Sex(y) pots

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A day at Hanalei Market

Me with my table of goods, followed by a few pictures of happy customers.

Hawaiian 101

Hanalei taro fields

Reversing my truck into the last slice of shade in the parking lot at Port Alan, I came nose to nose with two toddler boys in the truck parked next to mine. They beamed from the rear seat through an open window, their grandfather standing by the driver’s side door bouncing a third boy on his hip.
“'Ilio,” each boy parroted in turn as I stepped out of the truck.
I was there to pick up my husband. Wes had paddled from Po’ipu down to the harbor on his surfski.
“‘Ilio,” they repeated, gesturing toward my dogs in the bed of the truck.
“Dogs,” I said, as I stood between our vehicles, looking slightly up at them in their full-size rig. The rear passenger side window framed their radiant faces. I flirted shamelessly with them as they expanded their observant narrative.
“'Elua 'ilio,” they told me.
By now, their tutu had returned and climbed into the backseat with them.
“Oh, they are speaking only Hawaiian with you,” she noted. "'Elua means two."
I told her I loved it; we were in class and they were my language teachers. She told me they were twins. The boy nearest the window was honey-skinned and lean with an almost scholarly intensity and his brother was a darker, curly-haired boy whose smile filled his juicy cheeks, turning his eyes into crescents.
When Wes slid his boat into the saddles on the truck the lesson continued.
“Moku,” they alternated saying. Then they added a second word I don’t recall.
Tutu told me both words were for “boat.”
I repeated after them, but the leaner of the two boys kept looking more intensely into my eyes saying each word.
I would repeat it and he’d say it again slower, separating syllables more emphatically. I realized then that I was mispronouncing the two words. I started looking at his cheeks and lips for clues on how to form the sounds correctly; annunciating with more intent. By now he was leaning out the window toward me.
On my tenth attempt I succeeded at placing the proper weight on the correct syllable. My teacher was clearly pleased. Pooching out his lips as far as they’d go, he leaned out of the truck to plant a kiss right on my lips. There in the shade, on a hot October day at Port Alan Harbor in Ele’ele, I received one of the most unforgettable kisses of my life. It was delicious.
Adding to the magic of the moment was the fact I’d spent all morning sketching taro with the intent to paint a series on clay. I drew three leaves: two big and one small, with stems reaching up from the bulb.
As I stood between our trucks in the lot I realized I was meeting my drawing right there – three new sprouts attached to their roots. It gave me a sense of place and belonging.
Later in the week I heard about a Malie Foundation lecture on kuleana (responsibility) being given from 10 to noon tomorrow (Saturday) at the Hyatt. All year Malie Foundation has been hosting events with the theme “Year of ‘Olelo Hawai’i,” in celebration of Hawaiian language. Perpetuating Hawaiian language preserves the culture and after ten years living here, maybe it’s time for me to take my education further than my parking lot tutorial by enrolling in a class.

