Posted on: Sunday, March 18, 2001

Fond memories of grandfather

By Eleanor Chung Marocchini

Editor's note: Eleanor Chung Marocchini wrote this essay upon the death of her beloved "Oji-chan" (grandfather), Takeshi Maeda, who passed away in December at age 87. Her auntie Sharon Yonamine, who sent it to us, notes that "JiJi" is a child's way of saying "Oji," but Eleanor has always spelled the word with a "G."

Gigi died this week. They say he didn't feel any pain because he was comatose. He was in good spirits when he left the nursing home, even waving goodbye to the nurses who had taken care of him. He told us not to mourn him because had lived a long, full life.

What did he leave behind after all those years, besides giving life to 26 people (four children and their descendants)?As just one of his descendants, I cannot speak for all the others, but I can speak from my own experience and memories of him.

He was a good grandfather to me. My earliest memories of him are his visits to our small apartment. He would have me reach into his pocket and keep whatever coin came out. I always wished for the quarter, as it could buy more than the others. Then we would walk around the corner and buy ice cream for my sister and me.

My favorite memories are of our weekends together. I would call him on the phone and ask if I could spend the weekend at his house. Then I would pack my things into a large paper grocery bag (no such thing as plastic in those days) and wait for him on the short stone wall in front of our apartment. I would sing and swing my feet rhythmically as I waited for him. One day, I remember seeing just the blue skies and clouds above. Years later, the details of that day were recalled to me. Gigi had come to pick me up as usual, only I wasn't on the wall. He wondered aloud where I could be. Then he heard a voice coming from inside the trash cans lining the wall. It seems that I had fallen while rocking myself too hard.

I enjoyed the ride to Kane'ohe when he picked me up in his little red sports car. The ride was always so enjoyable as we drove with the top down. As we wound around the Ko'olau ridges (that was before the tunnels). I could feel the cool mist of the high Windward altitude on my face. I would make him say "Wheeeeeeee!" like my father did when we rounded each bend. (After I grew up, I thought it odd that he had such a car. I recently found out that my young uncle hadn't been able to keep up with the payments, so his "co-signor" took over the payments!)

I remember the smells of that house, slightly damp from Kane'ohe rains but not offensive. In the morning, the house would smell of freshly perked coffee. In the evenings, it smelled of rice and other foods cooking. I remember the scent of hair spray and laundry starch as my teenage aunts ironed clothes in the living room, hair up in rollers and swaying to the music of the radio. I remember the scent of my hip young uncle's after-shave as he came in and out of the house, always stopping to rub my head and greeting me as "Shorty."

I remember sleeping in the soft, warm futon in the living room next to my Gigi. In the early years, he would take me to the old pier and we would look through the wooden slats to the fish below. One day, I expertly identified a square little fish as a "baby sperm whale." He laughed, nodding his head. (It was a puffer fish!)

I miss that old pier, the drives through the Ko'olaus, and those weekends. Children grow up, people get older and time takes its toll. Those memories I will always cherish. Gigi always made me laugh. He shared with me the power and beauty of that gift.

Eleanor Marocchini grew up in Kane'ohe and graduated from the University of Hawai'i. She lives in Brooklyn, N.Y., with her husband, Mike.