When I was about 17, mom and I had a huge, screaming fight. I remember what it was about, but I won’t tell you that. The important thing is I was headstrong and so sure I was right. And mom was a mess. Dad got home. When he came in, I expected anger and yelling and maybe worse because you know, I was afraid of him. Not because he ever did anything to hurt any of us. It was that no-nonsense, military bearing. Dad had an aura that demanded and received respect. I was scared, even though I knew he was a great, big softie.
So he came out after talking to mom and walked over to me, and I cowered. He lifted his hand and I flinched. Then he pointed to the closed bedroom door where my mom was sobbing. Did he yell? Did he tell me I was an awful kid? Did he ground me? No. All he said was, in a gruff, unhappy voice, “you made your mother cry.”
That was more effective than any screaming, any punishment, any other words he could have said.
So two things about him.
Dad, the gruff Army veteran, hated conflict.
And family was everything.
Harold Ikuo Yonashiro was born in 1933 and grew up in Honolulu. His mother left them when he was just a small boy. That didn’t make him bitter. Instead, it taught him early on what was most important in life– family.
So when he found the love of his life he pursued her, won her heart, and made a family for himself.
Teenage dad was the quintessential beach boy– tanned, carefree, strumming his ukulele and flirting with girls. He was also a serious musician who was good enough to play bass with the Chidori Orchestra. They toured around the state playing popular Japanese songs. Those were his loves– the beach and his music. And then he met mom.
A mutual friend introduced him to a pretty Korean girl who’d moved to Oahu from Pu’unene on Maui. Her name was Joyce Kim.
It was love at first sight— for him.
But eh, not so much for her. She thought he was a bum. You know, beach boy, ukulele, puka t-shirt, shorts, rubbah slippers. He’d travel with the orchestra to the neighbor islands and come back rumpled and looking like—well—a bum.
To her great embarrassment, he’d visit her where she worked at the old Kress store in Kaimuki. Iku, as they called him, would stroll in all wrinkled and casual, looking for her. And mom, mortified, would crouch down behind the counter and hide. At some point, she’d look up and there he’d be, leaning over the counter, smiling that big, wide, delighted smile.
“Hi! What are you doing down there?”
And the rest is — well, you know. Happily ever after.
Such a lovely tribute to your father, Moon.
Mahalo, Ross!