In Hawaii, people say “Aloha,” to greet or welcome, or sometimes as a sad “‘til we meet again,” at partings. However, I found the word to have many other meanings. It represents the Hawaiian mind-set of warmth and compassion — a spirit of generosity and graciousness, of hospitality and cultural pride, of loyalty and friendship and love. I was the recipient of all these values by people who became my “Aloha” family.

Upon our arrival on the island of Oahu, native dancers murmured “Aloha” as they placed fragrant leis or flower garlands around our necks.

The fantastic island beauty — the exotic flowers, the misty mountains, the azure waters, overwhelmed me. I was living every girl’s dream — married to my college sweetheart enjoying a three-year Hawaiian honeymoon as a Marine Corps officer’s wife. I was in paradise surrounded by breathtaking splendor and soothed by tradewinds, yet everything seemed alien, and I felt completely alone in the midst of the hustle and bustle of Honolulu.

Each morning I awoke to the sound of pounding surf and exotic birdcalls. From an adjacent balcony a musician played an island serenade on a saxophone, while a few steps away on Waikiki beach, children laughed and surfers called out to one another. I should have been delighted to be in a fine hotel overlooking the beach, flanked by swaying palms and with the sounds of Hawaii all around me, but all of this only added to my feeling of isolation.

In September 1961, three days before my 20th birthday, I gave birth to my first child, a beautiful little girl we named Allison. She was a “preemie” weighing-in at just four pounds and had to remain in the hospital. When she reached five pounds, we brought her home to the apartment my husband had leased during my hospital stay. Our only furniture consisted of a second-hand bedroom set, a crib and some orange crates. We stopped to pick up diapers, formula, and other baby items, my husband installed us in our new home and left for three months on maneuvers. Away from Waikiki’s activity, I was even more lonely — no friends, no furniture, and very little knowledge of infant care.

Allison cried incessantly before and after her every-two-hour-feedings, so that I got very little sleep. I wondered why I felt so helpless and alone, and why a terrifying urge to jump from our second floor landing haunted me. In those days, people did not understand post-natal depression and I had no way of understanding or explaining what was happening to me. There was, fortunately a telephone and directory in the apartment, which I used to locate and call a church of my faith for help.

Father Henry’s gentle voice was soothing as he told me I had “the blues” resulting from childbirth and that he would send someone from his nearby parish to see me. Two days later a tall, attractive brown-skinned woman in Hawaiian dress knocked at my door. I assumed she was Hawaiian, but found out that she was African American, too. Her warmth and no-nonsense manner were comforting and it was obvious that she knew a lot about handling infants. She pounced on my daughter, cooing and squealing with delight. “Why her head is no bigger than a baseball!” and “She could fit in a shoe box!” were her initial observations. Later that day I was ensconced in a comfortable easy chair, smelling good food cooking, as I watched her four little girls take over my baby’s care, squealing and cooing in the same excited ways as their mother had. The two boys hovered around, pretending to be unconcerned.

Later, at supper, I could see and feel the respect and love flowing from the children to their father as he presided over the offering of grace and proper table decorum. The pride and love that flowed in their assembled family flowed back to them from the parents.

Bill and Marge Barnette, devout Roman Catholics, were part of the small number of African Americans living in Hawaii after World War II. A former Seabee, Bill retired as a civilian employee at Pearl Harbor. They were both originally from Georgia, — he from Gainsville, she from Stovall.

They married in Hawaii and raised their six children there in close alliance with the local church, St. Anthony. The Barnettes absorbed my family into theirs sharing holidays and family celebrations and becoming godparents to our two children. Marge was Tutu (grandma), showering them with love and as many gifts as her budget would allow. At the Barnette home I was free to feel young – frolicking on the monkey bars, and learning the latest dance trend from the teen-aged girls. There were picnics at Waimaia Bay where we swam in crystal clear waters. There were celebrations on the lanai (patio) where friends of every ethnicity gathered. I recalled a moonlight gathering where we watched Marge sway in a graceful hula.

In my photo album are cherished snapshots of my two children dressed in adorable island style outfits that were gifts from Tutu Marge. Christmases were always full of joyous activity – pageants and concerts at St. Anthony, and festivities at the Barnettes. My husband and I double-dated with Bill and Marge for dinner and movies in Honolulu while the girls babysat.

The lonely and frightened newlywed and mother retreated into the shadows as my little family learned the aloha way of living and loving under Bill and Marge’s gentle guidance, and I matured as well, as I tried to emulate the gracious womanhood of Marge Barnette. I remember the day my family made our way to the huge jetliner smothered in garlands of leis amidst tearful goodbyes, with Allison turning around every few steps for one last look at her Tutu and Uncle Bill. Years later there were the dreaded phone calls from Hawaii informing us of first Marge's passing and then Bill's. Allison and I sobbed uncontrollably until we realized that two angels had met their life-long goal – spending eternity with the Lord and all the saints.

Now, many years later, I have reconnected with the six Barnette siblings who remain grounded in their faith and are living lives that reflect the careful, and loving nurturing of their parents.

To Cecilia, Barbara, Patricia, Cynthia, Billy and Jimmy, I say, “mahalo,” for everything, with all my love.

Hawaii calls me to the loveliness I did not want to leave behind As the sweet alohas of loved ones Linger vividly in my mind While the trade winds fade To a fragile memory They still take me back To my aloha family.