees through the years, was the gift from an antique-dealer friend.

The lauhala floor mats chronicle the office's history as much as anything. The original was ordered but came in a little oversized, necessitating some last-minute folding and tucking to make it fit. A night janitor from Tonga appeared one day with a wedding mat that had taken her mother a month to weave. "It belongs in this office," she said. "You should have something from Tonga in the office."

Rounding out the office are photographs, posters, mementos and gifts lovingly given or collected over the years. Asked what he'd choose to walk out with if, say, a fire necessitated a hasty retreat, his answer is immediate: "Those!" he said, pointing to several small, metal index card files, a cross-reference index of The Advertiser from 1840 to 1930. The project, which filled lonely evening hours after his divorce, he said, is the only such index in existence. The valuable resource, he hopes, will be his legacy to The Advertiser and the community after his death.

Krauss said covering Hawai'i has had a two-fold benefit: This German American came to research, and value his own roots after studying those of the peoples of Hawai'i. He attributes his affection for the kua'aina to his father, who traveled as a missionary to the Oklahoma Territory in 1899, earning a meager $300 a year. "Often," said Krauss, "a sewing machine was his altar. ... He had a real admiration for the common people. That rubbed off. I've never had any inclination to write about famous people."

Krauss carved out his territory many years ago, in a column called Our Honolulu. "No one was writing about the local people ... God! There were stories out there!"

Throughout the years, "what I've assigned to myself," he said, is to be "the keeper of the evolving identity of Honolulu."

He pauses to allow his gaze to wander wistfully around the office that he would spend a week packing up, pondering again the question of a favorite memento. It'd be like picking (between) your children!" Perhaps it'd be the brass upright phone, a gift from Eddie Sherman in the 1950s — "I've had a hell of a time over the years" keeping the electronic anachronism working and adapted to increasingly complicated News Building phone systems, he said. For many years, an old black, manual typewriter was his instrument of choice for his columns. He's bowed to progress more recently with an electric typewriter, and caught on to the newsroom's new Macintosh computer system as well. "Another masterpiece completed!" he jokes after each column is complete.

He looks at the Palau story boards of myth and legend, made by prisoners with ordinary house paint; the car window serving tray from the old Alex's Drive In; the hand-made raffia Viet Cong grenade holder.

One memento became guardian for the others. "Columbia Inn's 'Tosh' Kaneshiro found it golfing in Makaha," he said of the large rock on the floor. Unwilling to turn the gift down, he placed it outside his door, informally dubbing it the office 'aumakua, or guardian spirit, hoping it would keep items from disappearing. But it, too, disappeared, turning up later as a doorstop elsewhere in the newsroom.

He replaced the pohaku at his office door, adding coins and flowers at its base. The next day, new coins from an unknown source were added and the latest item lifted from his office also returned. The stone remains today, still attracting occasional donations of coins, pua and lei.

Personal keepsakes he keeps at home. "This," he said, "is my career." But since his new office will be less secure, and he's bowing to the need to use a computer, the book case, photo collection and most of the other memorabilia will be stored elsewhere.