Part 2: The "Riverside School" Days (1950 - 1955)

The first day of Riverside School, I shit my pants. Honest! Here I was, a first-time first-grader, being dropped off by Dad, who pointed out the first-grade classroom, got me steered in the right direction, then drove off to work. My stomach dropped. Something else dropped too -- a golf ball-sized lump of stuff.

I've always wondered if anyone else smelled it. They probably did, but nobody said anything about it. I went through the whole day with this lump in my shorts. When I got home, I finally got rid of it. We all had a good laugh about it, but I can tell you that my laughter was due more to relief that I made it through the first day, than because I thought it was funny.

And I bet Mom and Dad also wondered if anyone had smelled it. I'll bet they were embarrassed "in absentia." But wait a minute -- think about this: What if EVERY kid in my class had a lump in his/her pants as well? Huh? What if they all did it too? Can you imagine 30 kids, all self-conscious, all with doo-doo between their legs. And what if the teacher also had . . . nah, can't be.

Eleventy-one. Sounds stupid, but that actually was an answer I gave in class. I remember Miss Yanagihara gathering a bunch of us first-graders around the blackboard and asking us what certain numbers were. When 111 came up, I shot my hand up like a flash and could hardly wait until she called on me.

"Eleventy-one!" I blurted out proudly, and puffed my check out as several first-grade heads nodded in agreement. I basked in the glow of peer adoration until I was brought crashing back to earth by Miss Yanagihara's chuckle, and the devastating words, "Wrong! Anybody else know the right answer?"

These things tend to stick with you for a long time. Maybe that's why I hardly volunteered answers in any classes I was in during my career as a student.

One day, Miss Yanagihara brought a tiny baby mejiro to class. Someone had found it on the ground. Obviously, it had fallen from the nest. Or perhaps it was trying out its wings and got lost (say, that reminds me of the story where I got lost after Sunday School a few pages back).

The baby bird was placed in a bird cage, and a piece of papaya was stuck in the cage with it. The bird just chirped merrily and ignored the fruit. Ungrateful bird. I think Miss Yanagihara gave up some of her lunch papaya to feed the bird.

Anyway, class progressed. Everybody kind of forgot about the bird, until Miss Yanagihara shushed us and pointed to the back of the room.

Mama bird had hopped into the classroom, and was sticking her beak through the cage bars and feeding the baby bird. Mother Nature at work! The mama would feed her kid, fly out, fly back in, feed her kid, fly out, fly in . . . you get the idea.

Miss Yanagihara picked up the cage and told us to follow her outside. She set the cage on the ground in the courtyard while we all watched. Just like in the movies, the mama bird flew down, chirpingly berated Miss Yanagihara, chirped a "Follow Me!" in mejiro-talk, and away she and her wayward baby flew.

Everyone was a-buzz about how the mama found and rescued her child. But you know, the only thing I could think about was what Miss Yanagihara was going to have for her lunch now that her papaya was gone. Honest. I worried about things like that. I was a strange kid.

Sister Audrey was born in 1950. Dad trucked Dayle and me down to the hospital, where we looked up and waited for Mom to stick her head out the window and wave to us.

Ekaha Street was a neat street. When we moved there, the street had a chicken yard, a portuguese sausage smoker, a large vegetable patch, a rich contractor, a cane field behind our house, and a cattle rustler. It was the third in a series of streets with strange names one encountered along Waianuenue Avenue on his way to Kaumana. The first was Wiliwili Street, the second was Iwaiwa Street, and the third was Ekaha Street.

Our street was situated just below the Ainako residential area, which itself was situated just below the Kaumana area. It was a cul-de-sac, with 11 homes. Three of them on the left side of the street were built and rented out by Dr. Kutsunai. We lived in the middle one. The first one (on our right) was distinguished by no basement, no porch, and an elevated front yard. Ours was distinguished by a low basement, a large front porch, and a sloping front yard. The third (on our left) was distinguished by a large basement, no front porch, and a regular front yard.

Let's take a look at the neighborhood, starting from the right side of the street as you entered, then coming back down to Waianuenue Avenue.

A Portuguese family lived in the first house. I don't know anything about it, except that over the years, they had a lot of foster children living there.

