By Hilary Woodward
We called it “the tower,” because that is exactly what it was. The Bishop family owned the tower. They found the abandoned windmill and rescued it for their summer camp. It remains on a rise above Great Peconic Bay near Hampton Bays.
My grandmother died when I was almost 3 years old. My grandfather John Herrick married Alma Bishop, whose spouse had died, too. Alma and “Gaku” had been friends since childhood. They were happily suited for each other.
I turned 11 in March 1965. My grandfather would turn 80 that July.
The endless 20-minute drive west to the tower on the old highway skirted the shore of Peconic Bay. We sat in the back of the pickup truck, our eyes glued forward so that one of us would be the first to spot the tower. “I see the tower!” was the claim to that day’s fame.
As my grandfather’s 80th birthday approached, we could hardly wait for our aunts, Luzzy and Nancy, who were coming with their families all the way across sea and land from Oahu in Hawaii. There would be lots of days at the bay, but the celebration was to take place at 17 North Main, the original homestead where my family still lived. My Uncle John Herrick, Aunt Dorrie and their six kids from Massachusetts were to stay with us, the cousins all sharing our bedrooms.
Preparations began. Long tables, borrowed from the church, were set in the yard closest to the patio. The clambake pit was established in the driveway.
Cousin Maggie was a year older than I. She, too, had come all the way from Oahu, Hawaii. Maggie was quite tall and lean. She loved horses like I did and making up skits to entertain the grownups after dinner. To our great excitement, we discovered that shaking a lit flashlight at the actors made them appear as if in an old movie reel, animated.
Later, at bedtime, when the lights went out and we were to be asleep, Maggie and I talked and dreamed of the next day’s adventure.
The following week, we had days at the tower diving off the float in the bay or at the ocean beach riding waves on our blow-up mats. Aunts, uncles, parents and old friends kept our days full and happy.
At last, the big event took place. Everyone wore flower leis direct from Hawaii. Gaku stood tall and erect as he accepted a beautiful thick birthday lei around his neck. I wore a red shift with white Hawaiian flower print. I felt unusually special and pretty. Maggie and I did a hula dance for everyone. The party was a happy success and, too soon, the cousins had to return to Massachusetts and Oahu.
My family dealt with a difficult issue that fall, in November. My sister Melissa came home from secretarial school pregnant out of wedlock and was married to her boyfriend quickly in the parlor. No one explained it to me. I simply sensed shame and anger.
Aunt Luzzie suspected I needed liberation and rescued me by offering an invitation to visit Oahu the following summer. It was exactly what was needed.
I took my first-ever airplane ride with Julie, an older cousin, headed home from Radcliff via California to visit her sister, Mary. One day, Julie invited me on an outing along the famous 17-mile drive. At one point, she pulled over, told me to stay in the car and ran to a large boulder in the ocean waves. Standing atop, she bellowed a primal scream as her long blonde hair blew straight out toward the sea for several minutes. I had never seen anything like this in Southampton, and the image has remained as vivid ever since.
Arriving on Oahu, Aunt Luzzie and Aunt Nancy, Julies’s mother, met us at the airport, draping us with beautiful leis, the official Hawaiian welcome.
Aunt Luzzie, a grade school teacher, enjoyed kids. Soon, I would find myself making leis out of flowers and seeds, having been taught by her. Luzzie also got me scrambling up mountain passes, hiking in ancient forests, swimming and snorkeling in gorgeous reefs.
But not hula dancing. That was best taught by native Hawaiians. I then learned hula at the local “Y.” Aunt Luzzie’s gift of friendship was beautiful.
I grew up and out of my old self that summer. Early on, I was still needing a fix of food to calm me like a drug addict needs a fix. One day, when Aunt Luzzie was out and I thought I was able to sneak something, I opened the freezer and was about to scoop my second spoonful when I sensed someone behind me.
My heart fell in panic as I turned to see my cousin, Mackenzie, watching me from behind. Shame and embarrassment flooded my robust frame.
After that, I decided to lose the weight. I couldn’t wait to come home lighter and make my mother happy.
A week before I was to fly home, Luzzie took me to Waikiki for an outrigger canoe ride. She watched from the shore. I and about seven other “tourists” climbed into the long canoe with a large wooden brace on one side. I felt independent and eager.
We were each given a paddle and very strict directions to paddle only when told. The boat rose under a large wave. “Paddle!” the captain shouted, and I paddled like mad.
Instantly, however, we were sitting on the ocean bottom, watching large colorful fish swim by, and just as quick, we surfaced, soaking wet and befuddled. Someone screwed up, but we survived!
On the beach, Aunt Luzzie had a good laugh.
My last day in Hawaii, Aunt Luzzie handed me a coconut right off the tree, fully encased in a hard brown outer shell. I was to husk the shell off like we had seen the young Hawaiian do it at the Polynesian Cultural Center.
By then, I was lean and strong enough to slam the fruit onto a pickax blade over and over, pulling the large nut toward me with all my strength. It took me a proud afternoon to finish.
When back in Southampton, Gaku invited me to step on the big scale at the hardware store. In his stately way, he was showing his pride in my weight loss.
There were still some days left for going to the tower before school started. And I was eager to start seventh grade.
Gaku died a few years later. The memory of his 80th birthday and the gift it gave me remains ever vibrant, like it was yesterday.
Hilary Woodward is a resident of Southampton.
