My cousins, sister, and I were supposed to be doing the dishes, so of course we were fighting.
“Bruce! Don’t dump silverware in the rubbish can!” I shrieked.
“What? What did I do?” Eyes wide and fake innocent.
“You threw away the fork when you scraped the plate,” my sister Heidi said. “I saw.”
“Not!” Bruce snapped.
“Yes!” Heidi said, tipping the rubbish can forward. “You can just see the edge of it right there!”
“Where?” Bruce said.
“Right there! Under the napkin!” Heidi said.
“Busted!” Carly chortled, putting leftovers in the fridge.
“Get it out,” I said.
“No way,” Bruce whined; “It’s ugi! I’m not putting my hand in there!”
I turned from the sink where I was washing the chopping knife. “Do it!”
“Make me,” he said.
I waved the knife at him. “Eyes or alas, your choice!”
“You gonna get it now, Bruce,” Taylor said, dumping a stack of plates on the counter.
“Better choose alas, Bruce,” said Glen with a sly eye. “It’s not like you going need them.”
“Ooooooooh!” everybody inhaled.
“Good one, Glen!” said Taylor the troublemaker.
“I mean it, Bruce!” I snarled and waved the knife some more.
“That’s not how you hold a knife, Lehua.” Uncle Dave stood in the doorway, amused.
We all jumped back. Although if we were going to get caught fighting, we’d rather it was by Uncle Dave than anyone else. Anyone else usually involved more chores and sometimes lickings. With Uncle Dave the odds were better he’d just say knock it off. On a really good day, he’d just laugh and take us to the beach to cool off.
“What?” I asked, soap suds dripping off my wrist and running down my elbow.
“Nobody’s going to be afraid if you wave a knife like that at them.” We all looked at the knife in my hand, nonplussed. “Give it,” he said. “When you’re in a knife fight, you gotta hold the blade like this.” He whipped it around, sharp edge up. “Stand like this. Put your weight like this. See?”
We nodded.
It didn’t matter that Uncle Dave was almost as wide as he was tall. We watched him weave the knife through the air, shifting and swaying like a palm tree in the breeze. I kept thinking about West Side Story. I didn’t think the Jetts knew what Uncle Dave knew.
“That’s how you hold a knife,” he said and handed it back.
“Thanks, Uncle,” I said. “Now everybody back to work!” Being bossy comes naturally when you’re the oldest cousin and expected to keep everyone else in line. “Bruce, get the fork out of the rubbish can.”
“No,” he pouted.
I waved the knife at him the way Uncle Dave taught me. “Do it!”
“Okay, okay,” Bruce grumbled, “no need get huffy about it.”
“Not bad, Lehua,” Uncle Dave laughed, “not bad.”
More than 30 years later when I was writing the first draft of One Shark, No Swim it suddenly occurred to me that Zader was fascinated with knives—that’s one of the reasons he carves. When I wrote that lua training scene it was really Uncle Dave I saw in my mind dancing and fighting off imaginary dragons with a kitchen knife. A hui hou, Uncle Dave. Rest in peace.
(HAH-nah ho)
(phrase) Hawaiian for again, do it again. It’s often called out when a performance is especially pleasing or powerful.
Example
English: Wow! George, I wish I could see that again!
Pidgin: Hana hou! Hana hou!
Note: ‘Ōlelo is a Hawaiian word meaning language, speech, word, etc. To see the current list of Hawaiian and Pidgin words, definitions, and usage please click on
When I was nine I flew all the way to Salt Lake City, Utah from Honolulu, Oahu all by myself. I had to change planes in San Francisco, but I wasn’t worried. I had my snacks, a couple of good books, and I looked forward to the movie—any movie—on the plane. The stewardesses matter of factly handed me off to each other, and sitting in their airport lounge waiting for my last flight was eye-opening and educational, although I still don’t understand why bras that make points are better than bras that curve.
It’s amazing what people will say if you’re quiet and holding a book.
Everything was 5 by 5. I was flying under the stewardesses’ radar and hearing all about Brad and Belinda and something about a layover and cockpit that didn’t involve airplanes when I decided that what this live-action play needed was a couple of snacks. I pulled out a sandwich bag, untwisted the tie, and started to munch.
“Oh, #*^&*@#$^%$! What the hell is that?” screeched a southern bleached blonde with pointy tips.
