MAKING HISTORY MEAN

	After mumbling through the instructions on the back of the bag,
Mr. Kaneshiro rose from his little wooden stool and liberally tossed the
fertilizer over his entire tomato bed.  He groaned as he sat back down.  
Puzzling once more over the mystical directions he finally shrugged, then
spread more pellets around the largest tomato plant, working them into the
soil with his weeder.  A sudden sharp pain made him sit up straight.  
Reaching for his lower back, he rubbed hard.  Some days he thought he
might break in half at the waist.  But he knew in the end all pain was a
small price to pay:  this year he could probably win every tomato contest
in town.  He tossed his weeder to the ground, grabbed at his back with
both hands, and stretched, up and backward.  "Uh!" he grunted, thinking
about how good it was to be young.  Eyeballing his prized tomato plant, he
smiled.
	"Grampa!" Kenny called from the back porch.  "Ready?"
	The old man pivoted slowly and raised his right hand.  "Since da
day before yesterday," he answered.
	His grandson turned, whipped open the screen door, and came
running back out before it could swing shut, cold Budweiser in hand.  He
ran up to his grandfather and held out the sacred twelve ounces.  The old
man grabbed the beer and swallowed deeply, his head and gray, short hair
tilting back and glinting in the sinking sun.  "Mmmmm," he muttered after
downing half the can.  "I evah tol you what a good boy you?"
	The boy looked off to the side to think.  "Yeah Grampa, yeah.  
Like every time I bring you beer."
	Mr. Kaneshiro spluttered, choking on beer inhaled through his
windpipe.  After coughing spasmodically for a few moments and finally
wiping his eyes, he said, side-eyeing his grandson, "Well you are."
	"Oh yeah, thanks, Grampa.  I knew you felt li' dat."
	The tired gardener shook his head and sipped again, smiling.
	"Grampa, so can boddah you now, or what?"
	"Huh?" the old man asked, staring down at the sprouting son of his
number-two son.  "What you mean?"  He rolled his wrist, sending the
remaining beer into a circular counter-clockwise motion.  "Boddah me how?"
	The boy toed the perfectly manicured grass.  "You know," he said.  
"You tol me no boddah you until you went pau da yahdwork.  So now you pau
an I get one question fo' ask."
	Grandfather finished off his beer.  He burped loudly.  "How much?"
he asked.
	Kenny looked shocked.  "Not money, Grampa.  I mean, not right now
anyways.  Right now what I like ask you is fo' tell me one of your great
stories."
	"Why?" the old man demanded, staring down again, his keen black
eyes boring like laser beams into Kenny's forehead.  The boy took notice
of something on the red-orange horizon off to the left.  Old Mr. Kaneshiro
shook his head and smiled.  "I tell you what, Kenny.  Be a good boy an go
get me one more beer.  Maybe den we talk."
	Kenny flew back to the lanai and disappeared behind the screen
door.  This time he didn't move fast enough to get back before it closed.  
This made Mr. Kaneshiro suspicious.  He cocked his head to one side and
listened hard, but before he could focus on the conversation in the
kitchen, his wife pushed the door open.  His grandson's head angled out
from behind her back.
	"No!" she said, not loudly but with some force.  "That's all the
beer you get until after we eat."
	Grampa's shoulders sagged.  "But da boy like talk story wit me.  
How I goin help him wit his school work if my troat stay dry?"
	"You buggah!" she shot back, louder and more forcefully this time.  
"You think I'm going to let you drink more beer by telling me you going
help him with school work?  How dare!  What you tink me, Kenji?"
	Grandfather gave a look to grandson for help.  The boy could take
a hint.  "Oh yeah, Gramma, that's right.  Grampa wants to help me do good
in school, so he needs one more beer."
	"The word is well, Kenny, well.  He wants another beer so he can
help you do WELL in--Ah!  You boys!"  She shook her head and pointed at
her husband.  "You two, I swear, you . . ."  Her finger shook but further
words eluded her.  She did an abrupt about-face back through the door.  
The man and the boy looked at each other and shrugged.  Old Mrs.
Kaneshiro's hand came out through the doorway and Kenny grabbed the cold
beer.  He quickly ran the sacred can to its grateful receiver.
