I’ve been asked numerous times when I was going to publish my mother’s collection of letters after a wonderful column appeared in our local newspaper highlighting “Lita’s Letters” and describing what it was like in the early 1950s in Hawai’i. Here is the preface she wrote herself in 1999.

In 1951, two Minnesota girls put our car on the Lurline and headed for Paradise, intending to vacation a bit and work a bit before returning home in perhaps a year.  Our little apartment on Beachwalk in Waikiki was across the street from a triangular park where a trio of young Hawaiians played ‘ukes and sang beautiful Hawaiian songs most every evening (when they weren’t chased away for loitering).  We were among the crowd who came to listen.  We got to know them and eventually they considered us part of their family and introduced us to much of the local culture and music. 

The beach became our main attraction, especially weekends, as we did have jobs.  Everyone seemed to have their own space and ours was Kuhio Beach fronting the old Waikiki Tavern.  There was a gorgeous Hawaiian who’d often come ashore there from surfing, canoeing and even spear fishing; I snapped a picture of him and labeled it “native.”  In time, someone arranged a dinner/dancing evening with five Minnesota gals and five local boys, and that’s how I met that gorgeous Hawaiian (my husband for 40 years).  He was terribly bashful so his friends had to arrange our dates after their nightly game of Piute.  Anyone remembering those early fifties would know the slow-moving Waikiki, with just a couple of hotels, but lots of beautiful beach, music and moonlight.  It wasn’t long before my girlfriend and I knew we’d have to make a pact of staying together in Hawaii, as the decision to marry our Hawaiians was getting closer. 

My gorgeous Hawaiian grew up in the tiny village of Milolii in South Kona.  While he went to high school in Honolulu, served in World War II, and worked at Pearl Harbor for many years, he still retained his local English – not pidgin but different from me and we couldn’t always decipher each other’s thoughts.  We were diverse in race and religion and after we knew we were accepted into each other’s families, LOVE won out and we were married in 1953 at St. Augustine’s little open church in Waikiki.  (My friend was married the week after to her Hawaiian.)  Our honeymoon was at his home village where everything was ol’ time Hawaii — family home on the water, net fishing at night, opihi picking on the rocks, opelu fishing by day, lots of animals, good meals prepared by Mama and, of course, an outhouse. 

Now I’m almost 80, my gorgeous Hawaiian is in Heaven and only the good years come to mind.  They withstood our differences.  He accepted my Haole ways as long as I gave him his fish ‘n poi, and we knew we were living in Paradise.  After his retirement, he again had time for his love of fishing/squidding and canoe paddling.  He lived to see all but one of his grandchildren, gifts from our two daughters. 

I thought I had a unique story in 1953 when I entered a Readers Digest contest entitled “I Married a Hawaiian” because Hawaii was still a rather unknown island to mainlanders.  (I didn’t win the $2,500).  However, the following compilation of letters written to my family and friends back home in St. Paul, Minnesota contain the incomparable allure of life in the Islands after my arrival, which led to my eventual decision to make the Islands my home.  Looking back now in 1999, almost 50 years later, I wonder if it was a spiritual leading which prompted me to journey to this far away fantasy of mine.