My mom, Lu, can be found working and still serving others behind the pastry counter at KTA Puainako in the early morning hours. Go say "Hi!" She's shown here with my stepdad, Juanito Cristobal. - Photo: Courtesy of Jeno Enocencio

Surviving the enemy

Mom's sundress apron and her little boy

By Jimmy F. "Jeno" Enocencio

Mom's flowery sundress apron hid deep in the closet that stored her tips as a waitress at Kress Store in Hilo. Her sundress apron was filled with quarters, nickels and dimes and slugs that bought our school lunches, Sampan bus fare, our haircuts at Sakaki Barber Shop and colored popcorn and crack seed at the Mickey Mouse Club Show at Palace Theatre – it also gave me an opportunity to make more money gambling playing odd-evens, pitching coins and rolling dice.

When I'd win, Eddie, Vernon, John, Donald and I would go down to this pastry shop on Furneaux Lane and buy a custard pie and hide ourselves within the coconut trees at Hilo Bay away from the bully Kanakas demanding a slice. That sundress apron gave me gas money to go cruising with Caroline and a little side money for Dairy Queen too. It never complained. It just gave me as much as I wanted – it was always full.

Mom was the perfect mom – better than the Beaver's mom, Mrs. Cleaver. As my brothers and I sat at Kress' counter after Saturday matinee, hair neatly cut, I always saw smiles on customers' faces for the loving meal mom served. And no matter how small – they always left a tip. I soon realized that the pockets of her sundress apron were the vessels that mom filled with love for her sons by tending to her customers. Though remorse enveloped with shame for gambling ceased, my guiltless craving for custard and gasoline stayed.

In the fall of '69, I enrolled at Hilo Technical School majoring in diesel mechanics. Mom got $45 out from that sundress apron to pay for my Proto Tools and my steel-toe engineer boots, blue jeans, blue collared work shirt and a jeans jacket; man, I looked great in them – but that was just a facade.

A sundress apron reminiscent of mom's. - Photo: Courtesy of Jeno Enocencio

A few weeks into the semester, I was called into the Dean's office. "Mr. Enocencio … Jimmy, it doesn't appear that you're doing well in diesel class, why is that?" "I gotta ask you sir, why I gotta do math, history, science, English … I jus' did 12 years of that, all I wanna do is turn a wrench." "That's part of the core requirements, and it's mandatory in order to graduate and work for the plantation." "I no like. I quit." "I'll have to notify the draft board – you'll be drafted in the Army and go to Vietnam!" "Go, I no kea'!" I told him.

Less than two weeks later, I get a greetings letter from Uncle Sam – my status had changed from failed student to lottery candidate for the draft, either way I was dead meat. How was I gonna explain this to my mom?

I went to Aunty Sita's house in Pepe'ekeo to kick back – and naturally, she asked how come I wasn't in school. After explaining my ruined outlook with extended education, I happened to look at a picture of Uncle Larry leaping out of his pup tent with his rifle and bayonet charging forward – total Korean drama; yet an inspired drama, that Aunty Sita asked, "Why you no join da Army?" And I said, "Yeah, I tink I going join da Army!"

I took the entrance exam the next day to see what kind of job I would be good in. The sergeant said, "You missed becoming an officer by one point." I never thought of becoming an officer; as a Boy Scout I never held any position higher than assistant patrol leader from which I got demoted twice and became Troop 55's bugler – and I was crummy at it.

The sergeant continued, "Three things you good at that would benefit the Army – you can become a cook, be an infantryman or go airborne and jump from airplanes; whadda' ya think?" "Geez," I said, "ever since I wuz a kid, all I've ever wanted to do was drive an Army tank." "You can do that too son, and we'll train you at Fort Knox, Kentucky – you can even guard all the gold." "Where do I sign?"

I couldn't eat my supper, I wuz sweating bullets unsure of any explanation in my leaving technical school for the Army. As mom washed the dishes her hands reddened by the hot water and the scent of Rinso Blue bubbled as steam rose to her face – mascara running. In the parlor, dad turned the news to Bob Sevey, who reported another local boy killed in combat.

"Mom, I joined the Army," and rambled on continually without breath, "They get plenty benefits and when I get out, I can use the GI Bill for education, and …" She stopped me dead in my tracks, "You know gets one war goin' on right? You know that get young boys getting make fo' nuttin' ova' dea' right? Why you doin' dis to me, Jimmy?"

Dad heard the commotion as mom grew louder exclaiming her disgust of the war and my decision not to become a diesel mechanic. "Wa' Sa' Matta'?" Dad yelled. "You know wot dis stupid kid wen' do?! Heen' join da Army!" Dad looked at me side-eyed and with a Filipino grunt asked, "Wen you go?" "I got up to six months, Dad, but I can go soona' if I like."

"OK," and he returned to the rest of the news. Shocked, mom didn't say anything – but I knew it wasn't the steam that made her mascara run; it was mom's tears of sadness for the loss of her first boy – trying to be a man.

Every day a mother has to let go of her little boy. Every day a little boy has to let go of their mom's sundress apron. Every day mothers cry on both sides of the war. Every day mothers cry when their little boys are hurt hoping to kiss their "ow-wee" to make it all better again. Every day little boys come home in flag-draped coffins – on both sides; and little girls too.

Maybe if all the mothers got together and made a big pot of Cowboy Stew with plenty of hot rice, pipi kaula, poi, lomi salmon and salt onion and sat down side-by-side with other mothers in other countries; maybe their sons would play together and get along – maybe then there'll be peace.

To my mom and all the other moms whose sundress aprons are still filled with hope for their little boys and little girls, "You are something special … Yes, you are." Happy Mother's Day.

Jeno Enocencio writes about the many hats he wears.
Contact him at pointman_jeno@msn.com