     "But I'm telling you that's the last one until after dinner!" she
called out through the screen.
	Patting Kenny on the shoulder, Mr. Kaneshiro took the Bud from
him.  "Good boy.  Have a seat, Kenny," he offered with great warmth,
plopping back down on his gardening stool and gesturing to the grass with
his free hand.  "So what you like dis story for?"
	"Jes like you said, Grampa, I need um for school."
	Sipping his creative fuel, he asked, "So what dat English teacher
like you kids write about dis time?"
	The boy lay down on the grass.  "We suppose to interview one ol--I
mean one kupuna, an write about one of da great stuffs you can remembah
from your own small-kid time.  You know, one of da best good old days you
had dat gave you planny wisdom so you can pass um on to modern day kids
like me who gotta learn important value lesson stuff we nevah learn yet
cuz we too young to be . . . you know, wise."
	The old man stopped contemplating what he figured had to be a
minimum four-pound tomato and tasted his Bud.  Shaking his head knowingly,
he said, "You pretty wise."
	"Huh?" the boy asked.
	"Nothing.  Nevah mind.  So," he sipped, "I'm gonna tell you about
something dat happened to me so you can write um down an everybody goin
say 'Ho, da buggah must have learned one important lesson from dat.  He
old, but he wise too,'" he sipped, "'cuz of this great experience.'
Right?"
	Kenny rolled over on his side and leaned on the palm of his hand.  
"Yeah, pretty much."
	"So in other words, I goin do all da work an write dis story for
you."
	The boy sat up, shaking his head.  "Oh no, Grampa.  I not jes
gonna make like one tape recorder.  I goin make like one . . . like one
screen, or someting my teacher said.  Not jes writing um down, cuz Mrs.
Leslie no like dat.  I suppose to make what you say different.  Trans . .
. trans-something da ting for make um change so da lesson point stay real
clear."
	"Yeah yeah yeah," Mr. Kaneshiro mumbled, then sipped twice.  
"Okay, lemme think."
	Kenny pondered his grandfather's short gray hair, the wrinkled
ear, swollen in spots from boxing, the dark moles that sprouted black
hairs on his cheek.  He looked deeper, watched the gears spinning toward
something good.  Mentally, he celebrated with great enthusiasm, happily
envisioning the "A" story he would write.
	Something sparked in the old man's eye.  "Kenny, I tought you said
you hated English class?"
	"Huh?  Oh no, Grampa.  Not since da las time.  I got one 'A,' an
Mrs. Leslie tol Dad dat I doin good now."
	"Yeah?  What you wrote?"
	"Oh, about Joey and, you know, him dying."
	Old Mr. Kaneshiro turned to contemplate the memorial shrine of
stones that marked his favorite bird's grave on the side of the garden.  
"Joey," he sighed.  "He was a good rooster.  I wish I knew how come one
day he so damn healthy an da next day he so damn dead."
	Kenny looked away.  "Oh, yeah, me too, Grampa."
	The old man snapped around to look at the boy.  "What you wrote
about Joey?  How come you nevah tol me about dat?"
	Kenny continued looking away.  "I, uh, wrote about how--I
mean--dat he died.  I went write about Joey, ah, an also about you an
Gramma."
	"Me and Gramma?  What da heck you wrote about us?"
	The boy swallowed.  "Ah, not too much."
	"An da English teacher liked it?"
	"Oh, uh huh, Grampa.  She said you and Gramma must be, ah, really
int'resting."
	Mr. Kaneshiro stared at the boy.  "Intahresting.  What you mean
intahresting?"
	"I don't know, Grampa.  You know dese teachers.  Da comments dey
write so out of it.  Who knows what dey talkin about."
	The old man nodded and returned attention to his prized tomato in
the making.  "Yeah yeah yeah.  Well, at least she tought it was good."
	Kenny looked at the old man now.  "You said it, Grampa.  She
really liked it.  She tol Dad.  She said it was really, really, really
good."
	Mr. Kaneshiro grunted.  "Dat good, huh!  I like read um sometime."
	"Oh, uh, okay, Grampa.  I bring um to you, uh, real soon.  First
chance I get.  No worry."  The subject changed quickly.  "What about what
you goin tell me now?"
