Gigi Huntsman
I have so many fond memories of my Nana. Some of my fondest were when all the grandkids would go to Hawaii and spend the whole summer at Nana and Baba’s house. She had that french accent, that I can still hear now, calling for you by everyone else’s name before she ever got to yours. She made the chaos of up to 9 grandkids in her 3 bedroom, one bath home, feel organized and just flow. It was where we never had a care in the world except to be kids. She expected kindness and respect. She always treated the girls like we were princesses. She took the extra moments to prissy us up with her french colognes, braiding our hair and playing makeup with a dab of her lipstick and powder our noses. She treated the boys like they were boyscouts. (She was a den mother when raising her kids) She let them rough house and get into all types of shenanigans. We played hard all week, enjoying our Hawaiian summers. I cherish those memories of going to the beach, then coming home red eyed and brown, having fallen asleep on the ride home from Pokai Bay to Pearl City. First the girls in the bath tub, followed by the boys. I loved when she would announce that saimin was for dinner. She made each the way we liked. I liked mine with spam, green onion, egg and shumai. She would always follow dinner with something sweet like chilled mango, that she would peel and cut for us for dessert . Raising my own kids, we joke that we always have room for desert because it’s the french in us. After dinner, it was either the boys turn or the girls turn to grab a dish towel and start drying the dishes and put them away while her or Baba washed them. After everyone was fed, it was her turn to eat and she’d sit down at the table with her dinner and night time tea with Baba and she’d say “Now you guys go on and let me eat in peace.” We’d all set up our futons and pallets on the living room floor while watching a disney movie, one year all we wanted to watch was The Little Mermaid on repeat. One by one, we’d fall asleep, just to wake up the next morning and do it all over again. Except for Sundays, we went to church. I don’t remember Church too much. I don’t know how she was able to wrangle all of us up to get there, but the rides home were always memorable! The boys always rode with Baba in his blue mazda pickup. While the girls were “stuck” with Nana in her little pinto looking beige hatchback mazda, of course, we never let Nana know just how “stuck” we felt, although our cousinly side eyes knew how each other felt as we prepared for another race home with the boys! Baba had a lead foot and was an ambulance driver in the WWII. He knew all the short cuts, the lights and their timing. Nana on the other hand, probably never went over 40 and was the type of cautious driver who every-time she braked, she would put her arm across you if you were buckled up in the passenger seat. But the girls were always ready to beat the boys any given Sunday! Their taunting faces and amped up hand motions, sitting in the back of that pickup, with their white collared shirts and ties, made us determined. We had to outsmart them somehow because speed was not on our side. Convincing Nana to step on it was met with “Do you want me to get in an accident?”. We were always behind them, so figuring out the side streets to get past them was the only way. From the LDS Chapel in Newtown to Noelani St, in Pearl City there were options. We’d say “Turn here, Nana.” She’d say, “Where? Over there?” “No, here.” Then she’d say “Oh, too late.” We would get home to the boys sitting on the truck’s bumper, gloating, proud arms crossed, making yawning signs. And Nana says, all surprised,“Ah, they beat us!” Boys 3- Girls 0. I remember doing the walk of shame past those turds, with our pretty church dresses, into the house. Every Sunday, Baba always kept us guessing, he’d all of a sudden turn right, away from where the obvious course would be, and had us wondering if we’d actually win! We were so excited. “Go Nana, go faster!” She actually did, maybe by 3 mph, but not over the speed limit with her hands at 12 and 2, grinning apprehensively. We knew that they had to come down Waimano home rd too because they went mauka when they turned right. And they were nowhere, not ahead or behind. We were in the right lane on Waimano Home Rd to turn onto Noelani St. Almost there!! just one car ahead of us. Then Nana said “Oh! there they are!” Those monkeys in the blue truck came blowing through the intersection coming from the left on Noelani! Waving as they went by. To make it worse, we pull up to the driveway to find an empty truck in the garage. The boys were inside the house, kicked back on the couch, watching TV, saying “What took you guys so long”. The girls never won a race, well, maybe we did, I don’t remember for sure. As I sit here, I would think I would remember at least winning once as a fond memory of her but nope, it was the coming in last by her side that makes me proud of being one of her girls. She was my constant, my for sure thing in a life that had so many variables. I always knew beforehand what Nana would say, do or expect because she was consistent in her ways, unwavering in her convictions, and unconditional in her love. She stayed true to herself and her faith. My fondest memories stem from the love and security she gave me and the rest of her grandchildren growing up and into adulthood.