Mele from Heaven

Today's sunrise

The line stretched from the entrance to half-way around the large building, yet doors wouldn't be open for 30-minutes. Infectious laughter punctuated the scene under fast-closing dark clouds. It was a good-looking crowd: predominantly trim and healthy-appearing. Their tan skin contrasted nicely with their silver- and white-colored hair. Baby boomers all.

If you didn't know better, you could mistake the event for a Neil Young or Bonnie Raitt concert. Execpt no one seemed stoned.

No, it was kupuna hour at CostCo. The big box emporium was holding its first such event at its outlet in Lihue, opening its doors to elders-only at 8am.

Barbara and I were right there in the middle of it, listening to locals chat and laugh. Yet we weren't quite feeling that way. Surely people understand the gravity of the threat. A few were wearing gloves and masks.

I think it was a sign of the aloha spirit of the island. Islanders seem grounded in talking story, laughing and embracing community.

The lady in front of us pointed out a rainbow on the other side of the parking lot.

"A sign of good luck," she and Barbara told each other. They both laughed. A floral scent lingered.

Somewhere over the CostCo parking lot

As we walked into the store, a sign at the entrance listed products that were out of stock. These included sanitizing tissues, bleach and of course, toilet paper. The most essential product in America.

Being experienced kupuna, we had a strategy for our storewide attack.

We would counter-flow. Go left rather right.

I wore gloves and pushed the shopping cart. Barbara picked up items and placed them in the cart. It worked for a while. Maybe it's us, but we've never been able to remain tethered in CostCo, or any place that has more than two aisles. She was gone before I knew it.

It was all good. Back in the car with our supplies stashed in back, Barbara looked at me.

"At least we didn't need toilet paper."

On the way home we listened to the community radio station that played Hawaiian music. Traffic was light on two-lane Kuhio Highway. The triangular-shaped hills were shadow green silhouettes. It was too dark for sunglasses. Rain fell lightly on our windshield. Our wipers rubbed against the glass, a stressed sound that harshly counter-balanced stringed instruments playing beautiful mele.

In places the rain came in greater quantities, then stopped when we passed through Anahola beneath the Sleeping Giant.

Onward north we noted the road where Isabel, Viva and Mystiko live. Rain misted on the windshield like tears from heaven as we silently listened to a woman on the radio in traditional Hawaiian prayer chant.