	"Oooookay, Kenny.  I get just da story for you."  The boy sat bolt
upright, his face glowing with anticipation.  "But first, you gotta sneak
inside and get me one more Bud."  The boy's head sank to his knees.  
"Right now, Kenny."
	Kenny stood up slowly and sauntered over to the lanai.  He
stopped.  Instead of boldly marching up the stairs, he suddenly dashed
around the side of the house.  "Das my grandson," Mr. Kaneshiro whispered,
knowing that the next beer was only moments away.
	A few minutes later, Kenny came barreling around the side of the
house, running with his hand under his shirt.  He produced the beer.  "I
tol Gramma I needed more toilet paper, so she went upstairs fo' get um."
	"Good job, Kenny boy," Mr. Kaneshiro said, beaming.  He popped the
pull-tab.  "Now what you planning for say when she come down with da
toilet paper?"
	"I goin say I used da Kleenex, of course."
	The old man chuckled.  "But get toilet paper in da bat'room,
right?  How you goin explain dat?"
        "No more, Grampa, I hid um."
	"Kenny?" came the call from inside.  Mrs. Kaneshiro stuck her head
out the screen door.  "What are you doing out there?"
	"Oh, I jes went use da Kleenex.  Tanks, Gramma."
	The grandfather listened to his wife's low mumbling and chuckled
quietly.  When he heard the screen door close, he said, "Okay, now fo' one
story."  He sipped and contemplated his big tomato.  "Hmmmmm, let's see."
	"I tought you said you had da story?"
	"Huh?"  The old man looked up.  "Oh, yeah, but you took so long
fo' bring me da beer I went lose my train of . . . I forgot."  He sipped.  
"Lemme see."
	Kenny waited.  Time passed.
	Finally the grandfather spoke.  "Okay, I get um.  I ever tol you
about da time your granduncle an me broke into old man Chang's car an hid
one dead rat under his back seat?"
	Kenny shook his head.  "No, Grampa, you nevah.  What kine lesson
you learned from dat?"
	"Oh, yeah, sorry.  I forgot about da lesson part.  Let's see."
	More time passed.  More beer disappeared.
	"Okay.  I evah tol you how your granduncle an me burned down da
storage shed behind da Chang's house?"
	"No, Grampa, you nevah tell me dat one either.  What lesson you
learned from dat?"
	"Simple an crystal cleah," said the old man.  "No put out
cigarettes on one old mattress.  Da buggah goin burn forevah.  No make
diff'rence if you spit on da burning part an look extinguish.  Da buggah
still keep smoldering even if look like da fire stay out."  He stopped.
	"Oh, okay, Grampa," Kenny said slowly.  "But I don't think Mrs.
Leslie gonna say dat lesson is kupuna-level wise."
        "Yeah, Kenny, you right.  Lemme tink some more."
	The sun had almost set.  Kenny still waited.  He noticed that his
grandfather began swaying slightly on the stool.
	"I got it, Kenny boy.  I evah tol you how me an your granduncle
pulled all of the nails out of old man Chang's outhouse?  Sheez.  He was
da las holdout in da whole valley fo' get one inside toilet.  When Mr.
Chang wen open da door, da whole thing went collapse."
	The boy blinked, then slowly nodded his head.  "An da lesson was .
. . ?"
	Mr. Kaneshiro snorted then sipped.  Smacking his lips, he said,
"Revenge is sweet."
	Kenny slapped his hand on the grass.  "Grampa, I canna give Mrs.
Leslie one li' dat either.  Gotta be more nice kine, you know?  Like one
good an happy lesson."
	The wise one nodded.  "Maybe I bettah tink about some stuff
besides da Changs, yeah?"
	"Yeah, Grampa, good thinking."
        Mrs. Kaneshiro flipped on the outside floodlights.  Kenny watched
his grandfather continue to sway in the dim spotlights.
	"An I musta tol you about da camps already, yeah?"
	"Sand Island?" Kenny asked.
	"Yeah, Sand Island."
	"An how you met Gramma dere?"
	"Yeah yeah yeah.  How I met Gramma dere."
	"Yeah, Grampa, you tol me all about dat planny times already."
