That ungrammatical “For you and I” always grated when we heard Israel Kamakawiwa’ole (sensibly called “Iz” in Hawaii) sing it repeatedly in one of his hit songs. But that guy could sing. When we first saw him, in a huge auditorium in Honolulu, he had to be fork-lifted onto the stage while the crowd cheered as if the machine were hoisting Michelangelo’s David to the podium. At his biggest, Iz weighed in at 767 pounds, but the tones that flowed out of that body were sheer gold. Literally, he was a Hawaiian treasure.
In 1993, on turning 60, I retired from Eckerd College. We had no debts, but it was a huge cut in pay, and I told Jeanne she was brave, taking a chance that we could survive on a much-reduced budget to concentrate on writing and drawing. Out of a truly blue sky, while we were figuring out how to do this, the telephone rang, and a pleasant voice asked if I’d be interested in being writer-in-residence for the fall semester at the University of Hawaii. Steadying myself against the dining room wall, I took a deep breath and said as casually as I could manage, “Sounds good.”
This changed our lives, setting a pattern for the next 20 years: an “adventure” at some college or university for a semester, a light teaching load, and no committees. But Hawaii set a very high bar. Last month, we returned for the first time, as our son Tim and his wife Aya had just bought a house in Kailua, and invited us for Christmas. I’m happy to report that Hawaii is still magical.
One would think Hawaii wouldn’t be especially attractive to Floridians, just more of the same: sunshine, palm trees, beaches. But the first impression of Hawaii is of its dramatic volcanic mountains, like a scene from a Disney fairy tale, except that they’re real. In Kailua, the mountains were right in our back yard, and the beaches practically in the front. While we were there, President Obama was vacationing just a short walk away. One afternoon his cavalcade, probably heading toward the golf course, passed by in front of Pinky’s, our neighborhood pupu bar; and the crowd, including us, waved and shouted Happy New Year — Hawaii’s a very Democratic state, and loves its native son.
Visually, Hawaii’s a South Pacific equivalent of Paris. From almost every corner there’s something interesting to look at: the omnipresent mountains, magnificent spreading monkeypad trees, white sand beaches with cool multi-colored waters, exotic flowers and birds — small red-crested cardinals, with scarlet heads and white-scarfed necks fluttered around our street. Because of sensible building restrictions, Hawaii’s not overbuilt or overpopulated (plus, obviously, getting there is expensive).
For my birthday, we decided to go to Buzz’s, a steakhouse the newspaper — the lively Star-Advertiser — claimed was Obama’s favorite restaurant. Jeanne asked the waitress what Obama usually ordered. “Teriyaki steak,” she said. “A very good choice!” That evening, we all drank and ate like kings, or at least presidents.
Hawaii’s a paradise. Still, given the chance, would we move there from St. Pete? It’s lovely to breathe clear air below its star-crowded sky — there’s Orion’s belt! — and reassuring to have a Democratic governor and legislature. But we wouldn’t be completely happy without the arts scene here, the theaters, galleries, movies, colleges, libraries and restaurants clustered together near us. We can see why our president goes there — you feel better, you breathe deeper, you smile more: people just seem nicer. Once in a while, a Hawaii fix would be good for us all.
Israel’s most famous hit is a soulful version of “Somewhere over the Rainbow” (Hawaii has frequent rainbows, often double ones) melting into “What a Wonderful World.” It catches the mood of this state, whose often fierce football team is called “The Rainbows” — and no one teases them about it.
When Israel died, the Hawaiian flag flew at half-mast.