You remember I mentioned the little old Japanese lady across the stream? The one who’s bald. How I thought it might have something to do with chemotherapy?
As I said, she and the two younger Japanese folks moved in about ten months ago. If it is chemo, she’s handling it very well. She’s out in the yard all the time, as am I, puttering away. Weeding, planting, mowing, pruning. All with great vigor.
After the first windstorm six weeks ago, the one where the gusts hit 60+ miles an hour, we both had plenty of cleanup to do. Both our properties are large and loaded with trees. The rubbish fall was plentiful.
As it happened, we were both out bagging and hauling stuff at the same time the day after the winds stopped. At one point we were both working along our fence lines bordering the stream.
We’ve never spoken. I haven’t spoken to the younger two either. It’s the way things go in the neighborhood now days. When I was a kid, everyone knew everyone up and down the hill, maybe for a dozen homes each way, maybe more.
That house, the one the little old Japanese woman lives in, one of my best childhood friends grew up there. I was always over there or he was in my place.
My neighborhood is a collection of strangers now. Even though two of my childhood friends still live in our parents’ houses, as I do, even we don’t talk anymore. I know nothing about their lives now, although when we were kids, we were all part of the neighborhood “gang.”
Anyway, she and I were both clearing the area along our fences, and all of a sudden I heard, “Hello.”
Looking up, I saw it was her. I stopped what I was doing and waved. Always the great conversationalist, I said, “Hello.”
“You must be retired, like me,” she said. “We both do a lot of yardwork every day.”
“Yes, I am,” I said. “We both have pretty big yards.”
She laughed. “Yes, lots of work all the time. We could be out here 24/7.”
I laughed. “Sometimes it feels like I am out here that much.”
“Especially after a storm like that one.”
“Yeah, that’s about the worst I’ve ever seen. And I’ve lived here since I was two years old.”
“Wow, that’s wonderful. Us, we just moved here last year.”
This I knew, but I said, “Ah, well, welcome to the neighborhood.”
“Thanks,” the little old lady said. “By the way, my name’s Joan.”
“Nice to meet you, Joan. My name’s Lanning. It’s like planning without the P.”
She laughs. “Lanning. Yes. I thought you looked familiar.”
This threw me. “I . . . I’m sorry. We’ve met?”
“Yes, Lanning, a long time ago. You were in your Interschool Christian Fellowship Club, right?”
I nod. “Wow, yes I was.”
That was back in high school. Had this little old lady been one of the advisors?
“Me too,” she said. “I was in the Farrington club.”
This also threw me. She and I are roughly the same age? She looks so much older.
“You were — what was your school?”
“University High.”
“Ah, yes,” she said. “I’m a ‘72 grad. You are, too, right?”
Whoa. The same age. This was mind-blowing.
“Yes, ’72.”
I still couldn’t place the face.
She said, “Remember when we had the hulihuli chicken sale fundraiser for Kalihi Union Church. They were trying to raise enough for a new roof.”
I remembered this well. It was all coming back to me. “Yes, of course. And you had something to do with the chicken, right?”
She laughed. “Yeah, my family owned 50th State.”
50th State was the main hulihuli chicken sale supplier back in those days.
“My family,” she went on, “all of us were real popular. Lots of folks wanted us to sell them chicken because we discounted it for them.”
“The old friends and family deal,” I said.
“Yeah, I’m amazed we stayed in business as long as we did.” She laughs.
“But,” I said, “I still see 50th State trucks. You are still in business, right?”
“Oh no, not us. My dad and his siblings sold the company a long time ago. I don’t even know who owns it now.”
Our conversation moved along as if we were old friends, but I still couldn’t place her face.
“Remember how after the chicken sale, all the participating clubs were going to do a sleepover at the church?”
“Right.” I sensed some embarrassment coming on.
“And remember you were watching TV in the pastor’s office while we were all playing games in the meeting hall?”
Ah, and then it hit me. This woman was beautiful. I was kind of smitten by her. Whenever the school clubs would get together, I’d always look for her.
“Right, right,” I said. “I guess I wasn’t being very sociable.”
Actually, I never was. I’ve always kind of been better when I’m alone, or with just a very few people.
She said, “The pastor told me to go get you because we were going to do trust exercises.”
I groaned. “Yeah. Trust exercises. I hated those. Especially that one where you stand up on a table and drop backwards. You hope the folks are strong enough to catch you. I really did not trust that one at all.”
She laughed. “Yeah, that one was kind of scary. But you told me you’d come out when the movie you were watching was finished.”
“Yes, right, it was a Charlie Chan movie. I’ve always loved the Chan movies.”
“And you never came out. When the pastor sent me to drag you out, you were gone.”
I am still embarrassed about that. I snuck out the back way and drove home at high speed so I could watch the rest of the movie in peace.”
“Yes, I deserted. I really didn’t want to play those games, and I really wanted to see the movie.”
We went on to talk about what we’d done with our lives since then. It turned out the two younger folks are her son and his wife. They never had kids. It kind of bummed Joan out that they made that choice.
“Luckily,” she said, “we all get along. “They were living in a condo, I was living in a condo, and one day we decided to hui our money and find a house. So here we are.”
Our familiarity with each other had grown. I wanted to ask her about her hair, but wouldn’t. Just in case it was chemo.
Then just like that, she said, “You’ve grayed really well. I like the color of your hair.”
“Oh, ah, thanks. You, ah –”
She cuts in, laughing, “You like my bald look, or what?”
“Ah . . .”
“My hair was so thin I decided to go balla-head. Eh, guys these days are all shaving their heads. It’s like a close competition between shaved-heads and tattoos – which one is more popular. All these guys shaving their heads, you know they’re all losing their hair. When’s the last time you saw one of those Hair Club for Men ads? Those guys are going out of business. Eh, way more easy to shave your head than get hair implants. So I figured, whatever. Join the bald club.”
Joan has a great sense of humor. That was, I know, one of the things that attracted me. Now I wish we had dated. Me and this little old Japanese lady.
“Ah,” I said, “I’m glad. You know, when I saw that you had no hair, I wondered if it might be because of something like, you know, chemotherapy.”
She laughed. “Eh! That’s what everybody thinks. Everybody asks me.”
Now I was glad I hadn’t asked.
“Anyway,” she said, “it’s been good talking. Kind of like a reunion.”
“Yes, yes, it was really good to re-meet.”
We both went back to bagging rubbish. At the end of the day, I called out to her to have a great rest of her day. She wished me the same.
When I went into the house, I headed to the bathroom to take a shower. But before I did that, I looked in the mirror.
Sometimes I forget the color of my hair and that I don’t look as young as I used to.
Last year in New York, I was riding the bus uptown during rush hour. While I was standing holding the rail above, a 20-something haole kid stood up and said, “Sir,” gesturing to his seat.
I did a quick doubletake, glancing over both shoulders, before turning back to him. He gestured to the seat again.
I thanked him and sat.
Looking in the mirror, I wondered if Joan saw me as the little old man across the stream?
Lanning Lee 