I did have an entry in the science fair that year -- the only time I ever did. Richard Nagano and I put together an ant farm. We didn't win anything (and I'll tell you why in just a second), but a photo of a student peering at the ant farm appeared in the student annual that year.

Richard did the posters and stuff. I made the farm. First of all, I asked Dad for help. He had one of his friends make a wooden base and ends. The sides were panes of glass that slide into pre-cut slots. The top was left open. Dad was pretty proud of his design.

I filled the ant farm with dirt from under the house. No one told me that the dirt had to be moist, so I didn't add water. Then, I caught about 20 or so ants that were meandering around the side of the house, put them in the farm, and covered the top with perforated wax paper. The industrious little buggers immediately went to work, busily digging holes in the dirt. I had a winner.

The next day, I took the farm to school and set it up in the school library, where the science fair was being held. One thing immediately became apparent -- there were no ants in the ant farm, and the tunnels had mysteriously disappeared between the time I set up the farm at home, and the time I set up the farm at school. In fact, all we had was an ant farm full of dirt.

Let's analyze this.

1. No ants. I discovered later that in order for an ant farm to survive, you must include a queen ant. Well, in my ant safari, I never came across any queens. Maybe it's because I didn't dig up the ground. Without a queen, the worker ants lose interest, give up and die. Now why didn't I remember about the queen ant? After all, I did read the entire World Book in the fourth grade.
2. No ants, part two. I also discovered later that unless you add water to the farm, the ants will die of thirst. You might say that I created an "ant Sahara" when I failed to add water to the farm that first day.
3. No tunnels. This is related to the water omission and the "no ants, part two" problem previously discussed. I again discovered later that because there was no moisture, there was nothing to hold the sides of the tunnels together. The tunnels (you guessed it) collapsed when the ant farm was jostled. And if you guessed that the ants were in the tunnels when they collapsed, you're 'way ahead of me.

I wanted nothing to do with this particular ant farm after that. The farm frame, with its ant Sahara dry dirt, sat in the science class for several weeks until the teacher ordered me to take it home. I was so ashamed of my failure that I dumped it into a culvert near the school, and never mentioned it to anyone again.

Years later, I tried again with a less-sophisticated set-up. I got the ants from the cane field behind our house after the cane had been harvested. An ant nest had been disrupted by the machinery, so I scooped it up -- dirt, queen, eggs and workers -- and deposited it in a large mayonnaise jar.

I set the jar in a pan of water so the ants couldn't escape, and left the top uncovered. This farm survived for weeks. I put it on my bedroom dresser and watched for hours as the ants went about their daily chores. I had even scooped up some other dirt denizens that thrived in the farm -- earthworms, mites and sowbugs -- and created a natural community of sorts.

Eventually, several weeks later, fungus started growing in the tunnels, and the ants couldn't handle the intrusion, so they all died an ignominious death, covered with white fuzz. I gave them a fitting burial -- I dumped the whole thing back into the cane field.

The school year started with disease, so it was befitting that it should end with disease. I came down with a severe case of the mumps about three weeks before the end of the school year. It started out on one side of my face, then spread to the other, then under my chin. I looked like one of those old granddaddy orangutans that was pictured in the World Book Encyclopedia.

Most kids catch the mumps, stay home a couple of weeks, then join the world of the living. Not me. After all, I never seem to do anything the normal, easy, run-of-the-mill way. My personal mumps germs decided to take a trip without my express permission. They went south to my left testicle. That little family jewel swelled up like a balloon and hung heavy in my crotch for a long, long time.

Dad was on top of the situation as usual, but he did tell me frankly and seriously that if it got infected and formed pus, that the testicle would have to be removed. I went to the World Book and read up on the mumps. As usual, Dad was right, and his prognosis was confirmed by that source authority.

We males will always experience a pit-of-the-stomach fear anytime our genitals are threatened. Even at that early age, I was scared. I mean terrified. Dad told me to rest and not to aggravate the complications. Let me tell you, I didn't make a move unless I had to. No way was I going to let my family jewel slip away from me.

I took extreme care of myself, and gradually, to my eternal relief, the swelling subsided and the danger passed. But, there is some justice in the world. I returned to school on . . . the last day of school.

