VOLCANIC ASH

By David Shapiro

The young lady looks well beyond her 22 months as she flashes a flirty smile at me from her preschool portrait.

My granddaughter Sloane's eyes sparkle, and that coy little smile proves irresistible as I study her face.

Her hair, light and fine as corn silk, is perfectly combed in a flattering style I've never seen before, her legs demurely crossed under a nicely fitting sun outfit that shows no wrinkles.

Clearly, this photographer is exceptionally skilled at bringing out a little girl's inner princess.

The girl in the photo bears little resemblance to the child I pick up from the preschool once in awhile to enjoy her company for an hour or two before her mother gets off work.

This girl has sweaty hair plastered to her head after a long day of running around the playground. Her hands are always grimy and her dress dirty and sticky.

If her diaper doesn't have a load in it already, it will five minutes after I take her away. I'll have to deal with this in the back of my van in the stifling heat of the municipal parking lot.

The one thing that's the same as the picture is the smile, which lights up with glee when she sees me.

"Hi, Zeyde!" she squeals, climbing immediately into my arms to make sure I can't leave without her. With all the grunge, it would be a delicate operation to peel her off me even if I wanted to.

We spend our time together cruising the civic center grounds, always stopping first to visit the feral cats that hang out in the bushes at the state office building.

I fill with pride that Sloane can now differentiate between kitties and dogs, which until recently was her general-purpose word for all four-legged creatures.

Our next stop is Honolulu Hale, where I show her the pictures of the mayors and the little room under the grand staircase where I used to have a desk as a young reporter covering the early days of the Fasi administration.

My old office space seems to have been converted into some kind of electrical closet, which isn't the only sign of lost luster.

This elegant old building seems generally dull and shabby compared to what I remember from 35 years ago.

The courtyard is dead, and I can let Sloane run around freely without drawing much attention or disrupting anybody's business.

She seems fascinated by the small balcony near the mayor's office on the third floor, and keeps pointing up to it as though she expects Mufi Hannemann to come out and liven up the place by performing a few of his karaoke favorites.

It scares me to agree with the City Council, but an eyeball assessment suggests it's going to take the full $11 million council members voted to renovate Honolulu Hale over the $3 million requested by Hannemann.

Let's hope they spend it wisely to restore the public areas to their former glory, and not just fix up their own offices.

Sloane and I babble back and forth as we make our rounds. We speak different languages at this point and seldom understand exactly what the other is saying, but there's real bonding going on here as she wraps me around and around her little finger.

All the communication we need is in that smile, which she flashes whenever something captures her imagination and she points and sings, "Look, Zeyde!"

It gives truth to the adage that grandchildren are the reward for all the grief we have to put up with in life.

David Shapiro, a veteran Hawaii journalist, can be reached by e-mail at dave@volcanicash.net.