How to Survive a Hawaiian Honeymoon

You see, it all started when I found myself sitting in the outside dining area at a restaurant in Kailua-Kona, on the Big Island of Hawaii, called Jamison’s by the Sea. A very pretty lady accompanied me. She was my wife and had been for an eternity of two weeks. It wasn’t the fact that we were married that made it seem like an eternity. It was the two weeks and what happened during them.

No, that’s not far enough back. Let me begin earlier. Much earlier. Say about thirty years earlier. No, make that thirty-two.

I was always following in my big brother’s footsteps. Bill was three years my senior and in the early 1950’s America still held to the misplaced assumption that skill and brainpower diminished with the order of siblings. The first-born had all the intelligence while the last was kept as the court jester; an annoyance maintained only because it was considered in bad taste to drown the runts at birth.

I was the runt.

Maybe that was why I became such a good swimmer. One can never be too sure that social standards won’t change and the difference between life and death boils down to how long you can tread water. I’ll bet Noah was a second child.

I always had a real problem with this standard.

An example of how ridiculously extreme this philosophy could be carried was when I was in my early teens. I had been studying music since I was five and after experimenting from one instrument to the other settled on the tenor saxophone. I wanted to play the piano but they were hard to carry in a marching band. Having achieved a fairly high level of competency on the instrument, my mother granted me the boon of owning one of my own instead of having to use a rental or a free one from school. This, of course, was in the days when school music programs were still considered valuable enough to allow a very small portion of the budget to provide instruments for the less fortunate students who were unable, or whose parents were unwilling, to buy their own.

Affluent could never be used to describe my family. Although we always seemed to have everything we needed, it was quite apparent to the observer that, at best, we rarely indulged above the level of basic needs. Whenever we asked for dessert, Mom would always reply, “Desert the table.” Clothes were bought to last. Now, when I say last, I’m not talking about the rugged endurance necessary to combat the violent abuse of a Tom Sawyer want-a-be. This was considered as a given. I’m referring, rather, to the growth potential of a young lad. I can never remember buying clothes that fit. Everything was three sizes too big so we could grow into it.

These new oversized Barnum and Bailey styles usually went to Bill. I got his hand-me-downs. I’m convinced it is for this reason that God allowed me to outgrow my older brother. I’m bigger than he is. Yep, and I can’t wear his clothes. Then again, considering his sense of style, this is no great loss. I’m talking about my older brother, of course, not God. I don’t adhere to the widely accepted theory that God still dresses in robes dating back to 2000 B.C.

But enough of that. Back to my constant battle with the social standards that dictated my brother be consulted on all matters. I was the musician. I played the sax. After a futile attempt at the trumpet, it was rightfully determined that Bill’s musical talent lay best in playing the radio. For the betterment of mankind he was kept away from instruments.

Yet, in spite of this accepted and renowned fact, he—not I—picked out the horn and was asked by my well-intending mother for his approval.

As with most things, he gave his approval and I got my instrument. Lucky me. With his insight, I could have ended up with a tuba.

You really couldn’t blame my mom. Our dad cut-out when I was two weeks old. I guess seeing my brother was bad enough, but when I arrived three years later, it was more than he could handle. Maybe that’s why he named me Ralph. It was what he felt like doing when I arrived.