A stream -- or as we called it, "The River" -- ran through the cane fields not too far from our house. You got to it either by taking Wiliwili Street all the way to the end, then turning left on an access road until you got to the stream. Or, you could walk to the end of Ekaha Street, and reach the access road from the Kawasaka's property.

The stream was only about fifteen feet wide, and just a couple of feet deep. You walked across a four-foot wide wooden bridge to reach the other side. This little stream continued a long way. The only time it was ever visible was when it crossed the street between Carvalho Park and Hilo Memorial Hospital. It eventually joined up with the Wailuku River, which split near the backside of Hilo High School, forming the residential area known as Reed's Island, before coming back together near the hydro-electric plant behind the main post office.

Wildlife flourished in and around the stream. Typical of small Hawaiian streams, there were lots of crayfish that made their homes in the steep muddy banks, "mosquito fish" (or "medaka"), fantailed guppies, swordtails, red swordtails, snails, leopard frogs, bullfrogs, mongooses, centipedes and every insect known to man. There might even have been some dragonfly nymphs for all I know.

We usually played in the area by the bridge. The stream widened at that point, and there were a few large semi-submerged rocks to stand on. One rock in particular was flat, roughly round in shape with a diameter of about three feet or so, and jutted out into the stream just under the bridge. We stood there a lot.

At New Year's time, we used to bring our cherry bombs, Roman candles and sparklers down to the stream. We'd just wreak havoc on those poor aquatic denizens. I already told you about how we wrapped bread around the cherry bombs and blew up the fish.

We'd also catch crayfish, tie a Duck Brand to its back, and watch it try to reach the water before the firecracker blew. We'd light a Roman candle, and once it got started, lay it on the bottom of the stream weighted down with rocks, and watch the colorful incandescence pop to the surface. We'd light the sparklers and toss them in stream, polluting the water and air with the noxious fumes.

The crayfish were fun, but scary. They came in two flavors: young green ones, and old red ones. The green crayfish were no threat, but those crafty old red ones would head for your big toe straightaway while you were standing in the water paying attention to something else. The crayfish would then proceed to nip your toe with its big pinchers, hanging on for all its worth. Even when you caught a crayfish, it would take a defensive posture with its pinchers in the air, wide open, ready to take off a piece of your skin if you weren't careful. You could pick them up by grabbing their back, but if you weren't careful, they'd snip your fingers.

If we had known at that time how tasty crayfish tails were, the stream's population certainly would have been sorely depleted. But we were from Hawaii, not Louisiana, so we didn't know crayfish tails from chicken lips.

Great fun, good times.

There were several areas where the stream widened out and provided a natural setting. We discovered one further upstream after the cane field had been harvested, and we went exploring through the cleared field. We found another area downstream. Both these clearings have stories, so let's get those out of the way first.

Let's start with downstream. It was maybe an eighth of a mile away from our play area, and we found it by actually following the water, wading in the shallow parts, jumping from rock to rock in some places, and walking along the shoreline in others. We'd visit it occasionally as there was a small grassy area next to the water.

One day as we were nearing the clearing, we heard voices. We sneaked into the tall grass and circled around to where we could see the clearing from the side of a small hill.

Lo and behold. There were a pair of lovers there, lying on a goza and kissing away like there was no tomorrow. They wore swimsuits, and I would guess they were in high school. Panting in high expectation, we continued to watch, hoping that we'd be able to see two people actually "doing it," if you know what I mean. But all they did was kiss. And kiss. And kiss. They didn't even have the decency to do a little light petting for their adolescent audience.

We must have watched them for a half-hour until the whole thing got very boring. I mean, all they did was kiss continuously, and I don't think they even broke apart for a second to get some air.

When young boys get bored, they turn into rascals. To this day, I will never forget the look on the lovers' faces when a pile of mud balls came raining down on them. They gathered up their stuff in a hurry and fled into the brush. We never did see them at the clearing again. I wonder why?

The upstream clearing was actually beautiful. There was a bamboo grove on one edge of the stream that provided the Miyamotos with fresh bamboo shoots every time I visited the place, and the water was fresh, cold and clear. There was a small mud flat near the bamboo grove where crayfish appeared in numbers.

One day, we decided to build a dam, and create a deep pool so we could go swimming during the hot months of summer vacation. It took us almost an entire Saturday to move heavy rocks and clear debris, but when we were done, it was a masterpiece that even a beaver would have been proud of. The next day, we spent hours at our newly created pool.

