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Tomorrow Will Be Here
Soon Enough
By
Cathy Corcoran |
 The
Christmas I was 13 years old, my father gave me a copy of
James Michener’s book, Hawaii. It was a big heavy grown-up
book, more than 1,000 pages long, filled with stories of the
Polynesians, the Chinese, the Japanese and the white
missionaries who made Hawaii. I dove into it Christmas
afternoon and didn’t come up for air until several days
later. My head was filled with those wonderful stories. I
was determined to see Hawaii for myself.
Years later, my boyfriend’s Aunt Peggy was bemoaning the
sorry state of our college education. Aunt Peggy came from
the wealthy side of the family. She turned her nose up to
see us living at home and taking the trolley every day to
Boston State College.
“Too bad you couldn’t go to a good school like UMass,” she
said, sniffing delicately. Peggy knew perfectly well that no
one could afford to send Bob or me to Amherst, and we were
lucky to be in college at all. She just liked to remind us
that she had more money than we did.
Bob took her remarks as the insults they were intended to
be. “If I went away to school, I wouldn’t go to Amherst,” he
said. “I’d go to... I’d go to the University of Hawaii.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Me, too.” I never liked Aunt Peggy.
Peggy laughed at us, but my head was already filled with
stories from the book Hawaii. Later that day, Bob and I
started writing away for catalogs. A year later, he was in
graduate school at the University of Hawaii and I was along
for the ride, taking part-time courses and doing a lot of
snorkeling at Hanauma Bay.
It was so expensive to live there! Bob and I were broke, but
the beaches were free, as were the flowers and the palm
trees. We went to the free hula show at the International
Marketplace every week and walked among the rich tourists
from all over the world.
But Waikiki wasn’t the “real” Hawaii. We wanted to see the
other islands, too. “Maui No Ka Oi,” the Hawaiians say.
“Maui is the best,” so Bob, our friend John and I scraped
together all the money we had and bought plane tickets to
Maui for the weekend.
We had enough money either to rent a car or stay in a hotel.
The car won out. The three of us slept in the car in a
parking lot in Lahaina. Even now, it hurts my back to think
of that long night in the bucket seat of that tiny little
Datsun! When we uncurled our aching backs and staggered
outside, Bob took my picture. I am backlit, silhouetted
against the Maui sun, dancing in the street after the long
night in the car.
That morning, we drove up to the top of Haleakala, a
10,000-foot dormant volcano. Haleakala means “House of the
Sun,” and when you drive up the mountain, you pass the horse
farms and the jacaranda trees, heavy with purple flowers.
You pass the timberline where the only vegetation is low
scrubby plants and drive through clouds until you break
through the mist at the top where the sun is shining in an
impossibly blue sky. The wind is blowing, it’s cold at that
elevation and, above the clouds, you can see Mauna Loa and
Mauna Kea over on the Big Island, 30 miles away. It’s
breathtaking.
And the Haleakala crater! It’s 2,000 feet deep and big
enough to hold the island of Manhattan. Rocks glow in shades
of orange, red, purple and blue, and there are mountains
inside the crater that are three times bigger than our own
Great Blue Hill. Bob and I spent a year in Hawaii, then
returned to Massachusetts. We married, then divorced. I’ve
been back to Hawaii twice in the past 12 years with my
husband Ken and daughter Colleen. This month, Ken and I are
going back to Maui to celebrate our 25th wedding
anniversary. It will be the same and it will be different.
Now that I’m older, I won’t have to sleep in a rental car.
We’ve booked a one-bedroom condo with an ocean view. The
house sitter is in place, the plants will be watered. It
will be our first vacation alone together, empty nesters,
free to come and go as we please with no kids in tow. I
picture myself sitting on our lanai (balcony) with my
morning coffee and some fresh pineapple, watching the whales
play in the channel between Maui and the island of Lanai.
We’re going to snorkel, sit on the beach and we’re going
drive up to the top of Haleakala.
Last week, a friend asked me why I’m so fascinated with
telling family stories. “Doesn’t it keep you stuck in the
past?” she asked. I told her I love family stories because
they’re fascinating, because remembering them brings people
closer to their loved ones, because they give us a sense of
continuity with those who came before us and those who will
come after us.
But am I stuck in the past? No. This week, I’ve been living
in the future, planning for our trip. The anticipation is
electric. I have to keep reminding myself to breathe and
stay grounded. For me, there’s a fine line between happy
anticipation and frantic running around. Live today. Enjoy
today. Tomorrow will be here soon enough.
We’re all a product of our pasts, of things we’ve dreamed
and things we’ve done and those who came before us. We all
live partially in the past and we all live in anticipation
of the future, too. Hawaii was a dream from a book I read
when I was 13, and a dare born from a youthful exchange with
snotty Aunt Peggy. Now it’s the anticipation of a trip with
my husband. Past and future intertwined, making the stories
that are uniquely ours.
And when I come back, I’m going to have another whole bunch
of stories to tell.
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About The Author
Cathy Corcoran has been a columnist and feature writer
for The Patriot Ledger, a radio host for 95.9 FM WATD, and a
communications consultant for the Massachusetts Department
of Public Health and many other clients. She helps preserve
family stories through books, slide shows, videos and how-to
workshops. Her web site is www.HowtoTellYourFamilyStory.com..
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