May Day is Lei Day in Hawaii.
On the island of Oahu, the outstretched arms on the giant statue of King Kamehameha the great are looped with hundreds of trailing leis made from delicate, golden ‘ilima flowers. These tiny blossoms resemble the feathers of the now-extinct o’o bird that once were collected and woven into elegant, long capes for the royalty of these islands.

Kamehameha the Great is remembered as a strong warrior who united the Hawaiian Islands. He and his descendants are still honored by the people of Hawaii. Whenever I see his statue draped with those fragrant flowers on May Day, I think of the great lady who stretched out her arms to me long ago, wearing a fragrant gardenia in her hair. Her name is Charlotte Isabella Burroughs, and she is my grandmother. My Grand Lady.

I was thinking of Grand Lady on May Day this year as I arrived at the elementary school in Lahaina, where we live on the island of Maui. As a long-standing tradition, the students participate in a lei-making contest each May 1. In the eighteen years that I’ve volunteered as one of the judges, I’ve never seen a lei made from gardenias. I thought about how, if I were granted my wish for my daughter, Hannah, to go to Louisiana to meet Grand Lady, I would make a lei from the gardenias that exploded like popcorn on the huge bush by the Big House. I would drape my Grand Lady in fragrant flowers and let her know while she was still living that she was honored by her most enamored descendant.

. . .

Every year for the Lei Day contest Hannah would go over to her friend Pua’s house where the two of them created their leis. That way I never saw Hannah’s work ahead of time and couldn’t be influenced when I did the judging. She takes her art contests seriously, especially when she’s allowed to give her creativity free rein.

I scanned the scoring sheet and remembered the first time I had volunteered to do this. I stood in this same cafeteria and looked out at the ocean through these same slatted windows. That was the first time I saw a humpback whale breech. The beast shot out of the water, made a slight half-turn, and belly-flopped with a great, white splash. I gave a cry and pointed out the window. No one else had notices the spectacle that day. It was the most amazing thing I’d ever seen, but I stood alone in the wonder and felt sure I would never grow tired of this amazing place.

Since then I’ve seen dozens of whales. Maybe hundreds. Tom and I often go sailing in the middle of January and watch the frolicking whales from only a hundred yards away. I have gone swimming with dolphins and sea turtles. I’ve seen more rainbows than I can count. I’ve slept in a hammock under the stars and sauntered through a bamboo forest. I dine regularly on fresh-picked pineapple and sweet papayas that drop from my neighbor’s tree into my front yard. I’ve hiked through a volcano and kissed my husband behind a waterfall. I experience wonders in my daily routine that other women wait a lifetime to experience once.

In the wake of such daily abundance, was I crazy to long for the treasures of the mainland? Why did I crave the sight of fireflies, magnolia blossoms, or a forest thick with pine trees? Why did the thought of Cajun sausage sound so delicious at this moment?

. . .

No sea creatures this year, I noticed, moving on to the next table. I gave a score of “3” to a vegetable lei featuring radish roses spaced with black olives. The Ninja Turtle figurine fastened with rubber bands received a “2,” and I debated over a “2” or a “3” for a lei made with colorful buttons.

My favorite was a lei made from lipstick tubes, bright pink crayons, and magenta bougainvillea. I don’t know why I liked it so much. Perhaps it was the great balance of the bright colors or the added touch of the flowers. I gave that lei the highest score so far.

The final lei came with a clever tag: “U.S. of Lei.” The designer, most likely a fifth-grader looking for extra credit in history, had drilled holes in puzzle pieces of the fifty states and had strung them together. All those states connected as one big whole.

Being dependent on boats and planes here on the islands to go anywhere, I stood there, thinking of how people can travel from one state right into another state without even stepping out of their car.

Cautiously touching the dark-orange puzzle piece shaped like Louisiana, I thought of Grand Lady and whispered my secret wish once again. This time, my words sounded more like a prayer than a wish.

Running my finger up the jagged coastline of the California puzzle piece, I thought of my mother and wondered what it would feel like to be connected once again. Not with my mother. That would take a miracle. But what would it feel like to be connected with the rest of America? My America. I wanted to pick up that U.S. of Lei, drape it triumphantly around my neck, and see what it felt like to have all fifty states circling me.

. . .

The rest of the afternoon I thought about my little girl. This trip to Grand Lady’s in Louisiana really was for Hannah. The timing was perfect. God-Time. A God-gift. My daughter would find in Louisiana the same blessing I had found when I was her age. I could barely believe that I’d made a wish and that wish was coming true.
When Hanna arrived home that afternoon, her face was beaming. She held her hands behind her back and gleamed. “Guess what, Mom?”

I gleamed right back. “You’re going to the mainland.”

“No. Guess again,” she said.

I didn’t want to spoil her surprise with my surprise so I said, “I give up.”

“My lei won! First time ever. I got first place!”

Before Hannah pulled from behind her back the prize-winning lei, I knew which one she was holding. I also knew why I had liked it so much. Crayons to lipstick. Yes, that was my Hannah. Crayons to lipstick linked together by a string of bold, magenta-tinted bougainvillea as soft and colorful as a Louisiana garden full of ripe tomatoes.

Lei Day held for me the delicate promise of a wish about to come true. In a few short weeks my daughter and I would be greeted by the outstretched arms of Grand Lady herself.

Copyright © 2005 by Robin’s Ink, LLC. Used by permission.