“Cuttle fish,” I said, using my best company manners to shake the bag open wider and holding it out toward her. “You like?”
“@#$^&*@#&%$%^!!!”
Wow, I never know that was possible, I thought, filing the phrase away for future reference. Does that mean yes or no? “It’s ‘ono. I mean, it’s good. Packed fresh this morning.”
“Relax,” laughed a perky brunette, “I’ve tried it before. It’s dried and shredded squid. They eat it in Asia.”
“Fish jerky?!” The southern belle’s painted on eyebrows couldn’t go higher.
“No,” I said earnestly, thinking of beef jerky. “Jerky’s hard and tough. This is soft and kinda salty-sweet. A little chewy. You like?”
She shuddered and closed her eyes, the cat eyeliner and turquoise lids reminding me of King Tut. “I need a drink,” she said.
The brunette laughed again and reached under a counter for a mini bottle. “Hair of the dog?”
“A whole poodle, if you’ve got it.”
I thought about my other snack bags filled with kakimochi, iso peanuts, and crack seed. Should I bring those out to be polite? I wondered. Nah, I decided, anybody who eats dog hair but turns up her nose at cuttle fish doesn’t deserve them.
(ah-low-hah po)
(n) Hawaiian phrase for good night.
For Example:
“Aloha pō, Zader,” said Uncle Kahana. “Sleep tight.”
Note: ‘Ōlelo is a Hawaiian word meaning language, speech, word, etc. To see the current list of Hawaiian and Pidgin words, definitions, and usage please click on
(OH-hah-nah new-ee)
(n) Hawaiian word for extended family, clan.
For Example:
Everybody’s going to be there to see the pavilion, Zader, the whole ‘ohana nui! ~One Shark, No Bite
Note: ‘Ōlelo is a Hawaiian word meaning language, speech, word, etc. To see the current list of Hawaiian and Pidgin words, definitions, and usage please click on
A major story junkie in any form—books, tv, movies, you name it—it’s been hard to adjust to the idea that I can download and watch an entire series in a few weeks instead of the years it took to produce and air the show originally.
My first experience with tv gluttony was with 24. My husband and I watched the season two opener where Jack says, “I’m gonna need a hacksaw,” and decided we needed to see season one. A trip to the local WalMart later we were watching episodes back to back on DVD.
It set a bad precedent.
Now with video on demand services like Hulu, Netflix, and DirectTv I can easily download and watch entire series without even changing out of my bathrobe.
But like an addict chasing a bigger high, after watching binge watching several tv series I missed the first time around, I’ve come to a disappointing conclusion.
Most of the time, waiting a week for the next episode makes the story better.
Heresy, I know, but it’s true.
Take The Sopranos, for instance. Highly acclaimed, award winning, on most people’s best ever lists, it was a series I didn’t watch when it was airing on HBO because I had young kids in the house and didn’t want random f-bombs landing in Grandma’s living room. Years later the language is still coarse, but the kids no longer care what I’m watching since they’re too busy with their own lives. They are also the kind of kids who cringe when I say hell. They’re far more likely to censor me for watching it than have any interest themselves.
Mom-guilt gone.
So over the last week or so I’ve watched the first season and a couple of episodes of season two. The acting is good, the writing is snappy, production values are high—but my finger is itching on the fast forward button and it’s not just the scenes in the Bada Bing Club that have me speeding through an episode.
I’m bored. I want to get on with the story already. All the lingering conversations over coffee and food are killing me; I don’t care about Tony’s fantasies with women, Christopher’s ambitions as a screenwriter, or Meadow’s teenage angst. With about 86 hours of tv to get through, I want things to move along much faster. It doesn’t help that I know it ends with the screen going blank with Tony Soprano’s implied death. I’m seriously considering abandoning the series in favor of reading episode synopsizes to find out how it gets to the end so I can get back to pretending to clean house and cook. And that’s tragic.
When you have a week to think about what happens next, to wonder what clues are hidden in seemingly random conversations, to shake your head over Livia Soprano’s machinations or Carmela’s no-nonsense approach to life, the pacing’s beautiful.
But instant gratification means no downtime to ponder or reflect because the answers are waiting in your video cue.
To finish the series, I’m going to have to limit myself to an episode every so often. No more marathons of three or four episodes an evening.
And that’s tough when you’re a story junkie.