The sound of bass runs deep in foot-tapping rhythm. Leaning against the nostalgic late 70s rusty red Mercury Cougar, a couple of gals wearing bandanas and smoking a Camel, have the engine turned off and the music cranked up. “I love this song!”, one of them squeals in between lyrics, body swaying in motion. “The 70s rule!”, the other responds making the peace sign with her right hand. The fisherman on the dock looks over and nods his head, reminding himself to make sure he gets his grandson back home before the crowd turns into a mob scene.

It’s an age-old dilemma. Without exception, every town has had to deal with it at some point or another. Whether it’s the parking lot at the mall, or cruising the downtown strip, people gather for socialization. The only difference on this tropical island, in the middle of the Pacific, is the backdrop is gorgeous and the sunsets are breathtaking. The fishing’s not bad either.

Look at me, now look at you. I have style and panache. Choose me and I’ll lift your spirits, make you smile, and dance with élan like your mother did before you. Behold, the Second-Hand Jewels. Age is irrelevant to fashion. It’s pointless. Especially now when fashion is versatile and timeless. If you don’t believe me, check out any gently-used clothes closet boutique where the owner is hands-on and in-house connecting with customers. Essentials are as simple as classic tees, flirty skirts, and black dresses, complemented with a jacket or two thrown in. The thrill of discovering a designer label hidden within the garment heightens its allure. Flashy belts, jazzy scarves, or chic hats become the icing on the proverbial cake.

Down the coast on a two-lane road sits a town as old as the island. It is known as Historic Hanapepe. When you turn off the beaten path, within a few short blocks, you’ll find a diamond in the rough. Rows of original store fronts house skilled artists, creative entrepreneurs, and musical geniuses. On this particular night the satiny glow of the outdoor market lights appeared hypnotic creating a romantic atmosphere of Time standing still. The street musicians rendered notes with hearts of soul. Their quiet style and distant music left us yearning for a bistro table and a bottle of wine so we could linger awhile longer. A treasured gem? Undoubtedly.

A slight turn off the main highway, on a road just beyond the canyon, revealed another world unexpected. Long prairie grasses carpeted over lava rock and uneven ground draws the eye to a herd or two of cattle free to roam. To many, this is true paradise: Home on the Range. This is the land where the Hawaiian Cowboy still reigns. He rambles the rugged countryside, sometimes on horseback and oftentimes by gas guzzler. Ironic, isn’t it? Not really, when you talk to the locals. It makes perfect sense that living on an island encourages farm-to-table suppliers. If you have any doubts, stop by the Farmers’ Markets held regularly each week where you will find an abundance of fresh produce, not to mention, organic eggs. Living off the land.

Just beyond the intersection, the road is lined with 4x4s for handling muddy terrain, range rovers in all colors, and pickups with extended cabs. These are the strong “work horses” that come into town. They are parked outside an old saloon as if corralling around the feed trough. The grub served inside is four-star, they say. The ambience takes you back to the Old West, from the lucky horseshoes above the doorway to the splintered wagon wheel adjacent to the six-foot steer horns mounted above the bar. A chalkboard boasting “Come Play With Us” features food, beverage, and musical options. Not only is the steak filet mouth-watering delicious from a local source where the beasts are grass-fed, it’s cut-with-a-fork tender. Down the hall, where things can get a little rowdy, Hawaiian music is belted out weekly balanced by a Karaoke performance or two. Sounds idyllic and yet a little wild.

Standing on the edge of a cliff overlooking the crashing waves below can be both invigorating and terrifying. Simply because every choice we make involves risk and consequences. Never mind that gingerly stepping along a steep narrow path, riddled with fragments of lava slivers crumbling without warning, keeps the adrenaline pumping. It’s all about the destination, right? Or is it? After all, from this vantage point the view of the faraway lighthouse emerges from obscurity. It comes clearly into focus. So does the gigantic cruise ship on its way out to sea. Besides that, the two hard-working fishermen below, with their rods cast out and their buckets half full, make this same trek everyday like clockwork to come back with the best catch-of-the-day. All is calm except for the rush of water against boulders. The sight alone is mesmerizing. Waves rushing in, tide pulling out resembling an aggressive tug of war. Land versus Sea. At times the ocean almost creates a water spout sending salty jet sprays upward to form a gusher, or powerful water fountain. Giant waves frothing the base of lava rock leave a foam behind resembling egg whites whipped into a meringue.

