While doing some vacation browsing, I was reminded that September 23 was my favorite uncle’s birthday.

James Peterson Yonge was born on this date in 1921. He was the youngest of three children. The other two were my mother, Helen Yonge Lind, and her older sister, Marguerite Yonge Shipp. The family lived in Waipahu.

Jimmy (which in the family morphed into Jimi) was still living at home when Pearl Harbor was attacked in 1941, and drove the short distance to the shore in West Loch to find bullets flying, sending him racing home to report that this was not a drill.

He registered for the draft in February 1942. He was working for Mutual Telephone Company in a building on 9th Avenue in Kaimuki and living with my parents in their rented home at 1018 Kealaolu Avenue in Kahala, according to his draft card. He enlisted for a 4-year stint in the Navy in June 1942. When he was discharged, he joined the merchant marine, working his way up from doing books on freighters to eventually becoming the chief purser on the Matson cruise ship, the Mariposa, one of the well-known “white ships” that cruised the Pacific.

He married Ida Ruth Saylor in 1953, but I don’t believe they spent much time together over the years, as he spent most of his time at sea. The cruise ships eventually became part of Pacific Far East Lines, and Jimi was chief purser on the final voyage of the Monterey, which was the last of the white ships taken out of service at the beginning of 1978. He retired to Portola, California, in the mountains near the border with Nevada, although Ida maintained her residence in San Francisco. His sister, Marguerite, also took up residence in Portola after her husband died in 1984.

Jimi told us he always felt uncomfortable when he found himself on land, and couldn’t wait to get back to sea to escape all the politics and bickering. We never sought details of his unconventional marriage, as both he and Ida seemed comfortable with their arrangement.

When I was a kid, a visit from Uncle Jimi was a big treat. My mother’s dog, Kiki, would go crazy when we came into the house, remembering when he had lived with my parents briefly at the beginning of 1942. And Jimi would arrive with friends, usually Kent Bowman (known for his pigeon-english comedy as “K.K. Kaumanua”) and another friend from freighter days, Billy Bruns. These guys were world-class story tellers as well as world-class drinkers, and my sister and I would stay to hear their stories for as long as we were allowed.

Later, when Meda and I were in graduate school at the University of Hawaii, we spent a number of long nights drinking at the Queen’s Surf or other venues with Jimi when his ship was in port.

I last saw him was in late 1989. My late sister, Bonnie, her husband, Ray Stevens, and I drove up from Reno for a day visiting with our aunt and uncle. Meda was busy at a criminology conference back in Reno, so the three of us drove north from Reno about 25 miles, then through the Beckwourth Pass into California, then another 20 miles to Portola.

It should have been no surprise to find Jimi was a familiar and popular figure in the local tavern, where his story-telling continued to entertain his friends.

He died in 1994 at 73, far too young in my view. A year or so later, my dad took Bonnie, Ray, and I out on his boat, and we scattered Jimi’s ashes off the Diamond Head buoy. Later, the cremains of Ray, Bonnie, and my mother all joined him in that spot.

The haden mango tree in our back yard was planted the year I was born.

I just ran across a photo taken toward the end of its first decade. I scanned the photo years ago and promptly forgot about it, but it turned up in an archive I’ve been reviewing.

You can see the somewhat spindly mango tree on the left in the first photo below as I’m mowing the the lawn near it.

In the intervening years, I’ve gotten a lot wiser and a bit older.

But the tree!! It growth over nearly eight decades is much more dramatic, in my view at least.

It’s canopy is now so large and dense that it’s difficult for grass to grow under there, so we replanted the area which more shade tolerant varieties. And we replaced my parents old ground level lanai with a deck at the same level as the house.

I tried to use the wonder of Photoshop to drop my young self into a photo with the mature tree.

The results follow.

Then….

And now….

In some ways it’s weird to be back in the space I grew up in. In other ways it feels totally natural. But in moments like this, it’s really hard to wrap my mind around the passage of time.

I’m fortunate that both the tree and I have survived so long.