	The old man sighed.  Beer blurred the memory sometimes, but no
matter how blurry, he could still see the rows of canvas cots in rows of
canvas tents, the smoking lamps with their blackened glass, the armed
guards.  And yes, he'd met Thelma there.  In the camps.  The only clear
memory.  All the beer in the world would never erase that.
	Suddenly he sat up straight.  "Okay okay okay.  You know da guys
who sell da useless newspapah on da street corner?  Well, had one guy,
kind of not too smart.  I think his name was Bobo.  My dad, your
great-grandfather, always use to buy da useless newspapah from Bobo.  Da
kid was nice but kinda slow.  Oh yeah, I said dat, yeah?  You know what I
mean, right?  Well, had lotta mean kids who use to make trouble to Bobo.  
Always boddah him.  Always call him lolo an stupid an dummy.  I felt
pretty bad for Bobo.  So one time I asked my mom fo' make him one great
hat all made outta beer cans.  Da next time my dad went buy da useless
newspapah I gave Bobo da hat.  He tought was Christmas an New Yeahs an
den.  Boy, he nevah took da hat off. Den one day, some mean guys pulled
up to Bobo in their van an took his hat--"
	Old Mr. Kaneshiro blinked, then sipped deeply from his can.  He
held the beer out at arm's length, squinted at it, and shook his head.  
Kenny stopped breathing, waiting to hear what the mean boys had done to
Bobo and his beer-can hat.
	"Ah, sheeeeet!" Mr. Kaneshiro cursed.  "Das not from my small-kid
time.  I tink maybe somebody tol me dat story.  Maybe was your dad."
	He glanced, beer-dazed, at his grandson.  "Nevah mind, nevah mind.  
Das not my story.  Erase.  Erase.  Now you know why I always tell you no
drink when you come my age.  Pretty soon you ain't gonna know what from
what."
	Kenny slapped the ground with both hands.  "Man, Grampa, sounded
so good da story.  Tell um anyway.  I like use dat one."
	"Eh!"  Mr. Kaneshiro spoke sternly.  "Das not my story.  Das
somebody else story.  You canna use um.  Bad enough you using me fo' write
your story.  At least you should try for tell my own story."
	"No mattah, Grampa.  I can change um.  Like I can say you gave him
one hat made out of opihi shells or whatevahs, or one jacket, an he use to
sell flowahs or somet'ing, an da mokes rode up on one horse or somet'ing."
	This made the old man more upset.  "One horse!  Eh, had cars,
gonfonnit!"
	"Oh, okay Grampa.  So dey had one car back den.  Tell da resta da
story."
	The old man shook his head.  "No no no no no!  No good.  Das not
good, Kenny.  Like lying.  Or stealing.  Like lying and stealing at da
same time.  Das not my story.  Das not what I did myself.  I nevah learn
any lesson myself.  Das not one real experience for make me one wise
kupuna.  Would be shame, Kenny.  Big, big shame to steal someone else
story."
	The boy was upset.  Bobo's story had sparked his interest and he
wanted it.  Mrs. Leslie, he figured, would never know the difference.  
"Come on, Grampa, please.  Das one great story.  Please, Grampa."
	The old man cleared his throat noisily.  "I said no!  And no means
no.  I like tell my own story."
	Kenny shook his head.  "I no like hear your story, Grampa.  I want
dat story."
	Mr. Kaneshiro stared at the boy, speechless.  Furious, he turned
his attention back to his future champion tomato.  "Don't wanna hear my
story, uh?" he mumbled.  The tomato grew larger before his eyes.  Suddenly 
he laughed out loud and slapped his leg.
	"What, Grampa?  What so funny?"
	"I tell you one story.  Dis one is real.  Gonna kill your teacher.  
Make you forget about Bobo when you hear um cuz so damn scary."
	Kenny said nothing; he wanted Bobo.
	"When I was one small kid, old man Yamamoto," he pointed to the
house across the street, "was one great gardener.  He grew every vegetable
you could tink of, and every vegetable was da best vegetable you ever
seen.  Anyway, had one contest coming up over at Palama Settlement.
	"Dere was one noddah great gardener named Souza--yeah, dat was his
name.  Mr. Souza.  He lived over by Kawananakoa, I tink.  He also had da
idea he would entah da contest and win wit his tomato.