Then, it started to rain. It rained all week, as it is prone to do in Hilo. Since we had school, and homework to do, we didn't get to visit the pond until Saturday in the pouring rain. I knew something was wrong as we approached the upstream clearing. It was the sound of roaring water. The clearing was inundated in a torrent of muddy water. We couldn't even see our dam. The only evidence that showed it even existed was the slight hump in the water as it passed over the rocks. It was awesome in its intensity, and we shrank back, returning home in disbelief.

The next time we returned, the water had subsided. To my amazement, the dam had completely disappeared. Everything else looked the same — the mud flat was still there, the bamboo grove was still there. Just the dam, constructed from heavy rocks and young sweat, was gone.

Totally awesome.

Dad and some of his friends put together a hui and bought some property across from the Seaside Club. The lot sported a tennis court, a mullet pond, a cold brackish-water swimming hole, and lots and lots of plumeria trees. They decided to name it The Plumeria because . . . well, you figure it out. We called it the "beach lot."

The family spent almost every Sunday at the beach lot, cleaning up rubbish, trimming back the greenery, and fishing for mullet. There was a picnic pavilion with lights and everything; I don't remember if it was already there, or if the hui built it.

A pathway led to the ocean -- a nice frontage with a concrete walkway and a wonderful, large reef-enclosed swimming area with a sandy bottom. At low tide, you could almost walk the 100 yards or so out to the reef.

The mullet pond was well-stocked with mullet of all sizes, from small three-inch fish to some that approached a foot in length. I tried out all kinds of fancy lures, casting under the branches that overhung the water, getting into all the secret places that fish frequent. I didn't catch much with my fancy gear, but it was fun. Most of my angling success came with a plain old bamboo rod, monofilament, a float, a weight and a hook.

Oh yes, and a piece of bread. We'd been setting up the fish for a long time. Every Sunday, Dad would stop by the bakery and buy a couple of loaves of day-old bread, which we used to feed the fish in the mullet pond. We'd toss the slices onto the water and watch the surface boil with fish. Little did they know they were being trained by skilled professionals.

I once caught two huge mullet at the beach lot. I was nosing around a weed-infested area that separated the pond from the ocean proper. We had an iron grate there to keep the fish in, and a channel where the fresh ocean water could enter and drain. Anyway, I looked down and lo and behold, there were four of the largest mullet I'd ever seen in my life. I baited my hook with a ball of bread and slowly lowered it in front of the biggest one. It took one sniff, and sucked it in.

Yank! The monster fought like a . . . monster! The pole bent in half and I thought it was going to snap. Then the fish broke the surface of the water and I hauled it on land. It was a two-footer! Dinner. I went running to Dad with the fish and collected the accolades before rushing back to the magic spot.

After about a minute's wait, the remaining three mullet returned. Same story, and less than a minute later, I had number two flopping on land, about to join his companion in the frying pan. This one was a little smaller, about 20 inches or so.

The adrenaline was flowing, and I dashed back for a third try. You know, those two remaining mullet never returned. I could just imagine them lurking in the weeds, and cursing me for catching their pals.

Too bad for them. The mullet fed our entire family that night, and they were delicious.

One day when Karen was about three years old, we had a scare at the beach lot. We were sitting during high tide on the ocean walkway that led to a rocky outcropping that we used as a diving platform. The water covered the walkway, and we were just sloshing around, letting the water flow around our bodies.

Suddenly, a huge swell enveloped the rocks and the walkway, sweeping Karen into the water. One second, she was there; the next second, she was gone. Without a moment's hesitation, Dad jumped in and lifted Karen out of the water, straining his leg in the process.

I ran over and took Karen from him, water streaming from her nose. Dad got out of the water, grimacing and limping.

(This was the second time Dad had rescued his kids from the ocean. Once, during a trip to Kona, we were swimming at Disappearing Sands when Dayle was pulled out to sea by a receding wave. Dad splashed after her and grabbed her just as a huge wave broke over them. He pulled a muscle then too.) Mom came running over with the other kids. Karen was crying and coughing up salt water. I must have been pasty white thinking about what could have happened.

The Plumeria incident was scary. The water was rough, and Karen could have been injured. We were lucky.

