LIHU‘E — Today would have been the day “Uncle” Larry Rivera dropped in to give The Garden Island his typewritten storytelling monthly column, “Lyrics of Aloha,” based on one of his many songs.
This week, he never made it.
The singer and songwriter, unfortunately, has been silenced in his earthly realm.
He passed away either Monday night or Tuesday morning.
But his music will live on.
“Uncle Larry is, and will always be, a legend to the people of Kaua‘i,” said Mayor Derek S.K. Kawakami in a statement. “Whether it was his Christmas music at midnight, or reciting every single one of his grandchildren’s names, he was always entertaining and will never be forgotten. We will miss Uncle Larry, a true living treasure of music for Kaua‘i. We offer our sincerest sympathy to Aunty Gloria, his children, and all his loved ones.”
Ever the storyteller, Rivera relayed to The Garden Island staff of the day the late Israel Kamakawiwo‘ole summoned Rivera to his bedside (the famous Native Hawaiian musician was either too sick or too overweight to rise from his bed at that time) and asked if he could record one of Rivera’s songs, “Kamalani.” Naturally, Rivera nodded his OK, and the song was one of Kamakawiwo‘ole’s many hits.
Even well into his 90s, Rivera still performed weekly during dinner at Cafe Portofino on Kalapaki Beach, most times with daughter Lurline Fernandez on keyboards and vocals. He had only recently given up his Saturday afternoon gig at The Kaua‘i Museum in Lihu‘e.
On one occasion, just because, really, he treated The Garden Island staff and spouses to dinner at The Bull Shed restaurant, ostensibly in honor of Jessica Else, then the newspaper’s editor. He paid for dinner for around a dozen people, stressing that he’d only pay for the first round of drinks.
It was a joyous night, made even more special by the fact that Rivera brought his mini speaker and ukulele and serenaded all around him, with some of the other diners singing along to some of the Hawaiian songs the host was providing.
And, in his typical fashion, he doggedly followed up with all the invitees to make sure they were coming and bringing their spouses.
Toward the end of his days, he was in and out of the hospital, in between times when his wife was hospitalized and the nonagenerian had to play caregiver to her.
The brain was sharp until the end, and was kept that way by his regular reciting of the names of every one of his grandchildren and, likely, all of his great-grandchildren as well.
It isn’t cliche to say he will be sorely missed. We miss him already.