The family was related to the family in the second house -- the Aguilars (also Portuguese). There's not much to say about them either, except that they used to make portuguese sausage in a little smokehouse. I remember one girl who lived there -- Carol. She was a few years older than I was. And I do remember marveling at her cat's new-born kittens once. The Aguilars had a large "Vee" tree that you could see from the road.

The next house was the one directly across the street from us. According to Mom, the father had been convicted of cattle rustling. They were the Medeiros family. We played a lot with the two kids -- Reggie, and Michael. Reggie was a little retarded and a funny-looking, awkward kid. Michael was actually kind of intelligent. I got my second wasp sting on their porch when we were dive-bombed after knocking down a paper wasp nest.

Then came an empty lot (actually two lots) that variously sported a vegetable garden, weeds, and an old shack of a house.

Next to it was a rather nice home that soon would be occupied by a haole family with a boy that we all liked. I think it was the McKenzies. They had a son, Scott, and a dog -- a cocker spaniel named Freckles. The McKenzies moved in later. They weren't there when we moved in, and they weren't there when we moved out.

At the right side of street's end was the Sonomura family. They were rich. He was a general building contractor who bought a new Cadillac every year. His old Cadillac went to his wife. We didn't see too much of them.

Next to them lived the Kawasaka family. Their daughter Carol was my classmate (Hilo High, 1962). They had two sons -- Gary and I spent a lot of time together, and I can't remember the name of his little brother. They lived next to a gully (they called it the "pali," at the bottom of which the father had set up a basketball net. Mr. Kawasaka, by the way, worked for the State, and actually interviewed me for a job when I applied for a summer job at the Hilo nursery during the summer of 1962.

Heading back to Waianuenue Avenue, the next house belonged to Miss Matsuo. She lived there with her old mother, and I remember the whole neighborhood went to her mother's birthday party one time -- maybe it was her 75th, or 100th, I don't remember.

The funniest thing happened years later when I visited Disneyland for the first time. There used to be a guest book at the end of Main Street where you'd sign your name in your own state book. Guess whose name was just before mine. Miss Matsuo's. Small world!

The Teradas' house was next. They had a son whose name totally escapes me, a daughter, Deane, and a cocker spaniel. They were older kids, so they didn't play with us too much.

Later, when I was in high school, one of my classmates told me he had been talking to Deane, and that she had told him she didn't care for me too much. Her loss. She just didn't appreciate brilliant strange kids. Mr. Terada, by the way, made neat slingshots out of guava branches and gave me one, which I used to shoot a neighbor's kid and almost put her eye out.

The next house was the one on our right. The Wongs lived there -- William and Doris Wong. They had four kids — Marian, Wilton, Laureen and William Junior (everybody called him "Billy Boy").

The Wongs were a neat family. Mr. Wong did all kinds of stuff. He ran a sausage factory (Hilo Meat, later to be known as Miko), and he either ran or took care of a golf driving range. I have lots of stories about the Wongs. Just be patient.

Then came our house. Further details later.

On the other side of our house was the Kutsunai family. No, not Dr. Kutsunai -- his brother and his family. They had two children, but they were much, much older. I believe they were in high school when we moved in. They were the only ones who never cleared out the back portion of their lot. The Wongs had a large backyard, and so did we after Dad hired some church kids of clear out the weeds. Instead, the Kutsunai's backyard was full of California grass.

The last house (actually the first house on the left side when you entered Ekaha Street) was another mystery. But it had a chicken yard. And what a chicken yard. There were regular chickens, ducks, bantam chickens and turkeys there. The fowl population never seemed to diminish, but you can bet your buttons they weren't there just for decoration.

That's it. That's Ekaha Street. I lived there 18 years.

We moved into 25 Ekaha Street during the summer of 1950, just before I entered Riverside School. The house was on a one-third acre lot, which in itself isn't too significant, except for the fact that except for the house, a one-car carport, and the driveway, the entire lot was yard. As in grass, and lots of it.

It always seemed that the grass portion was small and didn't expand much until I was old enough to cut the grass. Then all of a sudden, our entire front, side and backyards were lush with grass. Fast-growing grass. Grass that had to be cut regularly. I learned to hate yard work at 25 Ekaha Street.

The house was not large -- a living room, kitchen, three bedrooms and a bathroom.

