Found in the sand

At Turtle Bay on Oahu's North Shore, I print out the map to the grail--the birth certificates linking me to   Florence. We dash back to Honolulu with only four hours before our flight leaves for the mainland. I revisit my old stamping ground, the Department of Health Services, and find the same excruciating line.   At last I reach the window and present my docs. I tell her I only have a couple of hours before I get on the plane. "Fine. We'll mail this out to you in four to six weeks." She must have caught a glimpse of my crestfallen face, and said, "Well, maybe I can do this on my lunch hour." Whoever said civil servants are numb, doesn't know the staff at the Hawaii DHS. I bless her, and sit down to ponder why it's so important to have it in my hands while on the island.  I remember the two halves of my quest-- the cause, and where she lived.  I had hoped to find her apartment, and the same view, which was perhaps a fool's errand in the shifting landscape, but

The clerk shows up at the plastic window with a piece of green paper covered in a fountain pen scrawl with blots and crossings out.  I take it, almost not daring to read.

I. Disease or condition directly leading to death: Congestive heart failure. Antecedent causes: Fixed nodal tachycardia, aneurysm...  She was in the hospital five weeks before she died, aged 51. The certificate lists the Father and Mother as "Unknown." Name of husband or wife--blank. She really was alone, at least to the state. Her address was listed as Waikiki Tavern. This was becoming an even sadder story than I had imagined.

I dashed across the wide lawn to the State Library, to the librarian who had kindly helped me before.  "Have you heard of the Waikiki Tavern," I asked Mary Lou, a bit breathless. She was happy I'd found the certificate, but hadn't.  We started searching.  It turns out, it wasn't merely a saloon. It was an Inn, and the only place to buy a meal on Waikiki outside of the swank hotels. The Waikiki Tavern was a curiously designed hotel, restaurant, and lounge with 105 "rooms over" a drugstore, beauty salon, laundry, barbershop and Thayer Piano (advertising ukeleles for sale). The remodel of the Waikiki Inn in 1928 was in the "old Norman" style--I suppose a tip of the hat to the British protectorate some islanders may have still been nostalgic for. It turns out you could see Queen Kapiolani's sacred coconut grove from the lanai.

A bit of further research, aided by my brother, revealed that in the 30s and 40s the Waikiki Tavern was a mecca for California transplants, particularly of the surfing variety.  In the surfing annals, it is cited as an exciting, lively place to live. Where surfers came to share stories and dreams. I hope it was like that  for her. The WT was torn down in the 50s to open up the beachfront. We go to the site at the end of Kuhio Street. A lei-draped bronze of Duke Kahanamoku stands there with his board, framed by the descendants of the Queen's coconut grove. Behind his back, it looks almost exactly like the view from Florence's lanai.

Of diamond heads and ottoman silks

I wait for copies of the requisite birth certificates--mine and my dad's, and can think of no better place to be in a holding pattern than Diamond Head. Walking through a kilometer of sere landscape plus 216 steps through the tufa cone,  I arrive with a flood of other day trippers  to peer over the crater's edge at the remnants of the 1909-built Rutger's Fort. Far below, Waikiki tumbles at the turquoise water edge like so much volcanic spew. I recall walking feeling the still warm lava under my sneakers at Kilauea on the Big Island--and the rolling sensation of the land creating itself. Whether it's surfing the bone crunching 20-foot waves at Waimea, watching the earth open its fiery heart, or the calm lianas vines relentlessly claiming human habitations, Hawaii forces us to give up the illusion of control. Did Florence clamber up here for perspective on the ground changing beneath her? Was Oahu her blue haven?

Later, I visit another long-time single woman's Eden at the foot of Diamond Head-- Doris Duke's Shangri-La. One of the wealthiest women of her time, this heiress to the tobacco tycoon, James B. Duke, swept Islamic treasures from around the world into the walls, ceilings and floors of her Honolulu home. She was reclusive, eccentric and had exquisite design sensibilities. Fortunately for her, there weren't restrictions on exporting ancient art in the 1930s--and she collected 2,500 rare objects, many of which are now considered priceless--riad tile walls, a First century gold urn, Mughal dynasty carved doors. What she couldn't buy, she had made--by 400 Agra villagers*. Enhancements to Shangri La continued until Duke's passing. Her butler and friend reports that she worked long hours, rarely taking a day off, to maintain her treasures--even climbing a ladder to defend the filigree against salt-air corrosion with a toothbrush.

