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How a Korean woman
found fortune in Hawaii

My maternal grandmother was always concerned about the health of her children, and truly believed in Korean remedies. When her twin sons, Walter and Harold, were growing up during the 1930s, they suffered from asthma. Grandma was told that turtle blood would alleviate their symptoms, but just the thought of drinking a turtle's blood made my uncles queasy. But when she offered them $5 each if they would drink it, the offer was too good to resist. A burly tenant from the rooming house my grandparents owned stood watch to make sure they drank it and didn't cheat.

"If you guys don't listen to Mama, I'll bust you up," he threatened.

Swallowing the blood, they thought they were going to die and, afterward, they refused to have anything more to do with Grandma's turtle blood. Besides, it didn't cure their asthma.

As a member of the Washington Intermediate School Band, Harold was required to wear white pants. Fashion dictated form-fitting trousers that fit tightly over the tops of his shoes. Grandma, who was once considered the best tailor in Waimanalo, cleverly sewed a short, hidden zipper in the bottom portion of each leg. The other band members were jealous and amazed by how good Uncle's trousers looked.

"Where did you get those pants?" they asked.

Harold swaggered. "My tailor made them," he said.

In 1961, at the age of 65, Grandma became a U.S. citizen, together with a group of friends who shared her interests: They all raised orchids, played hanafuda cards and wore similar hairstyles. They attended citizenship classes taught by Harold. Her daughter, Marge, prepped her for the examination.

"Who is the President of the United States?" asked Marge.

"I dunno. But, him Catholic," said Grandma.

The fact that President Kennedy was a Roman Catholic impressed Grandma, and she said that she would vote for him in the next election. However, although her 10 children and husband converted to Catholicism, she, herself, felt more comfortable with the Korean language and being with her friends at the Korean Methodist Church.

For an uneducated woman from Korea, Grandma did very well. She tended her husband's country store, opened a tailor shop, and owned and managed several apartment buildings and houses. She learned to communicate in English with her customers and tenants. Because she was so friendly, the sailors who rented her rooms called her "Halmoni," the Korean word for grandmother.

Although she didn't know how to cook American food, Grandma prepared Korean dishes such as kimchi, chon, mandu, pulkogi, kalbi and namul. Her many children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren feasted at her house on South King Street on major holidays. She worked tirelessly in the kitchen all day. As soon as the first pot of mandu was cooked, we were told to come in and eat the steaming dumplings at the large oval table. The tantalizing aroma of meat being barbecued on the hibachi filled the air. I think she'd be shocked if she knew that today all of my own parties are catered by professional chefs.

Known for her kindness and generosity, she paid for my orthodontic treatment when I was 11 years old and sent me money in Thailand and New York. I'll always remember her words when I called from the mainland on Mother's Day in 1975. "Glenda, you come home now," she said. "I love you." And after seven years abroad, that's what I did.

She was almost 80 years old when she died in 1976, leaving behind an estate worth more than a million dollars.

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