	"Both Souza and Yamamoto nevah let nobody see their tomatoes for
two months.  Even their wives couldn't get a good look at their tomatoes.
	"So da contest day came.  Yamamoto picked his best tomato, put um
in one box, and hauled da buggah down to Palama Settlement.  In da dark,
even, cuz he nevah like nobody see.  When came time fo' judge da tomatoes,
Yamamoto went bus um outta da box.  Everybody's eyeballs went pop.  Was
five pounds fo' sure.  And jes when Yamamoto t'ought he had da prize,
Souza came limping in, flew open his box, and heaved his tomato on top da
table.  Nevah need weigh um.  Da Portagee had um by eyeball.  Was two
pounds more at least.  An Souza got da first prize."
	He looked at his grandson.  "So what, Kenny?  You tink Yamamoto
was happy with second place?"
	Kenny stared blankly at his grandfather.
	"You tink so?" the old man demanded again.
	Blank stare.
	Mr. Kaneshiro downed the last of his beer and crushed the can in
his hand.  "You see da Yamamoto's lychee tree?"  He pointed toward the
thirty-foot high tree surrounding the amber streetlight.  The boy's eyes
followed to where the index finger pointed.  He nodded yes.  "Da very nex
morning, real early, Yamamoto's wife found him swinging from dat tree.  
Da buggah was all yellow an purple an black an green.  Mrs. Yamamoto
screamed so loud everybody woke up.  Nobody knows what happened to da
tomato.  Or da second place ribbon.  But dat made me wise, sonny boy,
taught me one lesson Mrs. Leslie gonna love.  Maybe, maybe not, I one wise
kupuna, but I learned a whole lot about life from dat."  He stopped
speaking and continued to crush the can.
	Finally Kenny couldn't wait any longer.  "So what, Grampa, what
you learned from dat?"
	The old man gave the boy a long, hard look.  Pointing to his
largest tomato, he said, "What I learned?  I learned dat what I got right
here, well, it ain't good enough.  Not yet, Kenny boy, not yet.  But
planny fertilizah goin make what I get grow into one goddamn winnah."  He
continued to stare coldly at his grandson.  "Now go home an write my
story."
	"Huh?"  The boy was confused.  "Grampa, so what you went learn
exact--"
	"I said go da hell home already!" shouted Mr. Kaneshiro.  "I tired
talk."  And with that he stood up quickly from his stool, turned, and
trudged toward the house.
	"But I don't get it, Grampa.  What--"
	"Figure it out fo' yourself."  Without turning, he gestured with
his hand for his grandson to depart immediately through the side gate.  
The screen door slammed shut behind him.
	"Don't want my stories, huh?"  He yanked open the refrigerator and
pulled out another Bud.  Jerking back his chair, he flopped into his place
at the dining table.
     His wife stirred something slowly on the stove, listening, waiting.  
"Where's Kenny?" she finally asked.
	"Who cares?  I sent Bobo home.  He get homework.  He can eat
dinner with his own goddamn father."
	"Bobo?  Kenji, what happened?"
	Mr. Kaneshiro pounded his beer down on the table.  Shooting up
from his seat he stomped out into the living room.  After rifling through
his pile of newspapers he uttered a triumphant "Ah hah!" and strode back
into the kitchen.  He jammed an old copy of the WORLD ENQUIRER in his
wife's face.  It was the only paper he read.  Often he referred to it
fondly as "the scandal sheet."
	"Das what happened," he said, pushing the paper between his wife
and her steaming pot.
	"What?" she asked again.
	"Read it!  What does it say?" he demanded.
	She read the headline aloud:  "Second-Place Winner in Big Tomato
Contest Commits Suicide."  She shook her head.  "So?" she asked.  "So
what?"
	He crumpled the paper and tossed it toward the trash can.  The
ball missed and rolled into a corner.
	"Das what happened is what," he mumbled.  He swept his beer off
the table and returned to the living room.  Through the picture window he
saw his grandson standing under the Yamamoto's lychee tree, staring up
into the yellow-lit branches.
	For a moment the old man felt a twinge of guilt; he closed his
eyes.  But the beer still tasted very good.  "Das exactly how it happened,
Kenny boy," he whispered.  He pulled the curtain across the window and
flipped on the television.