*http://www.shangrilahawaii.org/PageFiles/390/Thalia%20Kennedy%20FINAL%2012%200725.pdf

The people of Hawaii have a historic claim to the shoreline based on rock-solid laws. Through a land swap with the city,  Doris finagled the building of this private cove.

 Hawaii.  The perfect place to disappear.

At death's door

Back on the trail, I finally reach the State Library where I hope to find some trace of my grandmother. The last I knew is that she was here in June of 1946, nine months after the war ended. I slide through microfilm death indexes- 1946, 1947, 1948, 1949--Jan., Feb., March, April, May, June.  Door, Alfred K.; Gonsalves, Jesus; Goo, Yee, Goodness, Fannie; Goto, Grey. Lots of Hamamotos. The rolls reveal Hawaii as melting pot (or racial cauldron).

Finally there she is- 4 lines:
 Reg. No. 1383.
Name: HAMILTON, Florence
Place: Honolulu
Date: June 3, 1949.

She did die here -- in black and white. This number will help me locate her death certificate. Meanwhile, I search the city and county directories for her, and come up with--nothing, except for confirmation of the Bishop Trust Company's hold on things.  How could there be no trace?  I'm told by the librarian, if she had been in the military she wouldn't be listed here. Was she?
She had been in London during the war, working for the government, making contacts. Maybe she joined up here after the war.

With file number 1383, I head for the State Department of Health. Everyone comes here for copies of birth, death, and marriage certificates. I wait, but the line barely moves. I have time to read all the postings.What to do in case of stroke. How to prevent diabetes. The changed laws on getting a first driver's license (must prove identity with birth certificate). Finally I reach the window and show my file number. The gentleman looks it up--finds a reference and asks me for proof that I'm related.  Hmmm. A new wrinkle, not mentioned on their website instructions. I must look a bit desperate as Jesse Koike writes his name on a post-it and suggests I mail in copies of my dad's birth certificate and mine to establish the blood linkage. Otherwise, I'm out of luck.

Empty handed, I visit the banyan, and think about trees walking, putting down roots in the most improbable ways.  Taffy strands pulled between dirt and sky, waterfalls of phloem, haven of Crusoe, and all castaways.

Oahu:The Sky is Falling

10 days in Oahu.  Not many I know choose it when they're island hopping or fanata-sizing about hiking through birdsong throbbing jungles or canoodling in turquoise waters among sea turtles and banana-colored fish.   And yet--here we are:trying not to think about dust-gray Pearl Harbor ships, faux luaus run by Mormons and weak mai-tais siphoned into Waikiki tourists.
I've come to find out what drew my paternal grandmother to Honolulu in 1946 and how she died in 1949, at 51. No death certificate. No family talk of her disappearance over the years. (As far as we know, she lived a solitary life after divorcing when my dad was a toddler.  He never could look at her disappearance squarely, preferring his memory of Central Park summers with her, and their single cruise to South America. ) And yet, she seems to have led her life filled with ambition and verve. Florence flew to London during WWII to work in the Office of War Information, as a civilian. She was a vivid writer, and had planned a round-the-world voyage to research a book. The day he died, my dad still had her ivory-scabbarded sword and Burmese ebony elephant in his t-shirt drawer, along with a few treasured photos and letters. This scant evidence of her existence, and her early death have remained a mystery all my life. My dad kept a photo inscribed, "To Jim, This is the view from my lanai. Love, Mom July 3, 1946." I've come to find that view.

As today is Veteran's Day, all state offices and buildings are shuttered. The quest will have to start tomorrow. Instead I head out for the Foster Botanic Gardens, a few blocks from our hotel. I stop for orchid leis in Chinatown (apparently the airlines have abandoned the lei-draping on arrival, probably along with the free meals and thin blankets) but I still want fragrant blossoms around my neck. Honolulu's Chinatown turns out to be pretty seedy--loads of homeless folks and shuttered cafes and saloons. A few produce stores and humbow shops have particular customers. Oddly, this is also the stomping grounds of fresh-faced Hawaii Pacific students, who don't seem to mind stepping around the sidewalk-sleeping masses. The lei shops line Maunakea street--scent of plumeria and tuberoses mix with hum bao steam and clorox. It's all a bit overpowering so early in the day, so I press on to the gardens.

What doesn't kill you...

A fantastic temple fronts the botanic gardens. Incense and a perpetual flame coax me inside Yuan Kin for a brief moment, then I'm off to the temple of trees.

This critter is fondly called the "sausage tree." 

Wonder if it's filled with Spam 

(the meat of choice 

in the islands--spamandeggs --yummm)

it does seem like the tree gods have it in for the tourists

I'll bring an umbrella with me tomorrow...