“On Lana`i, family is everything,” Pat Reilly explains to me. I can't help noticing the difference between Pat's voice and the others. I've known both Pat and Wally for two decades, since my second trip here. On Lana`i Pat is a minority within a minority: an unmarried white man with no children.
        Wally shrugs and takes a sip of coffee. “Some of da students, dey say it embarrassing for be call Pinelad, Pinelass.”
        “Why embarrassed?” Ken objects, his voice rising. “Embarrassing for wear da green and gold your fadah wear? Embarrassing for eat brown rice your granfadah buy with sweat from fields?” I stare at Ken's muscular bare brown forearms. I've heard some of the high school kids refer to Ken as FBI: Full-Blooded Ilocano, the region of the Philippines from which most of Lana`i's contract field laborers came in the 1930s and 40s after immigration from Japan had ended. I'm not certain where Ken is actually from.
        “In any case, it's not going to happen,” Pat says. “When the students announced their intention to change the name, the council of teachers and parents who make policy for the school had to approve it. They put out the word and called for public testimony.”
        “Get plenny too,” Mustache adds. “From aunties, alumni, pension men, everybody who grow up Lana`i. Nobody like change da name.”
        “The community didn't support the students,” Pat confirms. “We're still Pinelads.”
        “Less pain dis way,” Wally observes. “Change your name like divorce your wife.” Ken and Mustache chuckle at this.
        Wally is my age, with a wife and two daughters. Except for a little gray sprinkled through his hair and about ten extra pounds, he looks exactly the same as the day I met him in the lobby of the old Lana`i Lodge two decades ago. I can't be certain, but I think he's wearing the same faded blue and white aloha shirt. I have to admit I envy his constancy.
        Ken gives us all a victory salute. “Pinelads forever!”
        As we raise our cups in response, I notice your mother approaching, crossing the park from the down-camp side. She's pushing you along in the blue and green Evenflo Deluxe stroller with the detachable car seat your grandmother Heller gave us. Your brothers are nowhere in sight, which means they're still sleeping. Nevertheless, plenty of people are already moving around the park: custodians, clerks, maids, and landscapers heading for the tiny post office where the Company bus will take them to the resorts. From where we sit we can also see pension men easing their way toward Old Man's Bench and the stories of the day. On Lana`i things move constantly, but never swiftly. The island's slow rhythm seems to carry your mother and you toward us like the tide. But the two of you make your own ripple through the rhythm. As you pass, everyone turns, waves, or smiles in your direction. Nothing draws attention on Lana`i like a baby. Da haole from Kansas bring his whole family, including da baby, I've heard more than one local voice declare. Stay in Ron's renthouse instead of da resorts. These two facts have made my job here much easier. But the main reason is you, I realize as your mother wheels you toward us across 7th Street, your shining pink face finally visible as she pulls back the hood of the stroller. You can see it in the welcoming body language of Wally and Ken and Mustache and Pat as they scoot their chairs aside to make room for your stroller on the small concrete patio.

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