When I was in First grade my family relocated to
where my father got a teaching job. I have so many wonderful memories of the . One of my fondest ones was
learning to hula. I had a very lovable teacher. I remember her as being so full
of life and she was so wonderfully round and soft to the touch. She had
beautiful brown skin, jet black hair that almost reached the ground and large
hazel eyes. Big
I remember walking through the jungle towards the sounds of the ocean with my class. The shore was rocky with mounds of black lava hot from the sun. Waves of turquoise water trimmed with white foam crashing against them. We stopped just before the shore on a smooth grassy area shaded by palm trees. Vines hung every where making us feel as though we were on a stage.
We made our own music with our gourds either pounding gently with our palms in a rhythmic way against our Ipu or shaking rapidly with our Uli Uli our music blending seamlessly with the singing birds and the ocean waves.
At the same time we would move our hips in a gentle rotation with our small feet sliding through the cool grass. Some dances we’d sing and use our hands to tell stories others would be to the sounds of our music.
Out of the corner of my eye I could see my sweet brother watching us as he swung on a vine. I would smile inside thinking he looked like a small Tarzan.
When our practice was done warm hugs for everyone and then back through the jungle we would hike.