As the sun sets low and dusk settles in, the calm fulfillment of connecting with Nature brings inner peace. Triumph replaces Pain, Peace softens Loss. “The Lord is my rock, my fortress and my deliverer; my God is my rock, in whom I take refuge, my shield and the horn of my salvation, my stronghold.” ~ Psalm 18:2. Sometimes the journey is the destination.

Once the ball had dropped, champagne glasses clinked together while cheers exploded and kisses were shared. Couples clung together in hopeful embrace as the magical fireworks welcomed the dawn of a new year……2015.

Let me just pause now for you to let your imagination run wild. Ours did. After all, when you bring romance to a tiny island in the Pacific, everything is possible. Nothing in the world can spoil moments like this by minimizing its importance.

She’s not the Queen of Sheba, although her fur is as soft as mink. She’s not Puss in Boots, despite her sassy attitude. And she’s definitely not Garfield, a comedic feline with a sluggish disposition. On the other hand, Pōpoki, is a complimentary resident member of the Marriott family at the beach resort on the island of Kauai. She awakens at the break of dawn to greet the early risers on their way to the outdoor cafe for a foamy cappuccino and buttery croissant. Her purring “Aloha” sets the stage for another perfect day in Paradise. And if she plays her cards right, this seasoned grimalkin will touch the heart of a cat-lover or two, who will stroke her back and rub her ears for awhile in exchange for the hospitality. Just gazing into those piercing green eyes as they blink an alluring “Mahalo” speaks volumes as it connects the spirit of Life deep within us all.

From the Land of the Dead, on a cliff by the sea, all is quiet except for the crashing surf below. At first glance, the place seems abandoned; lost and forgotten, an afterthought. Headstones lay helter-skelter, lacking order or symmetry. Some face down as though strewn by the wind in a game of Dominos. Piles of lava rock, crusted over in spots of frozen ash, dot the graveyard left as memorial markers for family trees. Some are inscribed with names and dates; others etched in a foreign language from immigrants migrating to a new world of promise, hope, freedom, and bounty. Remnants of broken bottles, empty jars, half-burned candles, and cherished mementos serve as reminders of loved ones. Red dirt stains the ground where weeds choke what few grass blades struggle to survive.

If headstones could speak, what stories would they tell? Would they recall how Chinese men, women, and children left everything behind in their native homeland in search of their dreams? Or that endless days of back-breaking work was worth a few dollars a month? That prayers were answered when cries were murmured? What if wishes came true and they danced here every night by the light of a full moon? Only the guardian of the graveyard knows for sure. It’s the lone cane frog; the sole living creature left behind to insure the deceased would pass safely into the spirit world. How symbolic!

Four years ago he was just a black bundle of fluff with a beak. Deserted by his island mother hen, he survived the only way he knew how. Across the road, the front door of a contemporary home opened and Gary, a slender gray-haired man, stepped out to head for the car. This little orphan rooster made a break, scurried over to Gary’s doorstep and tried to go inside. He saw a Safe Haven and knew it was his only hope of survival.

As time went on, Chuckie Whitetoe got lonely for female companionship. He set up a Facebook page and tried to get a little help from his fans in ordering a mail-order bride. Responses came as far away as Germany with all kinds of applicants sending cheesecake photos vying for his attention. In the end, he couldn’t resist a flirty little chick from Hanalei, on the north side of the island. True, she was a bit of a free-spirit whose parents referred to her as a “Party Girl”. But she adored Chuckie and told him the times they spent together were magical! It just goes to show you, never give up, be thankful for small miracles, and always……always, be “Living the Dream!”