I anticipated those fine days, when I could laugh and play in the black snow.  Growing up in the old 'Ewa Plantation, I was surrounded by colorful vegetable gardens, bold plantation houses, and humble sugar mill workers.  Though the most significant memory I have is of the miles and miles of endless sugar cane that adorned the 'Ewa plains.

    My family's history dates back to the first foreigners who migrated to Hawai'i from various parts of the world to work on the sugar plantations.  Working on the plantations was a tradition that would prevail for generations.  It was the only means of employment for many, and with pride, they worked hard to keep the cane nourished and the sugar abundant.  

    My grandfather and father worked for the Oahu Sugar Company, along with two of my uncles.  They each had their own tasks.  My father was an equipment welder, while his younger brother was a mechanic.  His brother-in-law was a cane transporter, bringing the cane from the fields to the factory where it was processed.  My grandfather was the supervisor for the irrigation system used to water the cane fields.  All of their jobs were crucial in keeping the sugar industry lucrative.  

    Each morning, the crow of the roosters would waken my father, even before the sun would rise.  He would have his cup of instant coffee and briefly smoke a cigarette.  After getting ready, I would hear his footsteps out the door and that is when I would peek out the window and quietly ask him if it was going to snow.   Many times he would whisper that he wasn't quite sure, because he knew that I would be very disappointed if he said no.    

    One particular morning, I do recall him replying that snow would fall around mid-day.  I wasn't old enough to attend school yet, so I stayed at home with my younger brother and waited patiently by the window, listening for the first crackles of  "snow."  Just then, I could hear the initial sound of the cane crunching together as the fields were being ignited. Joyfully I called to my little brother, "Come on!  Let's go outside, it's going to snow!"  Excitedly we hustled out, slamming the front door, and alerting our neighborhood friends of the spectacular news.  With our shoulders and feet bare, we watched the smoke clouds hang low in the sky above us.   As the scent of the burnt sugar cane filled the air, my mother rushed to take the clothes off of the line outside, for if she didn't, she'd have to wash them once more.  Just as I was becoming impatient, the first piece of snow fell gently upon my brow.  Suddenly, there was a downpour.  Crusty, blackish gray ashes from the cane fire nearby gently drifted down from above.  We challenged one another to catch the falling ashes, not caring about the black dust that would stain our skin.  We ran through it clumsily as it painted our faces like tribal warriors.  Our hearts raced with delight as the final pieces met the ground, crumpling shortly after.  Covered in soot, we sat under a festively colored mango tree and teased each other about how silly we looked, some of us unrecognizable.  This was what I'd waited for so anxiously.       

    I can remember playing in the black snow quite frequently.  Once, I even ran frantically out of my classroom to savor the moment.  The surprised teacher stood motionless as the rest of the class galloped behind me.  As time progressed, however, I noticed that it hadn't been snowing as often and that made me very concerned.  

    When I was in the eighth grade, my father came home with news that would surprise us all.  The mill would be shutting down because it would be cheaper to import sugar from the states. We never thought the day would come when sugar cane would be obsolete in 'Ewa.

    I was very shocked and saddened by the news, not only because I would never be able to see the black snow again, but also because this would be the end of many years of hard work.   I was never going to see those vast cane fields with tassels bobbing in the wind.  My father would be out of a job, his first and only job after twenty-three years.  Eventually all of the plantation workers, including my father, would find jobs elsewhere.   Although my grandfather had left us years before when he lost his battle with cancer, I believed he would be looking down on us through the thick smoke of the last cane fire.     

    The last sugar cane field was burnt in 1996.  There were news reporters and cameras everywhere, recording the "grand finale."  Many of us sat quietly this time, no laughter or games, just silence. But I stood proudly, reminiscing about those days I played in the black snow.