I'm sure you are aware that you are the second person I ever met--thus letter number 2. You are my rock, my confidant, my inspiration and, sometimes--can really push my buttons. To put it shortly, every tough decision I've made in my life, I've called you to get some wisdom on. When you weren't available, there was some ethereal you floating in my head, delving out level-headed-both-sides-of-the-story devil's advocate kind of advice.
I remember the moment I realized this fact. I was going through a tough decision at work and was talking it over with Katie and she said, "Call your Dad--you always do." It's kind of a beautiful thing, when someone who knows you so well knows who your person is before you have the chance to voice it to yourself. That's you, pop: my person. You have read the newspaper and drank two cups of tea every day for my entire life. Do you know who reads the newspaper? People who care about the planet, who analyze the world around them with such meticulous and balanced evaluation that the tightrope we all precariously march across becomes a bit wider for them. Do you know who drinks tea? The British.
You age with grace, power (think of all your cool powerful Hilo connections. Mayor? Yup. Supreme Chancellor of the University? Yup. The Hawaiian community? Yup.) and perhaps my favorite, an I-don't-give-a-shit-anymore kind of attitude. Now--I can already hear you replying in your head to me "I don't give a 'shit', what is that supposed to mean Lei?". That's you pushing my buttons. What I mean, dear father, is that you're entering the realm of retirement with a renewed sense of self--I think. You crack more ridiculous jokes:
You are letting your goatee and your hair grow out to a hippie length, going to the doctor more often (thank you, by the way--that always worried me about you) and call me spontaneously to get some daddy-daughter time.
I remember going to the fair with you when I was in high school and I totally played that old 50s trick--"Daddy, that giant fuzzy bear is SOOO cute!!" I won. Without a thought, you shelled out a twenty and won me that damn bear like a boss. You still hold my hand in public and I think it's the best. You and I can rock more than a few margaritas while you play hooky from work and have a great time speculating about the state of the universe for hours.
You're such a mountain man. Remember when you took me to work on the mountain? We'd leave the truck behind when we couldn't drive in any further, hike in and encounter a herd of wild cattle and you'd say something surreptitiously cautious about how wild bulls are extremely aggressive--then proceed to the hill ahead (upwind of course) and do this ridiculous bull call that would immediately clear the herd from where we were walking. You tell stories of being chased by every large ungulate out there and blow vuvuzelas at bull elephants with your helpless daughter at the wheel of our escape vehicle.
Can't wait to make more memories with you, Daddy. I love you, and always appreciate being your favorite daughter!
Leina`ala
P.S. Us in Polokwane for the World Cup with our infamous vuvuzelas:
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