use a mirror,” said Bonnie. “And a pencil with a large eraser.”
“Draw something fun,” Midori advised. “Something that makes you happy. Even a small
quilt will require many, many days, so it should be something that you enjoy and want
to keep forever.”
“I can’t think of anything at the moment.”
“The more you know of Hawaii, the more inspiration you will find. My nephew, Hinano
Paoa, might be able to offer you some guidance. He’s expecting you.”
“Today?”
“This afternoon. He’ll be in his shop, and he said you should feel free to stop by
whenever you have time.”
Bonnie helped Midori clean up from the pattern designing lesson, left a note on Claire’s
desk explaining that she was going on a research trip, and set off with a notebook
tucked into her purse and her cell phone set to vibrate. Midori’s directions took
her through Lahaina beyond the route she and Claire had taken earlier that day to
a part of town she had not visited before. Once Bonnie was sure she had taken a wrong
turn, but a young woman working behind the counter at a surf shop assured her she
was only a few blocks away.
She heard faint melodic strumming before she saw the sign above the door: NÄ MELE HAWAI‘I MUSIC SHOP. At the sight, she gasped and froze in place, staring: gold letters on a red background,
the same size, same typeface as the sign that had once hung above the door to Grandma’s
Attic. Then she blinked and shook herself. It was not exactly the same, only similar.
This sign was a bit smaller than hers, and the rustic quality to the letters had a
Polynesian look whereas hers had been quaintly country.
She missed her quilt shop, so naturally, painfully, she caughtglimpses of it everywhere, just as she sometimes thought she recognized the faces
of absent loved ones in a crowd of strangers. Sights, smells, sounds—any of her senses
could be triggered, reminding her of the shop she had built from the ground up and
lost. Even in Maui, completely new and unfamiliar, she risked the pull of memory.
Instinctively she dug into her purse and checked her cell phone—no voicemails, battery
fully charged as she had known it would be. Chiding herself, she took a deep breath
and entered the store just as a young man about the age of her younger son was leaving,
a ukulele tucked under his arm.
She entered and discovered that the shop was unexpectedly small, a little wider than
the front door and storefront window, with shelves of books and sheet music near the
front, where a few curious tourists mingled among serious shoppers. Behind the long
counter at the back of the room hung ukuleles of various sizes and wood grains, dark
and light, graceful, gleaming, and beautiful. A white-haired man with skin the color
of caramel sat on a tall stool near the cash register, strumming a dark ukulele while
three customers listened, enthralled. The poignant melody tickled Bonnie’s memory,
and after a few measures she recognized not a traditional Hawaiian tune, but one of
her favorite songs, the Beatles’ “Here, There, and Everywhere.”
She smiled.
As the last notes faded, everyone in the store burst into applause. The man good-naturedly
waved off the praise, carefully placed the ukulele into a case lying open on the counter,
and rang up the purchase. As the customer left with his two companions, carrying the
ukulele case as if it cradled something rare and precious, Bonnie approached the counter.
She tried to catch the man’s eye, but he hadalready turned to take down another instrument from a shelf beside a closed door.
“Excuse me,” she said. “Are you Hinano Paoa?”
“The one and only.” When he turned around to set the ukulele on the counter, Bonnie
realized the thick white hair was misleading. He looked to be no older than she, with
only a few lines around kind, intelligent eyes that quickly sized her up. “You Bonnie?”
“Yes,” she
“Draw something fun,” Midori advised. “Something that makes you happy. Even a small
quilt will require many, many days, so it should be something that you enjoy and want
to keep forever.”
“I can’t think of anything at the moment.”
“The more you know of Hawaii, the more inspiration you will find. My nephew, Hinano
Paoa, might be able to offer you some guidance. He’s expecting you.”
“Today?”
“This afternoon. He’ll be in his shop, and he said you should feel free to stop by
whenever you have time.”
Bonnie helped Midori clean up from the pattern designing lesson, left a note on Claire’s
desk explaining that she was going on a research trip, and set off with a notebook
tucked into her purse and her cell phone set to vibrate. Midori’s directions took
her through Lahaina beyond the route she and Claire had taken earlier that day to
a part of town she had not visited before. Once Bonnie was sure she had taken a wrong
turn, but a young woman working behind the counter at a surf shop assured her she
was only a few blocks away.
She heard faint melodic strumming before she saw the sign above the door: NÄ MELE HAWAI‘I MUSIC SHOP. At the sight, she gasped and froze in place, staring: gold letters on a red background,
the same size, same typeface as the sign that had once hung above the door to Grandma’s
Attic. Then she blinked and shook herself. It was not exactly the same, only similar.
This sign was a bit smaller than hers, and the rustic quality to the letters had a
Polynesian look whereas hers had been quaintly country.
She missed her quilt shop, so naturally, painfully, she caughtglimpses of it everywhere, just as she sometimes thought she recognized the faces
of absent loved ones in a crowd of strangers. Sights, smells, sounds—any of her senses
could be triggered, reminding her of the shop she had built from the ground up and
lost. Even in Maui, completely new and unfamiliar, she risked the pull of memory.
Instinctively she dug into her purse and checked her cell phone—no voicemails, battery
fully charged as she had known it would be. Chiding herself, she took a deep breath
and entered the store just as a young man about the age of her younger son was leaving,
a ukulele tucked under his arm.
She entered and discovered that the shop was unexpectedly small, a little wider than
the front door and storefront window, with shelves of books and sheet music near the
front, where a few curious tourists mingled among serious shoppers. Behind the long
counter at the back of the room hung ukuleles of various sizes and wood grains, dark
and light, graceful, gleaming, and beautiful. A white-haired man with skin the color
of caramel sat on a tall stool near the cash register, strumming a dark ukulele while
three customers listened, enthralled. The poignant melody tickled Bonnie’s memory,
and after a few measures she recognized not a traditional Hawaiian tune, but one of
her favorite songs, the Beatles’ “Here, There, and Everywhere.”
She smiled.
As the last notes faded, everyone in the store burst into applause. The man good-naturedly
waved off the praise, carefully placed the ukulele into a case lying open on the counter,
and rang up the purchase. As the customer left with his two companions, carrying the
ukulele case as if it cradled something rare and precious, Bonnie approached the counter.
She tried to catch the man’s eye, but he hadalready turned to take down another instrument from a shelf beside a closed door.
“Excuse me,” she said. “Are you Hinano Paoa?”
“The one and only.” When he turned around to set the ukulele on the counter, Bonnie
realized the thick white hair was misleading. He looked to be no older than she, with
only a few lines around kind, intelligent eyes that quickly sized her up. “You Bonnie?”
“Yes,” she
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