Posted on: Sunday, May 5, 2002

FAMILY MATTERS
Precious moments with kupuna cherished

By Ka'ohua Lucas

As I draped the double yellow-and-white ginger lei around my 92-year-old aunt, she craned her neck to catch a glimpse of the lei's giver.

"Oh, it's you, Louise," she said without a smile. "Finally, you made it."

I certainly deserved that. It had been several years since I had last seen my aunt.

When the opportunity arose to celebrate her 92nd birthday in Hilo at her home in Leleiwi, my husband had urged me to go.

"Don't worry, honey, the boys and I will take care of everything," he said a little too eagerly, beaming in the direction of my sons, who were obviously thrilled at the news that mom would be gone for the day.

I knew what their reaction meant. Nothing would get done.

Still, I drafted a "Things To Do While Mom Is Away" list, grabbed my plane ticket and lei and fled to the airport.

As soon as I stepped off the plane in Hilo, my anxieties evaporated. As my mother, brother and I made our way to Leleiwi, a state of tranquility washed over me.

Arriving at my aunty's party, we were greeted by a cousin who was toting a Coors Light in one hand and a first-aid kit in the other.

Aunty Lulu was seated in a rocking chair underneath a canvas tent, sipping her white wine in a glass tumbler. (I was told she doesn't drink from plastic cups.)

Moments after draping the lei around her neck, Aunty turned to her daughter and said, "Take these leis off my neck. They're too heavy."

My cousin obediently removed several of the flower garlands and hung them neatly over the back of the rocking chair.

"Whew! That's better," she said, smoothing the front of her blouse.

I had to chuckle.

Here was the last living member of my father's generation.

Growing up in a nontraditional Hawaiian household, I never truly appreciated the role of my kupuna (elders or grandparents). It wasn't until I was older that the importance of the senior member of the family, or hanau mua, had become clear to me.

"All seniors, or kupuna, were respected. Grandparents were especially loved," wrote the late Hawaiian scholar and teacher Mary Kawena Pukui.

"But the hanau mua was the acknowledged head of the clan. (She) was the accepted source of wisdom, the arbitrator of family disputes, the trouble-shooter in family problems, and the custodian of family history."

My Aunty Lulu — with her throng of admirers wrestling with their cameras to photograph her "sticking tongue" as the camera snapped — is indeed someone to be cherished.

And it was apparent that all 200-plus family and friends agreed.

Cousin A., with a cigar clenched between his teeth, his back to the audience, danced the hula to "Hanalei Moon," removing his cap to reveal a bald head every time the word "moon" was mentioned.

An uncle hollered from his makeshift kitchen in the garage that he wasn't able to join us immediately for the pule, or prayer. "Bum-bye dah fish goin' burn," he said.

Cousin G., uncoaxed, leaped to her feet to join her brother in a Tahitian number, both using laua'e fronds as their implements.

And Cousin K. — the one who had welcomed us when we arrived — engaged in a search-and-rescue mission for the first-aid kit, which he must have misplaced. (Funny thing. He hadn't lost the Coors Light can.)

These memories will be forever etched in my mind, along with Aunty Lulu's words, "Finally you made it."

I am reminded of the phrase, "He hulu makua."

It refers to a time when most of the relatives in our parents' generation will be gone. The few left i hulu makua i are considered as precious as feathers from a rare bird.