by Anne Newins

Kudos to Janice for her expertise and assistance.  She is pictured above next to the display.  She has selected numerous volumes that may interest you, covering a wide range of subjects.  Below are a few sample topics and book titles:

True Crime:

The Great Pearl Heist, by Molly Crosby

Murder of Innocence, by James Patterson

Last Dance, Last Chance, by Ann Rule

World War II:

A Woman of No Importance, by Sonia Purnell

Unbroken, by Laura Hillenbrand

Adventure and Exploration:

Endurance, by Alfred Lansing

Into the Planet: My Life as a Cave Diver, by Jill Heinerth

Desert Queen, by Janet Wallace

River of Doubt, by Candice Millard

Outstanding Authors:

Theft by Finding, by David Sedaris

At Home, by Bill Bryson

Hillbilly Elegy, by J. D. Vance

 

by Leilani Lewis (Spring 1991)

(submitted by Madge Walls)

It’s Friday morning. Time to leave my cares and responsibilities behind in Honolulu and fly to Kona for the weekend. I have three days to putter around my yet-to-be-finished house on Napo’opo’o Road, plant ground cover on the slopes above the house, and develop a site plan for steps and pathways all over the sloping land, connecting one level with the next, using rocks – the flatter the better – that I’ve been collecting from around the property.

Mid-Friday afternoon: hot and sweaty I feel like going for a swim in Kealakekua Bay. It’s just a two-mile drive down the road. Five minutes later I’m walking onto the black sand beach – having just experienced that familiar feeling I always get when I walk from the gravel parking area, past the heiau on the right and the lava rock wall and bay on the left, towards the beach area – that feeling sensation of having passed from ordinary everyday reality into a magical timeless realm. Kealakekua Bay and its clear pristine waters, the pali above, the Captain Cook monument at the far end of the bay, black sand Napo’opo’o Beach and its rocky shore, the tree-shaded grassy area between the heiau and the beach: this whole scene is a place of blessing for me – where time stands still, then disappears – a place where all my worries and concerns literally wash from me as I lazily swim in the bay and lie in the sun.

As I walk onto the beach I notice for the first time how many smooth black rocks there are. They’d make wonderful stepping stones on my land. They’re so flat – so perfect for making steps and pathways. I drop my towel and rubber slippers on the sand and start walking all over the rocky area past the beach – now and then stooping down to run my hands over the smooth surface of the rocks.

There’s a small circular sandy spot about six feet in diameter amidst all the rocks, and I find myself picking up round flat rocks and placing them in a circle within the sandy area. The pile has grown to about fifteen stepping-stone rocks when I am gently pulled out of my rock-collecting reverie by the sound of a voice inside: “Leilani, remember what you’ve been taught. When you want to take from Nature, first ask Nature’s permission” “Yes, of course.” So I sit down on the edge of the circle of rocks and .silently speak to the largest rock in the center.

“Big Rock, may I take all of you rocks that I’ve collected today and use you as stepping stones on my land near here?”

“No.”

“No?! What do you mean, no? Are you sure? Why not?”

“Because we belong here. This is our home.”

“But you’re going to be used for a good cause. I mean, you’ll be used as stepping stones along pathways connecting different areas of my property.”

“No, Leilani. We belong here by the bay. Our only function is to be here and lie in the sun and tumble in the surf at high tide. We simply are – with no other purpose.”

“Okay, I’m getting the picture. I’m disappointed, but I won’t argue with you. I know you speak wisely. I’ll honor your message. Your words are unexpected, but I obviously need to learn this lesson.”

I leave the circle of rocks and go for a swim along the shore – feeling light and happy as the waves gently tumble me around and wash over me.  Later, as I’m lying in the sun I hear Rock speak again.

“Leilani, go ahead and pick out a small black rock and take it with you to your home site up the road. Put it prominently somewhere as a reminder of this teaching today.”

“Okay. Thank you. That’s a wonderful idea.”

I pick out a little black rock – smooth, flat, and round – and take it with me when I return to the land a while later. After rinsing off the sand I put it in the garage, knowing I’ll find a special place in the house for it later.

That evening I visit Mary Helen, who lives on the slopes of Hualalai above Kailua. We’ve been good friends since preschool days and we know each other well. I tell her about my conversation with the rocks. She says she heard recently that the State Government is planning to bulldoze the rocks away at Kealakekua Bay and even encourages their removal by anyone and everyone – so that the sandy part of the shore can be extended into the now rocky area.

Hearing this news I’m excited about returning to Napo’opo’o Beach the next day to converse with the rocks again – this time telling them about the bulldozers – and see if that makes any difference to them.

Early the next morning I return to the beach and immediately head towards the circle of rocks. Gone! All the rocks I’d collected and placed in a circle are now gone. I turn to the surrounding rocks along the shore and whispered out loud to them, “What happened? Where’d they all go? Who removed them?”