Dayle slept in a crib in the master bedroom with Mom and Dad. I had one of the bedrooms all to myself. During my early first-grade career in 1950, when Audrey was born, Dayle moved into the third bedroom. Later in 1952, when Eric was born, Audrey moved in with Dayle. Eric eventually moved in with me, finally leaving Mom and Dad to themselves. But a few years later, Karen was born. It seems as though Mom and Dad always had a crib with a kid in their bedroom.

At the back entrance was a covered concrete "patio" (I used that term advisedly) just outside my bedroom window. There were two sinks there; presumably one was for washing clothes, and one for rinsing them. The water heater was situated there, and there was space for something else -- most likely a washing machine. We never had a washing machine. We used to take our laundry to Obachan's house once a week, and she used to wash, starch, dry and iron our stuff for us.

There were several plants around the house, including a poinsettia plant and a red hibiscus stuck somewhat haphazardly in the backyard. We had crotons, ti plants, English ivy, hibiscus . . . and probably more that I've forgotten. There also was a pile of ashes near the carport (we'll call it a garage from now on), where we burned our rubbish. Outdoor rubbish burning was legal in those days.

At the far end of our backyard was a sugar cane field. This particular cane field would later become famous in the life of Craig Miyamoto.

Like I said, the Kutsunai's backyard was never cleared. The Wongs' was, however, and that made for a large combined backyard area — great for football games.

Wilton Wong was a sort of hero to me. He was four or five years older than I was, and always seemed to be looking out for me. During my first few days at Riverside, he took care of me after school, walking me down to the bus stop, and making sure I got home all right.

One day, an older boy began bullying me around, and just when I was on the verge of breaking out in tears, along came Wilton to confront the nasty bully, stare him down and send him packing.

Wilton and his sister Marian took me along with them on outings often. I'll never forget them.

Although they were more my age, Laureen and Billy Boy are a little hazy in my memory.

I do remember shooting Laureen just above the eye with the slingshot Mr. Terada had given me. Of course, Laureen went bawling to her Mom, who came storming out of the house. She grabbed the slingshot from me and broke it. She actually took that slingshot made out of hard guava wood and snapped it in two with her bare hands! I recall it surprised me then, but now that I think about it, it was an extraordinary physical feat on her part.

She must have really been mad at me. She told Mom and Mom told Dad, and I received my due punishment.

I also remember that Laureen fell out of their car once while their family was coming up Waianuenue Avenue. I never learned the real story, but I always had this sneaking feeling she thought the car had stopped, and so opened the door and stepped out.

As for Billy Boy, he was practically a toddler, and used to wear diapers. Every now and then, there'd be a lump in them, and Laureen would run in to tell Mrs. Wong. Mrs. Wong would come out, scoop Billy Boy up and take him inside. A few minutes later, Billy Boy would reappear, all smiles, with a fresh diaper.

We played a lot of baseball in the Wongs' front yard. Our yard had this gouge taken out of the front, which we never filled, and when the grass grew in, the gouge became...well, a grassy gouge. And believe me, it's hard to play baseball in a gougy front yard.

Like the Barenaba Street football games, the Ekaha Street baseball games were frequently interrupted by a dog. However, instead of a Jimmy dog absconding with a football, we now had a Freckles dog slavering all over the ball. Luckily, we used rubber balls, so the sticky saliva was easy to wash off.

We had all kinds of rules: any ball hit into the Martinez yard was a triple, anything hit into our driveway or beyond was a home run.

If we ran out of batters on one side, the pitcher would have to throw the ball straight up in the air with all his might and the runners on base could advance at their peril (because as soon as the ball came down and the pitcher caught it, he could relay to one of the basemen who could then tag out any runner who happened to be in the vicinity).

Sometimes, though, we'd change the rules whereby the lead runner would forfeit his base position to bat again. Because of these "lack of batter" rules, Billy Boy got to play once in a while. Lumpy diapers and all.

I think the Wongs were the first on our street to get a TV set. It was sometime in the mid-50s, when television in Hawaii was in its infancy. I recall standing in front of their set for a long time the day it arrived, trying to discern pictures from the snow that filled the screen. Meanwhile, Mr. Wong was up on the roof trying to get the antenna at precisely the right angle for an optimum picture.

Every now and then we could see a semi-face on the screen, and everybody would move in a little closer. This went on all day, and when I went home later, I could swear everything was out of focus — my house, the street, Mom, my bedroom.