We first heard the news during our English class. Mrs. Chang told us that Hilo High was going to have its first school carnival that year. What an exciting development! A delegation of teachers had gone to McKinley High School in Honolulu to observe, absorb and learn how to run a successful carnival. And, we were going to try one this year.

A student talent show would be part of the festivities, and the sophomore class was responsible for putting it together. So, one lunch hour, a bunch of us sat around for about a half-hour discussing what needed to be done.

The first thing we needed was a name for the show. Nobody had any good ideas. As you know, speaking-up was not exactly my forte. But these unimaginative people were getting nowhere and I couldn't stand it no more. I had to speak up.

"Let's just call it 'The Bottom of the Barrel,' I blurted out in disgust. Great idea! What a fabulous name! Craig Miyamoto, hero! And so it was that my first creative contribution was a winner.

So was the show itself. I don't remember every act, but the one that brought down the house was when my classmate Keith Ching did a stand-up, low-key comedy routine with his banjo (plucked a few strings, strummed a few chords, but never did play the danged thing). Laughed till my cheeks ached. A real winner.

Too bad I can't say the same thing about the carnival. It was a one-day affair, Waianuenue Avenue was closed and special parking was available (they used the "herringbone" layout) on the street. School closed early and the students were allowed to attend.

We each had jobs in shifts, and my specific responsibility was to stay somewhat near to the main electrical switch. In case of fire, I was to run over to the switch and turn off all of the electricity. Today, I wonder what would have happened if I threw the switch by mistake and people got hurt. It was an awesome responsibility for a 16-year-old kid.

As a self-involved teenager, it was appropriate that I would spend all the money I had on games and rides. Never thought to buy any food (laulaus, kalua pig and corn) to take home. Never thought of it. But Dad did. And then he told me so. I never felt so selfish in my life. Good lesson.

But, to make a long story short, there really isn't too much worth remembering about the carnival. Apparently it was a failure because we never did it again. Rest in peace.

Bomb scares were the vogue during my first year in high school. We had dozens of them.

The first time was early one morning, just as home room opened. We were told to go across the street to the Hilo Intermediate School grounds, and wait for further instructions. The word came rather quickly: Go home. Of course, nobody went home. We all went into town and played.

A few days later, another one. This time, they sent us across the street again, did a quick search, and ordered us back to class.

A few days later, another one. "Students, some idiot just called and said there is a bomb in the school. Please, etc., etc." This time, they asked us to search the classroom we were in, then simply leave the building. A few minutes later, they gave the "all clear," and sent us back to class.

A few days later, another one. "Just search your room and continue class." We were beginning to take these things for granted now, and nobody really believed the bomb threats anymore. This would have been the perfect time for a real terrorist to do his thing.

Then one day, we heard that they had caught the guilty party. It was a friend of mine. Apparently, he had dropped a note he had written that said "There is a bomb at Hilo High School," or something like that.

Now, I knew him real well; we had bummed around together in intermediate school a lot and had a lot of good times together. I think he probably did this as a joke, never meaning to show it to anybody.

Unfortunately, he got caught with the note and the school needed someone to blame, so after being questioned by the police and after causing his parents considerable embarrassment, he was thrown out of school.

And, like all Hilo High School kids who were expelled, he was enrolled in St. Joseph's High School and finished up there. It still ticks me off that he was made the scapegoat. I kind of lost touch with him, and often wonder what he's doing now.

We got a new car again, a blue Chrysler with a revolutionary "push-button" transmission that replaced the normal gear-shift stick that was attached to the steering column.

Dad was feeling a little disappointed that the blue color turned out so bright blue, and told Mom he should have gotten a black one -- more befitting his stature as a doctor. After all, he reasoned, a black car would have been much more professional. So of course, Mom talked to all of us kids and urged us to express our innermost feelings to Dad -- about how much we loved the blue color and how it made him look so professional when he was behind the wheel.

That car had a big engine and could really move out. Once I took Gary Sato home and he said he wanted to see me lay down some rubber on his street. I punched the neutral button and slowly depressed the accelerator until it touched the floor. Then, I punched the drive button and the car powered out, tires screeching and smoke pouring out where the tires met the road.

When the screeching stopped, I relaxed on the accelerator (I wasn't going very fast), and checked out the scene in the rear-view mirror. Gary was jumping up and down, and there were two long, black tire marks on the street -- at least 20-feet long. What a car!

I never really succumbed to hot-rodding. Couldn't. After all, Dad was a highly respected man in town, and I was his son. But, I did push the Chrysler to 80 miles per hour on the bay front highway. Eric was in the car with me. We flew like the wind over the asphalt (I could almost say "tarmac" because it seemed we were going fast enough to take off like an airplane).

As soon as I hit 80, I let up on the accelerator and began braking. It took a long time -- a helluva long time -- to bring the car down to manageable speed. Eric and I were really squeezing, but fortunately, we dropped to a safe speed before we reached the curve that joined Kamehameha Avenue just before Waiakea Town.

It was our secret, right? Nope. Eric blurted out during dinner that Craig had gone 80 miles an hour in the car! Wow! Really? Wasn't that a stupid thing to do? What if you got into an accident and the only two Miyamoto boys with any chance to perpetuating the family name died? You're not driving for a whole month! That'll give you time to think about what you did.

Macho Craig. Hotrod Man!

In intermediate school, some of the brighter students were recruited to learn how to run the movie projector. We were called upon to perform our duties at various times, allowing us to be excused from class. It was very prestigious.

I joined the Projector Operator Club in high school, thinking that it also was a prestigious organization. Nope. No brainy people there. Just good, old-fashioned, ordinary C-average guys. I enjoyed it.

I got to know Gary Sato's brother, Wayne, real well. Wayne was a senior who had the reputation of being a great lover, a real sex machine. According to legend, he had sex with dozens of girls. Of course, I jumped at the chance to get to know him better.

Unlike intermediate school, where they only called you when you were needed, we spent our study hall time in a small "projection room." So, there were always three or four of us together at the same time, every day -- me, Wayne, and two Hawaiian guys.

We'd talk about down-to-earth stuff, except when we talked about sex. I soon figured out that Wayne's legendary sexual prowess was probably overblown. He had a girlfriend, a real nice girl. For some reason, I remember her name was Irene Tasaka, and that she worked part-time at Robert's Bakery.

Wayne talked about his sexual exploits a lot, but I suspect it was just a lot of bravado. Sex had gone to his head; in other words, he thought about it a lot. No different from the rest of us. Wishful thinking. Once Wayne and I did a bad thing.

There were several different "gangs," in school, all loosely based on barefoot football teams. They sported names like the Lincoln Wreckers, and the Waiakea Pirates. Each congregated in specific areas in school, and they all ate lunch together. They'd bring their lunches in brown paper bags from home and store them on top of the lockers. At lunch-time, they'd all get together, sit down in a circle, and chow away.

We thought it would be a cool thing to swipe a couple of lunches and eat them while we were showing a morning movie in the auditorium. So, we sneaked down and swiped one each. What a disappointment. All we found were a couple of musubis and some cold vienna sausages in each.

The experience gave me a chance to reflect on how unfortunate some people really were. I mean, rice and vienna sausages for lunch? You mean some kids couldn't afford to buy the school's hot lunch for only a quarter a day?