I caught a stickfish at the beach lot. Remember that I had all the fancy fishing gear? Well, I also had the fixings to make lures. I had beads and baubles, wires and hooks. So, I worked up some sort of fancy dangling contraption with about four hooks on it, and began casting it toward the reef.

There were a couple of older local Japanese men there who were taking all this in with great amusement. "What kind of fish you expect to catch?" they asked. "Any kind," I replied. "Any kind? Hah!" they snorted in disgust.

As disgusting as my feeble attempts were, I suddenly felt something tug at the line. I jerked back and the line began zipping left to right to left to right. The two men watched in amazement. It was a stickfish, a two-foot long stickfish. Not good eating at all, a junk fish, something that any respectable fisherman would throw back. The two men harumphed and chuckled deep knowing chuckles, but they allowed me my moment of triumph and left.

"Nice fish, good work," they said. I was ecstatic.

I put the fish in a hollow in the lava rock about five feet from the water and went back to try and catch another. No luck, so I returned to retrieve my trophy fish. It was gone. Nowhere to be found. I think it wiggled its way back into the ocean, leaving me nothing but a memory and a broken heart.

Just beyond the stream by our house, across the wooden bridge, was a water collection area run by the state. It was an official posted area, and we occasionally were chased away by the man who kept tabs on the place.

An official sign prohibited entry to the facility, and warned that trespassers were subject to a $500 fine and/or six months in jail. That never stopped us. I mean, who were they to ban us inquisitive American pre-teens from our inherent right to explore the unknown. We had hormones raging through our bodies. We had to be active. We jumped at every opportunity for excitement.

Actually, it was a boring place. Too peaceful, and the only things interesting were the leopard frogs which disappeared as soon as they heard us, and the strawberry guava trees that we raided for their fruit. (I didn't eat too many of those. Once I felt something crunch while eating one. I had bitten into a grub of some sort and the other half was wiggling in the guava. I spat the fruit out of my mouth and swore off those things forever.)

There was a concrete spillway of sorts that we used to walk on. It wasn't very high, about two feet or so above the ground. Because water was constantly flowing over it, it was quite slippery and somewhat of a challenge to cross. More than once we found ourselves sitting on our butts in the cold, shallow water.

I used to spend a lot of time at Ron Takata's house in the late '50s. Ron had a shed all his own out in his backyard, where he conducted scientific experiments. When I got a microscope for Christmas, I took it there and we used it until it fell apart.

The first time I visited Ron's house, he showed me a chicken skeleton that he'd been putting together. Ron had gotten hold of a dead chicken, plucked out all of the feathers, boiled it down until all the meat fell off, bleached the bones in the sun, then started reconstructing the skeleton. It impressed the hell out of me, and we started making plans to put a mongoose skeleton together for the upcoming science fair. Never did do it, though — couldn't find a dead mongoose with its skeleton intact.

Ron and his brother Eric showed me how to make rockets out of lipstick cases. Here's how:

• First, steal one of your mother's lipstick cases and dig out the lipstick. Be sure to wash it out well, because who can stand the yeechy perfume smell of lipstick. With the cap on, drill a hole completely through to the other side. Then, drill a small hole in the center of the bottom of the lipstick case.
• The next step is tricky. You need to procure some saltpeter (nitre). In those days, the saltpeter was available off the shelves at Hilo Drug Store and that's where we got our supply. Mix the saltpeter with an equal amount of sugar, then pack it tightly into the lipstick case.
• Put the cap back on, and thread a wire through the holes, wrapping the wire around a chopstick for stability. Dampen a short string and cover it with saltpeter, forming a fuse.
• Stick the fuse into the hole in the lipstick case's bottom.
• Light the fuse, then stand back.

The rocket will take off in a glorious blinding flash with a whoosh, flying up to 100 feet if the angle is right. Or, it'll blow up where it lays.

It wasn't a safe diversion, but we were young boys, and it sure was fun -- even better than packing a Band-Aid can with firecracker gunpowder and blowing it up. Later, when I looked up saltpeter in the World Book, I discovered it was one of the ingredients in gunpowder -- saltpeter, carbon and sulphur.

I also heard a rumor later that the Army put saltpeter in the food they served the soldiers. The saltpeter was supposed to reduce their sexual libido. It worried me for weeks. I mean, what if it could be absorbed by the skin? Didn't have to worry.