Life was tough for Lulu in Kurtistown, Ola'a on the Big Island during the war years; she never made it past the eighth grade. She envisioned a better life than what she was experiencing and ran away to O'ahu. She modeled for Consolidated Theaters and worked as an in-home maid for a rich Asian family until returning to the Big Island pregnant with Jimmy. - Photo Courtesy of Jeno Enocencio

Time in a bottle

By Jimmy F. “Jeno” Enocencio

At 22, my stepdad Juanito “Juaning” Cristobal worked the sugar plantations in '46. As a teen during WWII he anguished over the killing of his father and the passing of his mother, and the numerous souls he witnessed murdered by the enemy – he killed a Japanese soldier to save a person's life. No one messed with Juaning. A well-respected tough guy, hard as stone – warmth and tender emotions could not penetrate this brazen mass of rock; but mom could with the son and the two little girls she gave him.

After my dad's passing I felt my three brothers and I were out of the picture when Juanito came into our lives. There were no father-and-son talks, definitely no hugs and kisses, and never any I love yous; after all, how do you get that from a pōhaku man? But aside from his commanding grunts I learned something about Juaning – he was a true survivor.

He'd come home drenched in herbicide poison, and soaked to the bone with sweat and fertilizer dust. His face was charred from the sun, his hands sliced and bleeding from sugar cane blades, his gloves torn and patched since we had no money for new ones. Mom welcomed him with a fruit can of ice water as he sat on the splintered stool he made from sugar flume lumber.

When not sparring cocks with a prospective buyer, he'd be grooming his birds with his manly, yet tender strokes to its wings and carriage, from comb to its tail tip. His birds always stood tall and proud and won many fights. In those days, a cock's brutal strength was real, not juiced with steroids. The winner always took the dead birds to feed his family, sometimes 20-plus birds to pluck and dress. We shared a lot of game birds around our camp; its tough dark meat would slow boil for hours on the kerosene stove to soften before adding the bagaoong (fish sauce) and green papaya with marungay leaves.

Above: Mom and Dad in Kona, 2006. - Photo: Courtesy of Jeno Enocencio

I saw Juaning fire up scraps of flume lumber and guava branches to pound and shape a 12-inch knife from a Jeep leaf spring. That very knife carved and shaped the flume lumber into his chicken coops – all built by hand without the use of any power tools; and the same knife I used to carve out my 7-foot bazooka spear gun.

As the eldest, desiring to be a man, I placed a heavy burden upon myself to show Juaning that I too could contribute to the household. Whether diving for fish or picking limu or 'opihi; or going into the mountain streams to catch 'o'opu and opae, picking wild bananas and mountain apple and warabi (hō'i'o, fern shoots), killing a chicken or a pig – I could take care of my family too.

I could dive deep into Leleiwi and Richardsons in Keaukaha and bring up spiny lobsters or seven-eleven crabs. I'd tell my brothers it was kapu for Juaning. Juanito and mom usually ate dinner in the kitchen and we'd eat in the living room watching the 6 o'clock news. There were no thank yous or “Son, that was delicious” or any verbal response for gratitude; but his appreciation showed in the kitchen sink, the lobster and seven-eleven crab stripped clean – head and all.

Above, a young Juanito. - Photo: Courtesy of Jeno Enocencio

As a kid, Juanito and I never saw eye to eye. Juaning communicated by means of telepathy mixed with a seldom heard “pucking sonna va bit”; in that, every survival skill that I leaned from him was through observing, not telling. Juanito never made it past the second grade, mom read for him, but he knew how to sign his name and do math, totally left-handed and left-brain logic this man was.

Mom and Juanito are aging, they eat healthy, but still the pains in their joints and insides persists; but they still get time to take care of the yard and plants … a little bit here, a little bit there, then rest in the shade and talk story … often together, often alone.

Honor your fathers and mothers, even if you still don't see eye to eye. Instead, seek the spirit by humbling yourselves and appreciating what life you had amidst the turmoil of growing up; there's something pleasing hidden in the mess. Spend time with them – bring some fresh poke and poi. Make some smoke meat or pipikaula, bake 'em a pie or hunt for some kūlolo at Tamashiro's or KTA, or take 'em out a go eat … jus' spend some time before time comes to an abrupt end. It's hard to imagine life without mom and Juanito – we've become more than just family … I think we've become best friends.

Jeno Enocencio writes about the many hats he wears.
Email pointman_jeno@msn.com