by Sam Tabalno
string beans, lettuce, cabbage, corn, and tomatoes, which were always bestsellers. The downside of working for my sister was that I was never paid in cash; she only paid me in vegetables to take home to my mother. Still, I did earn valuable knowledge in the form of her selling techniques and her pricing structure. It wasn’t long that I figured out that I could sell the produce myself and keep the money.
I decided to sell tomatoes to our neighbors in and near the Spanish Camp. The customers I targeted were single men who worked at the plantations and also happened to be regular customers of Salina’s. I only wanted to make a little money on the side, and I figured if I sold four boxes of tomatoes at fifty cents a box, I would earn two dollars in no time flat.
Typically, my sister and I made the rounds every seven to ten days. Not all the customers bought something every time, so some required replenishment of their supply between those visits. That is how my sales plan took off. Each time I visited a customer’s house with Salina, I would take note of who didn’t buy and ask them when they would be ready to purchase next.
My strategy worked like a charm. I loaded my boxes of tomatoes on the handlebars of my bike and rode out to the waiting customers on the days when they had told me they would be ready for more. I sold all four boxes with no problem and then kept all the money for myself. Willy, my dog, ran alongside me as I pedaled home, as fast as the bike would carry me.
I continued helping Salina on her regular rounds and making my own runs, selling only tomatoes. I managed to do so three times before a customer mentioned to Salina that he wanted the same type of tomato I’d brought the other times, “Only the best.”
My sister was shocked to learn of my solo sales venture and was quick to tattle. “Menal, wait till I tell Mama what you been doing wit’ our tomatoes,” she said.
I was, at the very least, glad that she went to my mother instead of my father. Mama assured her that she would handle the problem, and she did. She pulled me aside and scolded, “Mael, why you sell tomatoes from yo sister’s garden?”
“Mama, sister neva give me any money. All da time I go wit’ her, she neva give me anyting. She make plenty money and don’t give me any.”
“But she gives us plenty vegetables too.”
“I know, Mama, but sometimes it’s only da junk kine, da ones she no can sell.”
“Yes, Mael, but sometimes we no have dat kine vegetables in our own garden.”
“Mama, look! We only have vegetables in da kitchen. We need meat too.” I explained to my mother that I felt my sister could have paid me at least something for all the time and labor I devoted to her business.
She looked at me sternly, and her mouth twisted into something resembling a smile. “Mael, next time you tink bout doing sumting like dis, come and talk to me first.” Her voice was firm, but her eyes had softened.
I told her I would and prayed that neither she nor my sister would mention the incident to my father.
Mama made me apologize to Salina, and I had to do additional work around their gardens to make up for the choice tomatoes I’d taken and sold. She then smiled at me and reminded me that she still loved me.
In the end, after I made amends with my sister, she continued to give us vegetables rather than cash, but there was often a bit of extra produce. She told me I could sell that, as long as I stayed out of her gardens.
In addition to apologizing to my sister, I also told her I still loved her. I have always cherished my siblings, and our bond is stronger than that of many others. When it comes to siblings, mine are only the best!
Garden of Sugar and Pineapples
The Paper Route
For the first eight years of my education, I attended Koloa Elementary School. For many years, I enjoyed walking the streets and trails of Koloa, making the long trek to and from school. Rather than thinking of it as a boring walk, I took advantage of the time and often extended the trip on purpose, taking many exciting detours. I explored man-sized storm drainage ditches that led to lava tunnels under the Koloa town main road, scaled the ruins of the first commercial sugar mill that started in Koloa in 1835, threw rocks at bullfrogs in the creeks, swam in shallow mountain spring water, and had dozens of other adventures. My mother used to ask me how in the world my clothes got so dirty just attending school, but I was pretty sure she didn’t really want to know.
My routine route to school consisted of walking or riding my bike from Spanish Camp on the single-lane, winding road to downtown Koloa. A small mom-and-pop shop, the bank, and the post office could be seen as I approached from the north end of town. From there, I walked on the porches, often stopping briefly to look through the glass storefronts of Daos Barbershop, Chang Fook Bakery, and Seouka grocery store. A two-lane, concrete bridge over a creek marked the halfway point, and it was also the location of my favorite store, Yamamoto, where people sat on a long, wooden bench on the front porch and savored ice cream and candies while thumbing through the latest comic books.
