“A human being should be able to change a diaper, plan an invasion, butcher a hog, conn a ship, design a building, write a sonnet, balance accounts, build a wall, set a bone, comfort the dying, take orders, give orders, cooperate, act alone, solve equations, analyze a new problem, pitch manure, program a computer, cook a tasty meal, fight efficiently, die gallantly. Specialization is for insects.” —Robert A. Heinlein, Time Enough For Love
Welcome to the Renaissance Humans Newsletter, where I focus on sense-making and story-telling in the turbulent twenties. The Renaissance (“rebirth,” in French) spanned from the 14th to the 17th century and marked a period of cultural, artistic, and intellectual renewal in Europe. A Renaissance Human fosters curiosity, creativity, critical thinking, and character in a journey of never-ending learning. They cultivate Mind, Body, and Spirit, in service of Community, and oriented to the Transcendentals.
This was my entry for the Spring 2024 Writing Battle. Great contest, and an even greater writing community. And man, the talent over there is off the charts. This is 500 words in the Disaster genre. I pulled Volcano for a location and Gardener for character. Writing Battle pits your story against ten other stories, and the top eight in each “House” of 64 or so advance to the playoffs with the other houses.
The contest lets you redraw the genre card once and then a total of 6-7 redraws for the location and character cards. I think I used two total redraws. This version is lightly edited from the one I submitted, based on the feedback from those who read it. I got Honorable Mention, at 6 wins and 4 losses. I was disappointed I missed the playoffs, but that’s where the right internal orientation is helpful. Recognition is nice, but what’s more important, at least to me, is process— taking a few plot, setting, and character constraints and crafting a unique story. Writing short stories has dramatically improved my abilities, at least in my biased opinion. Quick note: This is what the Jetson Model ONE looks like— I extrapolated a Model FIVE for this story.
From fifty feet in the air, Kilauea looked angry. Scorching updrafts buffeted my Jetson Model FIVE Personal Craft as I ascended. Dodged clouds of Pele’s Hair — the gritty ash particles named for our volcanic goddess. My copilot seat was empty.
If Mama had listened—evacuated when her neighbors did — it wouldn’t have come to this. But when your family motto is “hard way,” you tend not to be reasonable about such things. I set the Jetson down on the sun-bleached drive, next to the battered pickup that was my father’s. The closest lava flow was minutes away, already enveloping the adjacent hales. Grey smoke billowed from the multi-story dwellings.
I darted feverishly through the house. Empty.
Of course, I found her in the garden.
“Shouldn’t you be buzzing haoles around the Island? The eruption must be good for business.”
My company does island tours in the two-person aerial craft. I’d tried to call her on the landline multiple times. No response. She refused to get a cell phone. Refused almost all technology. Barely had electricity in the house, let alone internet. “Mama. Please.” I gestured to the grave marker outside the garden. “Noa would want you to go.” The tomatoes were getting big, as was the eggplant.
“Are you sure? I speak to your father every day. He said it’s okay if I stay. Besides, my Gardenias are going to bloom soon. I can feel it.”
“What about me?” I stabbed a finger into my chest. “I want you to go. Go for me.”
She stared with a smile that was somehow both sad and amused at the same time. “Oh, come now, keiki. I am already with you. Everything you ever learned from me. It’s all there. Inside.”
“What about your grandchild? Kala is seven months pregnant.” I put my hand on her pruning shears. “We’re going to name her Pualani.”
“You honor me, my son. But my place is here, with the iwi — the bones of your father.”
A knot in my stomach—the tiny pit grew and grew, until my entire midsection ached. “Don’t you want to know her?” I threw up my hands.
Mama looked puzzled. “But I will. And she will know me.” She touched my face gently. “It’s okay. Let me go, keiki. Take this.”
She handed me a satchel, the purple canvas faded with decades of use. I knew that there was nothing I could do, short of taking her against her will. Hard way.
I hugged her. One last time.
Walking away was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I lifted off, circled the house. Copilot seat still empty. Lava crept towards the garden. She waved slowly. When I got back to the airfield, I shut the Jetson down, but didn’t move. The ocean breeze rippled across, cooling the engine.
I opened the satchel.
Inside, an encyclopedic tome, dozens of pouches, and a note in a familiar scrawl.
My son,
The journal holds the lore of our Ohana — family pictures, recipes, and stories. The seeds are beans, cherry tomato, eggplant, katuk, kalo and others. Flowers too. Our Gardenias. Your father and I spent decades perfecting them. I am with you always.
Mama
I should look into this sort of a thing for writing.