I still remember Christmas in Hawaiʻi 60 years ago, when the season felt gentler and time itself seemed to slow down. Those days live in my memory – like a familiar song carried on the trade winds, and sometimes I wish, just for a moment, that we could turn back the clock and feel that kind of Christmas again.
Back then, Christmas wasn’t something you rushed through. It unfolded naturally, like the tide. Our neighborhood came alive in simple ways.
Kids played outside until the sun dipped behind the mountains, barefoot and carefree, their laughter echoing down the street. Houses were modest, but they were full of warmth. Doors stayed open, windows let in the breeze, and neighbors came and went without knocking, carrying plates of food or branches of greenery for decorations. We didn’t worry about matching themes or store-bought perfection. A Norfolk pine, a palm branch, or whatever we could find became our Christmas tree, dressed in tinsel with ornaments made by hand.
Music was everywhere. The radio played carols mixed with Hawaiian mele, and someone always had a guitar nearby. I can still hear the slack key melodies and falsetto voices, familiar and comforting. Christmas Eve at church was especially meaningful. The glow of candles, the singing – sometimes in Hawaiian – made the season feel sacred in a way that’s hard to describe now. It wasn’t just about faith; it was about belonging.
The food, of course, brought everyone together. Our Christmas table told the story of who we were. There might be turkey or ham, but it sat comfortably beside laulau, kalua pig, poi, lomi salmon, and haupia. From our Japanese relatives came sushi and mochi; from Portuguese friends, sweet bread and malasadas. Everyone helped prepare the meal, from the youngest keiki to the kūpuna, sharing stories and laughter along with the work. No one was in a hurry.
Gifts were simple then. I remember being just as happy with a new book or a pair of slippers as kids today are with the latest gadgets. The real gift was being together. After lunch, we’d gather at the beach or in the yard, uncles playing music, aunties talking story, cousins running free.
Those moments felt endless.
What I miss most is the sense of community. We looked out for one another, especially our elders. If someone needed help, it was given quietly, without expectation. Christmas meant making sure no one was left out.
So much has changed since then. Hawaiʻi feels faster now, louder, more crowded. But when I think of Christmas 60 years ago, I’m reminded of a time when the season truly reflected aloha. I hold onto those memories and wish, every year, that we could turn back time – if only to remember what really mattered.
You will be reading this column after Christmas, so here’s hoping it was a merry one and that the new year is a Hauʻoli Makahiki Hou.