Ode to the boss-at-the-bar

Being between jobs, I’m taking stock of bosses I’ve worked for and why their style of management either jived with mine or not. Then during an interview this week that very topic came up: Describe a time when you had a good working relationship with a boss.
I didn’t think twice: Greg McPartlin, owner of McP’s Irish Pub in Coronado, California where I worked as a waitress from 1987 to 1996. Greg used to sit at the corner of the bar many afternoons chatting up customers with a cigarette in one hand and a Bud Lite in the other.
A war veteran, he served multiple tours in Vietnam as a Navy medic and Frogman (predecessors of the SEAL team.) He’d survived two helicopter crashes and was a member of the team assisting in the sea recovery of NASA’s Apollo 11.
After his military service he moved to Coronado where he made enough money in Real Estate to afford beachfront property. He didn’t exactly fit into the khaki clad population with his baggy shorts, sockless topsiders and big belly peeking through the buttons of an untucked shirt, but trust me, his haphazard demeanor was merely a cloaking device.
In nearly 10 years of studying Greg, I assure you, he didn’t miss a beat. He was sharp and knew how to manage people. Not only did he offer medical insurance to all his employees at a time when it was unheard of, he rewarded hard work by carting the staff off to the horse races at Del Mar and Padre games every summer. He’d close the restaurant and we’d meet at McP’s in the morning where the kitchen staff would be packing coolers full of sandwiches for the outing. At Christmas he threw us a huge party in the pub. His generosity is a primary asset that garnered my trust, but it was also the way he read people.
McP’s Irish Pub sits at the southwestern end of Coronado Island, just a mile east of the Navy SEAL training base and three miles west of the Naval Air Station. A testosterone saturated community, the bar scene on Coronado could get pretty intense at times.
Greg’s man-at-the-bar style of management worked for two reasons: One was his accessibility to guests and employees; the other was his hands-off style of management. He saw everything that was going on and I only recall one time in nine years when he actually rose from his bar stool to tell me what to do.
During a busy lunch rush, four Navy SEALs sat down to order. When I said I’d be with them in a moment, one responded, “Take my order now bitch.”
Before sassing a busy waitress, a wise man would have made sure her hands were empty. The five-inch stack of plastic menus flew from my hand across the table to catch him square in the chest. Using the vocabulary of a sailor’s daughter, I told him he should consider eating elsewhere, and stormed into the kitchen.
A few minutes passed before Greg sauntered through those swinging doors. Never one to rush or raise his voice, he said, “Hey Pam, will you come into the dining room? There’s someone who’d like to give you an apology.”
I never fully appreciated the generosity of this man until 15 years later. Now that I’ve worked for at least a dozen other employers, I realize Greg McPartlin provided something I’ve never been able to find again.
Typing the notes from my journal into the computer earlier this week, I flashed on the McP’s phone number and spontaneously dialed it.
“Hello, McP’s. How can I help you,” came the voice.
I stammered, “Oh, um, my name is Pam, I used to work there,” and before I could finish, I heard “Pam. This is Tom.”
I couldn’t believe it – for starters that I remembered the number, and then to have the person on the other end of the line remember me. Add to that, standing next to Tom was Tracy, the woman who trained me 25 years ago.
Now if that isn’t testament to the success of the boss-at-the-bar style of management, I don’t know what is.

Being there lives

Photo by Fastie Murphree

“Jump and the net will appear.” – Joseph Campbell

Forgive the abrupt note of departure included at the end of my column titled "PO'd" (Sept. 24), where I wrote two sentences announcing the finality of "Being there." A series of letters asking for an explanation made me realize how very “un-being there” that cryptic note was as a close to what’s been a two- and-a-half year intimate relationship.
Deciding to leave my position as lifestyle writer for The Garden Island newspaper was not an easy one. And it’s not one easily explained. Suffice it to say, one must never underestimate the power of a fortune cookie.
It was over 10 years ago I received the fortune: “Discontent is the first step in the progress of a woman or a nation.”
I fastened that little rectangle of white paper with red ink into the drawer of my home office desk – the same desk at which my mother wrote in her journal for 30 years.
Since receiving it, I've allowed discontent to inform rather than intimidate me. It’s like a favorite tee-shirt that suddenly has an invisible burr chaffing the soft skin under your arm; no amount of searching the fabric will reveal where the irritation is hidden.
I came to the office a few Mondays ago knowing I had to “take off the shirt.” I returned home that night to tell my husband I’d quit my job.
Since launching “Being there” in June 2009, you’ve gotten to know me and my family, so as my parting column for The Garden Island, I wrote the following update that the editor chose not to print. For readers interested in past columns here is a link: http://thegardenisland.com/lifestyles/being-there/
It’s been six weeks since my Brazilian mother-in-law moved in with us. It’s going smooth so far and I’ve even learned a few dirty phrases in Portuguese. Boy are Latin insults more descriptive than English; and funnier too.
Remember the feral kittens I trapped at the ceramic studio a few months ago? Well my husband agreed we could adopt all three. Chico, Pablo and Mittens are affectionate juveniles now sharing my dogs’ bed with them. No joke. Lady Bird and Flip (who you’ll recall were adopted from the Kauai Humane Society two years ago) are now foster parents.
Of all the people in my life though, you’ve gotten to know my mom the best. She is not doing well so may I humbly request you stop reading now, bow your head, and send Caroline Woolway the strong pulse of your love. A friend told me that when we think, “I love you” and send it to someone far away, they receive it instantly. So right now, I am bowing my head and sending each of you one big “I love you.”
I hope you felt it.
I can't quite believe I've succumb to blogging. I've often referred to it as "blah blah blahging." I swear on the Bible, (oh yeah, I’m not a Christian, but you already knew that) not to print any first drafts. I can’t promise I won’t tell you a dirty joke though or even translate a few naughty Brazilian phrases.
Again, thanks for following me here and thank you for urging me to continue "Being there."
I would like to send notices of new posts. Please let me know if you do not want to receive them. If you are not on my list and would like to receive notices, e-mail me at pamwoolway@gmail.com

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