The rocks reply, “It doesn’t matter how they were removed. What matters is those rocks belong here along the shore with us – not in your circle of so-called stepping stones.”

I press on with more questions now that I have the bulldozing information to present to them. I tell them what Mary Helen said.

“Now may I take some of you rocks up the hill to use as stepping stones on my land? I mean, you’ll be removed anyway by the  bulldozers.”

“That doesn’t matter. The answer is still no. Just because the Government people say that rocks will be removed from this beach doesn’t mean it is right to do so. You know better. Stick to what you know – not what everyone thinks. This too is a lesson you still need to learn.”

“Okay, Rock, one last question. Why do you say no to me now when members of the Rock family have always said yes before?  I have a few special rocks that I’ve taken home with me from various places – always with the rock’s permission.”

“We’ve already told you. Lately, you’ve become too focused on the function of rocks instead of simply appreciating us as we are. When you return here tomorrow, just come and enjoy. No questions. Just be here.  Like us.”

“Hmmnn…okay. Thank you. See you tomorrow.”

Sunday morning as the sun rises over Mauna Loa I return to the beach.  In the early morning light I hop around among the rocks, smiling. A few of them are now back in the circular area. I start to wonder out loud and then decide to just let the mystery be.

“Don’t worry.  I won’t even ask.”

As I walk past my rock friends towards the gentle morning surf, my eyes begin to water. I feel a deep sense of belonging.

by Bonnie Tollefson

Book Review – The One Hundred Years of Lenni and Margot, Marianne Cronin, Harper Collins Publishers, 2021.

Bonnie Tollefson

I stopped by the RVM library the other day to check out a book for my quarterly book review.  I try not to browse there too often because I end up with way too many books I want to read, but I was looking for a book that would say something different to everyone like Phone Booth at the End of the World or a book that would teach us something like the one about Fish Owls.  I went home with the first in Janet Evanovich’s new series, Recovery Agent and Snowblind a debut novel by Ragnar Jonasson.  I got home and returned to reading The One Hundred Years of Lenni and Margot which I had checked out of the Jackson County Public Library.  Have you ever had a book reach out and grab you by the neck and not let go?  Meet Lenni and Margot in The One Hundred Years of Lennie and Margot.

Lenni is 17 years old and has a “life-limiting condition” the current trendy term for terminal.  Margot is 83, and has a heart condition. They are going to do surgery but the prognosis is not good.  They both live at the Glasgow Princess Royal Hospital.  Between Margot and Lenni they have lived 100 years.  Lenni is funny, precocious, and curious.  Margot is feisty, fruitcake eating, and a rebel.  After meeting the hospital chaplain Lenni comes up with a marketing campaign to increase usage of the chapel while Margot almost ends up in the trash cart after a letter is accidentally thrown away.  Lenni manages to join the over 80 class in the art room and meets Margot.  They decide to paint a picture representing each year of their 100.  As well as painting, they each share the stories of their lives.  The reader learns about Lenni’s life in Sweden before moving to Glasgow and her dysfunctional family. Margot shares stories of her first husband who left her, her baby son who died of a heart defect, and her second husband who got Alzheimers.  The book is about friendship no matter the age, love in all forms, and the desire to leave a mark on the world.  Yes, the ending is sad (having a box of tissues handy would not be remiss) but it is uplifting as well.  Lenni learns that death may not be as scary as she was afraid it was.

This book is Marianne Cronin’s debut novel and took her seven years to write.  I hope we don’t have to wait another seven years for her next offering.  Although I checked this book out from the public library, you can too.  The shopping bus goes there every Wednesday and library cards are easy to get.  Maybe next quarter you will get a review of either Recovery Agent or Snowblind.

RVM RESIDENTS TIP THE KENTUCKY DERBY

by Tom Conger

Reunions—at this stage in our lives, almost all of us have been there: high school reunions, college reunions, church reunions, summer camp reunions, family reunions, military unit reunions, you name it. A few lucky souls have even been tapped to organize our reunions—sometimes more than once. Those born and raised in what is now the Peoples Republic of Hawaii have it even more enviably: we get to [try and] plan a reunion from long distance, spanning thousands of miles of open ocean plus attendant time zone differentials.

In planning, say, a high school quinquennial, you should first attempt to cobble together some semblance of a committee—a cadre of loyal comrades [allegedly] willing to assist in handling the myriad details. Mind you, once past your silver anniversary, most all the willing/capable classmates have either burned out, lost interest entirely, or died. Thus you begin with a ragtag roster of revelers who may not even be friendly with half the other committee members. And from those humble beginnings you attempt to produce a schedule of events attractive enough to draw your widespread constituency to the fair [distant, and very costly] isles to press flesh with residents wealthy enough to retire in one of the most expensive communities on the planet.

