John Reppun is the Director of Key Project. He is also a farmer. He drove to work the other morning with his "fancy shirt" dangling from the rear-view mirror. I was in that mirror, sitting in the back. My tarp taking up most of the room between myself and a boy named La'a.
I had monday off and decided to visit John's farm, and why not do a little camping as well. I met him at a gate at the end of Waiahole Valley Road; it had "Government Property", and "No Tresspassing" signs plastered all over it. John along with a few others, including two of his brothers, till the ground here, and lease the land for cheap from the government.
Which is fitting, considering that they fought long and hard for this land. You'll find their names in various case records.
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| John unloading his Jeep |
I came to labor in the fields with John and to hear what there was to hear. He showed me two trails. One that cut south across the Waiahole valley, and one that cut across a valley to the north. He showed me his guava trees, his papaya trees, his seedlings of tangerines, and his patches of ground cover. We weeded out certain areas, and picked the ripened papayas, tearing them with a pleasant crispness from the trees. Herb gardens he had, bees he had, kalo he had. By the time we made it back to the house I had a bucket full of freshly picked fruit. I've never seen John happier.
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| Newly planted fields |
—Have I told you my father's prescription story yet?— He inquired.
—No—
He told me a story of his father, a local physician. A local man came in to see him. He cared for a custom ship building shop. He told John's father that he did not feel well, that he felt ill and stressed. His father listened. At the end of the visit, John's father quickly scribbled down something on the prescription form, folded it, and said goodbye, before turning to another patient.
As the man was returning to his home he stopped in to a pharmacy. When he got to the counter he unfolded the form and looked down at it, baffled. After a moment or two he realized that what was written wasn't writing at all but a map, leading up to John's and his brother's farms.
The man followed the prescription. He went and visited the farms, got into kalo farming, is feeling great and hasn't stopped since.
For many farming is the answer. For others it is an answer.
For me it brings me back to a scripture, the words written by the Nephite prophet Jacob: "do not spend money for that which is of no worth, nor your labor for that which cannot satisfy."
The separation of labor from the enjoyment of the product has greatly reduced man's satisfaction and peace of mind.
Instead of popping endless Tylenol, painkillers, and happy-pills, perhaps we should instead create something and find joy in its use, or at least have the slightest idea of where the things we use come from.
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| Fuits. |
We harvested the fruits of his labor under misty grey and blue sky. We tasted those fruits, and nothing ever tasted so good.
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| Misty grey and blue sky |
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| O bytheway, John happened to build his own home over the past couple decades. Out of nearly all recycled material. Ask him about his living room window— it has a great story. He says building your own home is one of the greatest pleasures of life. |
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| Rocks and things for decoration |
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| Oyster shells. Yummy |
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| Boxes for bees and their knees |
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| Harvested fruit |
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| A tangerine, eaten |
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| The view from a nearby looming hill |
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| The view to the north |
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| Looking down on John's farm |
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| My hammock arrangement |
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