Get me a Motorcycle
And so my friend Mary and I ventured out into the country, on our way to Pope Valley.
We had no plans from Sacramento to Pope Valley, except to stop where the spirit drove us.
“This place is usually busy with bikers,” Mary explained. “They’re noted for their egg rolls. Let’s drop in.” Not even a motorcycle in sight.
Turtle Rock is a bar located somewhere, nowhere on earth. It’s one of those places that appears in black and white in old photographs of time past.
Oh my. The ceiling was covered with dollar bills. Hundreds and hundreds of dollar bills hanging like Charlie Brown’s tails of kites that never made it. There were messages, phone numbers and words of wisdom on each dollar.
Fascinated, I took a crisp dollar out and Pete, owner of the bar handed me a black felt pen.
What can I write over George’s face? I wrote Aloha. Kapoho. If I owned a motorcycle, I would have written my phone number.
(IF you haven’t noticed, Kapoho is the place of my birth in remote Hawaii and is also the title of my newest book: Kapoho: Memoir of a Modern Pompeii.)
Owner Pete practically jolted me out of my skin when he said, “Kapoho? I know that place.”
His wife is from Hawaii, his mother-in-law retired as a music teacher from Iolani School where one of my nieces was a student. We “talked story” about the connections between us and I felt I was on the old wooden porch of our house in old Kapoho. The Big Island, island of my birth, is his favorite. He promised to purchase my book for his wife. Wow.
I ate one of the famed egg rolls. It’s broke da mouth good, as we say in Hawaii.
So bikers, look for my dollar bill and ask owner Pete to tell you about Kapoho. He may even lead you to the nearest book shop.
Capell Valley Rd