Having gathered your forces, now formulate an agenda. A reconnection calendar usually runs like this: kick-off gathering for drinks & dinner; some activities based on shared interests (museum tours, sunset sails, etc.); memorial service to recognize the burgeoning list of class decedents; an annual school-wide event (Alumni Luau?); a farewell picnic. This formula works pretty well up through your 50th reunion. After that major milestone, things deteriorate pretty rapidly.

By our 60th reunion in ‘17, we had exhausted all manpower resources—nobody was willing to step forth and lead—so they craftily conscripted the undersigned, exiled to the left coast in order to afford retirement. Leadership from the mainland is sketchy, but classmates went deaf whenever I pled my case. Plus, they said, the school now had staff specifically assigned full-time to reunion coordination, and “Everything’s Gonna Be All Right.”

In the end I was proven right: successful oversight simply cannot be done from three thousand miles away, and some functions delegated to volunteer “leaders” were never done properly, if at all. Thus, Doug, my on-island angel and I swore after the farewell picnic to never again be involved in reunion planning—the old Roberto Duran approach: “¡No mas!”

Comes the 65th. Now the majority of classmates are truly debilitated, disinterested, or dead. But that ol’ five-year latch-up rolled around, sure as Father Time totes an hourglass. And the school’s Alumni Relations Dept came a-calling… moi. Please bear in mind that in late 2021 the world was still beset by the Covid-19 pandemic, Hawaii was closed to outside travel, and the Guv’s office was emitting directives, almost weekly, regarding new restrictions on gatherings in the Peoples Republic. And most of our octogenarian classmates were looking more toward their celestial exit than meeting their classmates clad in full PPE.

A questionnaire, distributed to all 222 classmates, polling interest in reunion activities, garnered a whopping 16 responses—7 of them negative. But the school had already been forced to cancel two prior years’ reunions (big money raisers!), and was determined to pull one off this year—deadly contagious infections be damned. So Doug & I plowed forward. By sheer love of school we were able to rope in the former Trustee Chair plus the wife of another Chairman Emeritus, thus the “committee” was fleshed out—in skeletal fashion.

No matter your agenda, when overarching conditions are completely reliant on relaxation of quarantine edicts from a clueless State government, all planning involves fallback alternatives for each event. In sum, ya gotta plan two entire reunions—one that folks want, and another that authorities might allow.  Given the scant response to our survey, we initiated planning on a downsized basis.  The ritual cocktail evening was out to begin with, as too few classmates were willing or able to drive after dark. So we focused on a nice luncheon somewhere. But where? There were too few commercial venues still operating, given social distancing strictures, and the on which met most of our criteria could not accommodate us on the day we had chosen. So we ended up prevailing on a classmate’s membership at the world-renowned Outrigger Canoe Club, whose main dining room had not yet reopened for general use due to lockdown orders—our special session was a good opportunity to utilize a facility which needed the practice, and the revenue. But should a Covid-19 spike suddenly recur, we needed a fallback. We chose the private home of a classmate for a potluck affair; he could handle a crowd our size, and everybody could bring a take-out dish from whatever bistro they favored—should it still be serving in the pandemic . . .

The school staged activities throughout Alumni Week, and we included some in our overall agenda. As there were no plausible alternatives, we were unable to offer fallback events should the school be forced to cancel. One school-sponsored function was the mid-week Kupuna Lu’au (“old-folks’ feast”), for reunion classes 65th and above; obviously, ranks of alumni who had started kindergarten before/during WWII were rather thin, so the event could be held at the President’s home. Should an order come from the state Capitol demanding social-distancing, we could revert to the school cafeteria—a considerable drop in opulence/cachet, and attendance…

We put forth mailers and digital notices promoting the June reunion, and waited for classmates to register. Don’t forget: our constituency is into our 80s—with attendant aches, pains, and timorousness—75% of whom no longer live in the isles. Response was slow. So slow, in fact, that this mainland resident was ready to cancel the whole damting. But school officials were more patient, tenacious, and anticipative of a restorative shot in the contributions arm.

With a month to go, we still had only about 30 people signed up for the reconnections luncheon, the one true class event, and prospects were grim. That’s when the on-island sector of the committee formed a SWAT team to make personal calls and roust out lethargic (eccentric?) Oahu classmates who’d just not gotten around to signing up (or were simply confused).We eventually strong-armed a group of 60—alumni, spouses, widows, care-givers, special guests, and others – to convene at the foot of Mt. Leahi for a brief interlude of camaraderie, nostalgia, and good cuisine.

The roll of 137 decedents was printed and laid at each place-setting, and our very first male teacher in elementary school, now 97 years old, shared some poignant memories of our class history from the perspective of a rookie teacher coming to a distant territory soon after the end of a world war. It was lovely. We felt sorry for those who chose not to join us. And we’re giving thought to not inviting them next time . . .

Next time…? I think: ¡No Mas!