Well, 2010 has just flown by and July’s here already, which means it’s already mid-summer and we’re finally grandparents (just call me Gigi, haha). Yes, we are now blessed with a little grandson that my wife can spoil and dote over. When I look into his cute little face (I’m not kidding, he really is cute!), he seems to encapsulate facets of so many of us whose DNA is intertwined with his own. I am jazzed, just like I was jazzed when his mother was born. Unlike the first time I ever saw and held our own children as newborns however, this time I’m not overwhelmed by the mantle of responsibility of his young life…rightfully so, that mantle belongs to his mommy and daddy. Instead, I experience feelings of continuity and tradition, also seeing in him, the many faces of those who preceded us. Looking at other family members gathered in the crowded Post-Partum room to welcome the newest addition, I wonder if the other relatives feel the same.

Whether we know it or not, each of us lives in our own little world, shaped by our own perceptions, our own memories, our own huge bag of experiences. For most of us, it is, at best, an imperfect archive and outlook to the true reality of what has, is and will happen. And, while we share our lives with those around us, we do so with different sets of eyes, filtering what we see, hear and touch according to our own subjective realities.

A few months ago, we were visiting my uncle’s nice old home near the slopes of Diamond Head. It’s a home that, together with his two brothers, they designed, contracted out and put in a lot of their own labor to build over 60 years ago. When I was a kid, we’d often go to family gatherings there and I would play with my cousins and watch my relatives playing cards, drinking coffee and smoking their cigarettes while talking story into the wee hours of the morning. Sadly, all but three of the many uncles and aunties I so enjoyed being around and talking to back then, have passed on. Uncle and Auntie are well into their 80’s these days, both coping with declining health and basically are home-bound so their only son, my cousin Scott, has temporarily moved back from Sacramento to help them out. Anyways, I was visiting Uncle, and over dinner, I suggested that they might consider removing their carpeting to reveal the original wood floor which would make the use of walkers and wheelchairs easier. Uncle recalled that the underlying floor was constructed of expensive koa wood. This wood floor was highly prized for its hardness, durability and beauty in the “olden days”. My wife could only remember their house being carpeted. Joining in his reminiscing, I could vaguely envision that beautiful, shiny koa floor from our family parties there decades ago. And as I thought we were sharing common memories, he surprised me by saying, “There are quite a few nicks and marks on that floor from the glass baby bottles you broke on it, Wesley.” This new information shook me out of my reverie and I asked, “When was this?” He went on to remind me of things I had been told as a child, but had forgotten over the years.

A few years after WWII, both my mom and dad were federal employees on the island of Okinawa. They got married there, and I was conceived there. My dad, however, insisted that I be born back here in Hawaii, then a territory of the United States. So my pregnant mom left the civil service and returned to Hawaii to live in the family home by Diamond Head, shared by my three uncles and grandfather. This house, therefore, was my first home…I think I was a toddler by the time my dad finished his work in Okinawa and we moved to veteran’s housing in Manoa Valley. So while I thought that I was just visiting my uncle’s house and remembering the occasional family party there….through my uncle’s eyes, I was returning “home” for the first time in many years. Kind of reminds me of that scene in “Rainman”, where a young, brash Tom Cruise is trying to bond with an older, autistic brother he never knew he had, while “Rainman” (Raymond) was perfectly remembering his little baby brother (Tom) and singing songs to him as if thirty years had passed since they were last together.

Uncle’s revelation also helped me remember a long-forgotten story my mom had told me about the early morning I was born. When the time came, her oldest brother (Uncle Johnny) had rushed out and sped her to the hospital. Normally a very serious, taciturn man, he was so excited by my impending birth, he didn’t realize until they arrived at Queen’s, that he was still in his pajamas. This was so out of character for him that she still chuckled when describing the event. My earliest memory at the house was of the youngest brother (Uncle Nobu) awaking from a nap on the koa floor, complaining of ant bites. I have a fuzzy vision of my grandfather (Gigi) rolling one of his cigarettes, drinking Sanka coffee, telling me, “Wa-su-re, you go sheep-e” (translation: Go take your nap.) . It’s strange, the bits and pieces that the mind chooses to retain over the years.

Gigi passed away in 1958. Uncle Nobu died in his sleep when he was only 52. Mom had a heart attack at 47. Uncle Johnny (California) was diagnosed with Parkinson’s some 8 years ago, suffered a stroke shortly thereafter, and is now confined to a wheelchair, apparently oblivious to the world. These things, while sad, rarely enter my world and belong to the passing of a previous generation. Gigi passed when I was not quite 7 years old, both Uncle Johnny and Uncle Nobu moved with their families to the mainland in the 1950’s. Mom’s been gone nearly 35 years. For me, with the exception of my mom, these wonderful members of my family are mostly tidbits of memories, pictures and sound bites. But I realize that for Uncle Shige, the memories of each one is still vibrant, colorful, detailed and strong and I imagine that he misses each one deeply. We co-inhabit the same world and yet we live in an entirely different time and place that’s reserved for each of us.

My dad has never been a very articulate man. He often uses old quotes and cliches to capture those moments when he is spurred by bouts of “Deep Thoughts”. Yet, I know that his feelings and memories are as true and complex as anyone’s, it’s just that his words to describe these are somewhat limited. Nowadays, more and more, I hear him say with deep conviction, “Time waits for no man.” So cliche, so simple, so obvious, so obtuse….and yet, so very true. In that spirit, I let the reality sink, in that my daughter and son-in-law have blessed us with a grandson, the first of a new generation. I still remember so well, the day his mother was born and the first time I held her littleness in my arms. Now it’s their turn. Their turn to build new memories, to overcome new challenges, to enjoy and embrace their new world. Though I see my daughter so clearly, I also see multiple images of her through the eyes of old memories; from babe to child to woman to mother. I also know that my daughter and son-in-law will always look back to this special day no matter how their son grows and becomes a man to take the place that the Lord has prepared for him in this world. I know that she will always carry memories of the years spent in our home, under our stewardship, no matter that she becomes the matriarch of a new generation in her own right. In future years, I will also try my best to make sure that my little grandson gets to know me as more than just tiny tidbits of memories of an old man, shuffling along with his cup of coffee. As my dad would probably say to his new great-grandson…”Welcome to my world, won’t you come on in.”