The buildings next door to Yamamato were a small Salvation Army Church, a Chinese tailor shop, a small family store, and an auto dealership. Finally, there was a sidewalk that led the rest of the way to school, between residential homes and three churches. The total distance was a little over a mile, but as a child, it seemed much longer. There were shortcuts through the sugarcane fields and on the sugar truck roads, but those were only feasible routes when it wasn’t raining.
During my last year at Koloa Elementary, I started another small business venture that livened up my days.
“Hey, S’mael, I heard Larry’s folks are moving from Koloa to Lawai.” Trudeau ran to catch up with me after the school bell rang. He was overweight and panting.
“Nah, fo’ real? Why?”
“I dunno, but I heard his fadda is building a house dat going have a big pasture for horses, so they moving in couple months.” Trudeau sounded excited, but he was still panting. “Ya know, he looking fo’ somebody to take ova his paper route, so Larry ask me if I like do it.”
“What? You kidding! You need a bike. You tink your parents going let you do it?” I was excited for my friend but a little envious too.
“Yeah, dat’s da ting. I no tink my parents going let me to do it. Besides, I no like to.” Trudeau was more of a thinker than a doer.
“Fo’ sho? Den I can do it!” I exclaimed.
“Larry is selling his paper route bike too. He like fifteen dollars fo’ da bike.”
“What? Dat’s nuts! Da bike is all busted up!” I wanted it, but fifteen dollars was too rich for my blood, especially since the paper route only paid five dollars a month. Still, I wrestled with the idea the rest of the way home and knew I would need the bike, because it was already equipped with saddlebags to hold the newspapers.
“I going talk to Larry dis weekend, and maybe we can meet up wit’ him,” Trudeau suggested.
My plan consisted of talking my parents into letting me buy the bike on an installment plan. I would ask my dad to lend me the first five dollars, with a promise to pay him back once I was paid for the paper route.
On Saturday afternoon, I walked over to Trudeau’s house. He was outside in the yard with his younger twin sisters, playing jump rope. “Trudeau, you talk to Larry?” I asked.
“Yeah. He like us come ova his house tomorrow afternoon about three o’clock. I was going come ova to your place and tell you.”
“Okay. I will talk to my folks. Maybe I come ova tomorrow, den we can ova to Larry’s.” I ran back home, excited about the possibilities. “Ma, Ma, I can get a job!” I said, bursting, full speed, into the kitchen.
“What kine of job, Mael?” she asked, drying her hands with her apron.
“My classmate, Larry, going let me take ova his newspaper delivery route!”
“Oh, son, dat is good.”
“But I get one problem, Ma. I need five dollars fo’ da bicycle. Den I can work and earn da rest.”
“Maybe yo fadda can let you borrow da money. I can talk to him bout it
.”
The following day, the deal was made between Larry and his parents. I purchased the bike for a total of twelve dollars and fifty cents, with five dollars down and the remainder to be paid in two months.
For a week, I accompanied Larry to the newspaper pick-up point in downtown Koloa and walked alongside him as he delivered papers.
“Larry, haw you deal wit’ those humbug dogs?”
“Mostly pedal fasta. Hey, ya know what we should do? Us bring my water gun next time and shoot them when we get close.”
“Yeah, dat would be cool,” I said, smiling mischievously.
The next morning, I met Larry at his house again. He wheeled his bike out and handed the water gun to me. Together we filled it up at the spigot on the side of his house, and he put it in the saddlebag for safekeeping. We went to pick up the newspapers at the Kawamoto store, folded the papers, filled the saddlebags, then headed off.
Ironically, none of the usual dogs seemed to want to bother us that morning, but when we pulled the bottom layer of newspapers from the sack, they were soaked; the water had leaked out of the pistol and made a little pool at the bottom of the saddlebag. We had no choice but to deliver the dripping papers and hope a rainstorm would dump buckets and save our hides, and we decided it was best to abandon the water gun idea. After that, things went smoothly—at least for a few days.
After a week of following Larry, I was on my own. Each day, I
