Family Matters
Cleaning their room leads to a closetful of memories
By Ka'ohua Lucas
Before my daughter left for college, I asked her to clean out her room.
In my mind, that meant picking the clean clothes up off the floor and placing them in her dresser; going through the stacks of paper she had accumulated over the years and organizing them, eliminating items that no longer had any value to her.
I also reminded her that her brothers would be exchanging rooms with her, "So any treasures you want to keep make sure they're in a plastic storage bin, or I will assume they're 'opala (trash)."
I said this in July. My daughter left for college at the beginning of September.
Do you think she took me seriously?
On the eve of her departure for the Mainland, I surveyed her room.
All of her clothes were off the floor. She had added colored accents by strategically placing pareau (fabric wrap) in two of the corners. Her bookshelf was free of dust. And her bi-fold closet doors — for the first time — were closed.
Wow, I thought to myself, what a transformation!
A few months ago, her father and I decided it was time for the room swap.
Our plan was to take all of our daughter's ukana (supplies) and place them in the garage for the time being.
As we began our labors, we uncovered a lot more work than what we had anticipated.
Underneath those festive pareau were stacks of books, college catalogs, loose-leaf papers and binders.
When my husband opened her closet door, a cardboard box tumbled from a heap, strewing forgotten treasures.
As he dug through the clutter, he found boxes of items we (and she) had been searching for during the past year: two books on "The Hobbit," a book of poems, her passport, her birth certificate, important correspondence to her college, a signed photograph by Kim Taylor Reece and the list goes on.
We also discovered a plastic bag with its food contents unrecognizable. "Look, honey," my husband said extending his arm and pointing to spores of mold. "It looks like she was engaged in some sort of science experiment."
It took us several weekends to completely clear out her room and move her brothers into it.
Early Hawaiians had a saying for someone who is untidy: "Piha 'opala ke one o Ha'akua" — "The sand of Ha'akua is filled with rubbish."
That saying reflected my daughter's housekeeping skills.
The other day she called.
"Hi, mom."
"Hey, I'i (my pet name for her). How's it going?"
"Oh, good. I guess."
"Well, your dad and I were cleaning out your room, and we found a bunch of pogs in a plastic box. Should we give it to Goodwill?"
"Oh no, mom, you can't do that! Those will be worth a lot someday!"
I went over several items that we had discovered in our cleaning frenzy.
Her response to each?
"You can't get rid of that. (So-and-so) gave it to me."
"You know, mom, someday that will be worth a lot of money."
As we were straightening out our daughter's room, I was livid that she had left us with such a mess.
"I can't believe the amount of junk she has," I said.
"Yep," my pack-rat husband exclaimed. "She sure does have a lot more stuff than I do."
But now that we have our boys settled in their room, and most of my daughter's treasures stored, I eagerly anticipate her return home for the holidays.
Her absence has been painful.
Those weekends I spent sorting through her mess are a distant memory.
I long to snatch her in my arms and clutch her close.
Ka lei ha'ule 'ole keiki. A lei that is never cast aside is one's child.
Ka'ohua Lucas has a 18-year-old daughter and two sons, 11 and 7. She hold a master's degree in education curriculum and instruction, works as a counselor for Native Hawaiians at Windward Community College and writes curriculum with a Hawaiian culture focus.
