Lahaina Trilogy
Lahaina Trilogy
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Dead and Buried in a Cane Field is an honest look at Hawaii when it is less rainbows, waterfalls, and sunshine and more loneliness, hardship, and frustration.
To be onipa’a is to be steadfast, strong, and resolute. I love Lahaina Town, but building a home there was both a monumental challenge and the greatest accomplishment of my life. Hawai’i will test your courage and commitment to whatever dream you’re chasing in more ways than you may imagine.
So, before you go wheels up, know what you’re getting into and why most transplants don’t last a year
Excerpts
Chapter 3: “Red Dirt Deal”
The following day, Tom called to let me know the plans had been corrected.
“I should hope so,” I said, wondering why he’d really called and why he sounded so cheerful.
“And I have a great deal for you,” he said eagerly.
“A deal? What kind of deal?” I asked suspiciously.
“Your lot slopes down about two feet from front to back. I can level it out for you, and it won’t cost you a dime.”
“Really. How’s that?” I asked, remembering that my husband Kevin had also mentioned the change in grade and was worried about ponding and mosquitoes when it rained.
“I have a lot of excess material on one of my job sites. I’ll haul it in and let you have it for free.”
And let me have it, he did.
Having been heretofore unfamiliar with the hideousness of red dirt, I couldn’t think of a single reason not to let him do me this colossal favor. After all, maybe he was trying to make up for the debacle of the day before. It didn’t occur to me that he just needed to get rid of it, or that he would have had to pay to dump it elsewhere, or that I was the only person in the whole state stupid enough to take it.
Three days later, a mound of red dirt began to grow like a giant mushroom on my lot. It was a color I hadn’t seen before except for the “Red Dirt” shirts they sold to tourists in town. It was powder-fine, and as each successive truck backed in and upended its box to let ten more yards slide out, a cloud boiled up like an atomic bomb, rising and spreading over everything. It hit the ground and wafted into the air again, almost settling before another truck arrived—beep, beep, beep—and backed in to poop out another load.
Enough! I called Tom, but of course, it went straight to voicemail.
Finally, a dozen trucks later, it stopped, and I knew I’d been had. With every step, a powdery cloud heaved out from under my flip-flops, making me cough hard enough to rupture a lung. It easily migrated into the cottage (which was about as airtight as a cheese grater) and settled over everything. It was on my floors and walls, in my cabinets, on my keyboard, and in my modem and monitor. It was up my nose, and in my eyes and ears, and into that part of my brain called the amygdala where rage and aggression are stored, filling it to capacity.
Chapter 7
I was interrupted by a knock at the door. “Shit,” I said. “I think he’s here.”
Hanging up, I took a deep breath and donned my imaginary cape, preparing myself … for what? I had no idea.
“Good morning,” he said. “Are you the owner here?”
“Yes,” I answered. “Why?”
“I’m with code compliance. Your cottage is too close to the new house.”
“What do you mean, too close?” I asked.
“Maui county code says there must be a minimum of fifteen feet between dwellings. I measured, and you have only thirteen feet,” he said.
“Thirteen?”
“Yes, setback is fifteen, and you have only thirteen.”
“So what do you want me to do?”
“You must demolish this structure before you can resume construction on the other.”
“But I live here. We will demolish this one when that one is done.” I said, pointing in turn to each structure.
My thoughts were racing. No damned way. Gearing up for an argument, I stepped outside and studied the distance between the house and my cottage.
“You’re saying it’s thirteen feet from the house to … where exactly?” I asked.
He took a few steps and stood next to a four-by-four precariously balanced on a cinderblock. It was one of two supporting the corners of a corrugated tin roof over a makeshift lanai in my side yard.
“Right here,” he said, emphatically planting his shoe next to the post.
Following his gaze, I put my hand against the four-by-four and looked up.
This corner? Really? Gee inspector, you’re a genius, I thought, having already found the solution.
“So, you’re saying I have to tear down my cottage and find another place to live while I’m building. Is that right?” I asked, baiting him.
“Yes, I think so,” he said.
“No way around it?” I pressed.
He shook his head.
“I see, and is there anything we need to do before we tear it down? Or can we just go at it?” I asked innocently. “No permit or anything?”
“No need,” he answered.
“Are you sure?” I asked. “Because we didn’t get one when we demolished the front house and der was one beeg kine stink.”
“Oh, I uh ... Maybe I check on dat,” he fumbled.
“Okay, no hurries. It will take me a long time to find another place to live anyway. What’s another year or two?” I added with all the sarcasm I could muster.
Without responding, he turned and skulked away like a kicked puppy. I watched as he crossed the street and drove away in a car with the county emblem on the door, “Ua Mau ke ea o Ka`Āina i Ka Pono.” (The life of the land is perpetuated in righteous.) I felt a twinge of guilt, a very small twinge, but still a twinge.
Going inside I came out with tools of destruction: a sledgehammer and crowbar. From the middle of the yard, I squinted against the morning sun, studying the four-by-four posts and the place where the roof of the lanai (obviously a post-construction afterthought) was joined to the cottage. It was held in place by long, rusty nails in half a dozen rafter tails. Gauging the trajectory and visualizing where it appeared it would contact the round, it seemed the cottage would be spared—unless the impact brought it down too.
Hmm, maybe I should remove my valuables just in case. It would only take thirty seconds. Then, fearing I’d lose my nerve, I decided, Oh screw it! If it comes down, I’m done for anyway.
I got a grip on the sledgehammer and, tapping the post lightly at the bottom, thought, This has to be a home run.
Pulling back, I swung so hard it stung my hands but the post moved only partway off the block.
Shaking out my hands, I bit my lip and tried again. It left the block, and the roof dropped a foot, but clung to the cottage with bent, rusty fingers. It began to creak and groan but settled back into complacency.
Damn!
Attacking the post on the other corner with increased vengeance, I was able to knock it free on the first hit. The roof dropped another two feet.
Tenacious buggah. I’ll show you!
Hooking the curled end of the crowbar over the edge, I yanked as hard as I could— nothing. Pulling up my feet to use my weight, I bounced—still nothing. Changing tools, I stood on a plastic chair and hit it with the sledgehammer. The chair toppled, but the roof remained resolute.
Sweat gathered in my eyebrows and flash-flooded my face. What if I climb up on the roof and jump on it? (A bad idea, if ever.) Just then the nails began to make short, squeaky, popping sounds, and I heard an ominous moan as if the roof were giving in. I jumped back to watch as it finally came down in cloud of red dust, hitting the ground and sparing the kitchen window.
There ya go! Now, the cottage and the house are fifteen feet apart.
I’d just dropped the sledgehammer when I heard Mike and Louie pull in. Waving away the dust, I saw them looking at me at me through the windshield with their mouths agape. I smiled my biggest, most satisfied smile.