Avoidance - or Why We Moved to Hawaii

A few years ago, this was added to my medical record: Generalized Anxiety Disorder. Now when I go to a doctor I can point to the screen and say, “There. See that? That’s why.” This entitled me to see a therapist. My daughter went with me the first time because I was recovering from bad meds and couldn’t walk by myself. Also, she wanted to make certain I told the truth instead my usual “I’m fine, thank you. How are you?” The therapist asked if my anxiety led to avoidance issues. I considered thoughtfully, remembering all the times I’d showed up anyway, and said, “No, I don’t think so.” That’s when my daughter fell on the floor laughing. Now I can admit that avoidance is the real reason why we moved to Hawaii. Hawaii had been a golden dream ever since I was a child riveted to the TV watching Harry Owens, his Royal Hawaiians, and Hilo Hattie. My fate was sealed when an aunt returned from Hawaii with a hot pink cellophane hula skirt for me. I dressed up for Harry and would dance along with the lovely hula hands. As long as I never looked in the mirror, I could convince myself that I really was Hawaiian, and probably Royal. During the Vietnam War, my husband got a bit of R&R and we met in Hawaii. I think I told you he married me so he could avoid the draft, right? Soon after, that exemption was lifted. A recruiter told him if he enlisted instead of waiting to be drafted, he would serve a year longer but he could choose to be in the Army band stationed in the US. He enlisted. He was in the Army band in the US. Then he got transferred to the Army band in Vietnam. This is an example of avoidance going wrong. We met in Hawaii and it was paradise. The air smelled sweet. The breeze was soft and comforting. The food was delicious. I’d sewn muumuus so I could fit in with the natives, who were wearing cut-off shorts. Nothing interfered with our week of bliss other than when someone would pop a champagne cork and my husband would hit the floor. Mostly the waitresses would hand him a menu and he would hand it back, saying “Yes,” as in bring him everything in the kitchen. Once he returned to civilian life in Los Angeles, he decided to become a professional French Horn player. Following months of study, his teacher declared him ready to continue his training at Juilliard, in New York. This threw me into a panic. I barely knew how to take an empty bus to work as a frightened clerk. How could I support the two of us in a New York tenement? How would I find a job? How would I maneuver a subway crammed with people who knew how to do things? My avoidance skills saved me. Appearing to be fine with the idea of New York, I slyly suggested that as long as we were picking up roots, why don’t we broaden our horizons even further? Why limit ourselves? Did we really want to live in New York, or did we perhaps want to study in a more hospitable climate, such as…say…Hawaii? Aha! My husband had a friend in the Honolulu Symphony who could get him a job. He decided being a paid musician in Paradise was better than a frightened student in Manhattan. The die was cast. We announced our permanent removal to Oahu. My father suggested we rent a place with a guesthouse so he could live with us. He only asked that we set the legs of his bed frame into cans filled with oil so bugs couldn’t climb in bed with him. (He had lived in Oahu before bug spray was invented and this was the trick they used.) My mother, seated at a table, threw her head into her arms and burst into hysterical laughter because her next step would be to set the oil in the cans on fire. Since we were never coming back, we got rid of all of our furniture except a slab of foam that was our bed. We also packed 60 boxes of things without which I could not live, mostly kitchen stuff. My string bass was sealed in a wooden coffin. All shipped by boat, even our VW Squareback. The cat would travel on the plane with us and go straight into quarantine upon arrival. Friends threw a farewell party. Tears were shed. We found a house to rent that included a guesthouse. It was on the leeward side of the Island between a sugar cane field and the ocean. Our tsunami evacuation instructions were to run through the field and hope we reached the mountains before the water did. Our cat, in quarantine, was so annoyed she refused to talk to us. Nonetheless, I promised to continue visiting until she got her walking papers. She remained unconvinced. The next thing we did was stuff the refrigerator and freezer with pounds of meats. It seemed like a good idea in case of tsunamis. We also had to buy some furniture, which we found in the older neighborhoods of Honolulu where I believed real Hawaiians lived. I bought a chest of drawers from a woman who was so large and intimidating, I was convinced she was an Alii, royalty. It was all I could do to keep from bowing to her. Maybe I did bow a little. The first night in our forever house proved my father was right. We needed cans of oil, except there was no bed frame. There was only a slab of foam on the floor, which gave easy access to bugs on steroids. In the bathroom I discovered a ginkgo the size of a baby alligator. Paradise was starting to look a little sketchy. Next, my husband contacted his friend about a job. Turns out the friend had been caught having an affair with the conductor’s wife. Using him as a referral was unadvised. Further, a year’s residency was required before my Hornist could audition for either the symphony or the band. What was he to do? I suggested selling used cars for the duration. Now that a classical music career in Hawaii was off the table, creative thinking was called for. He decided his best option would be to go back to school. That was fine with me. Oahu had a good college. He could go to school while we both sold used cars. Unfortunately, he had other notions. I had trained him to think outside the box. Life in the Islands was too expensive and we were too isolated. The best and least expensive place to live and go to school was…you guessed it…Los Angeles. We’d lasted ten days in Hawaii. Ten. A VW with “Honolulu” on its windshield and 61 cartons of kitchen stuff (I’d bought a rice cooker) were hauled to the shipping yards. We picked up our annoyed cat and flew back to L.A, leaving frozen meat and old furniture behind. People in L.A. were not as glad to see us as you might expect, especially those who had thrown a big farewell party less than two weeks prior. The cat never forgave me. Our landlord in Hawaii, however, felt so beholden by our frozen foods that he sent a box filled with Hawaiian music records as a thank you gift. The string bass showed up six months later. Apparently, it had floated on its own all the way to the Islands and back. My attempt to avoid New York cost us $3,000. That was a lot of money in 1969. We came home broke. My husband was ecstatic about his next avoidance plans. I was too exhausted from hauling cartons to be afraid of anything for the time being. However, I did have a new kitchen appliance. When anyone asked how much they should expect to pay for a Japanese rice cooker, I would reply $3,000. Avoidance had bought me the only $3,000 5-quart rice cooker in town.