Our old house lot in Kapoho was covered with lava a few days ago. The poem below describes the original Kapoho of my childhood, not the current Kapoho:
Once There Was a Kapoho
Once there was a Kapoho
Where children played barefooted
Until the evening sun disappeared
And kerosene lamps and gas lamps
Beckoned each child home.
Once there was a Kapoho
Where outhouses and water tanks
Prominently stood as sentinels
And ohi’a firewood sent signals
Above rooftops, announcing
A hot furo* for the tired and the toiled.
Once there was a Kapoho
Where mothers pumping sewing machines
Marked the end of summer.
Homemade clothes and one-strapped schoolbags
For the first of September.
Once there was a Kapoho
Without television,
But battery-run radios,
Crackling “The Romance of Helen Trent,”
Dr. Malone and Arthur Godfrey.
Once there was a Kapoho
Without washing machines
But wooden washboards
Against concrete tubs
Slippery, muddy denims
Boiled in Saloon Pilot cans.
Once there was a place
Without shopping malls and Macy’s,
But catalogs from Sears and Montgomery Ward,
Dream-makers, before Charmin or MD.
Once there was Christmas without lights.
Yes, once there was a place
So simple and free
Where children swam in Warm Springs
And fished in Green Lake,
Played marbles and Ojame
And Steal Steal Stone.
Once there was a place
Where life went on without question.
Sons went off to war,
Teachers taught the 3 Rs
Parents were the PTA
And children pledged allegiance.
Yes, once there was such a place
Until Madam Pele** said, “No more!”
And scattered all the children
Like stars in the universe,
Echoing Thomas Wolfe,
“You can’t go home again.”
From Kapoho: Memoir of a Modern Pompeii
* furo: bath
**Kapoho was destroyed by lava flows. Madame Pele, fire goddess in Hawai’ian lore, is believed to be the creator of eruptions.
