As former editor of The Garden Island newspaper, I wrote many articles about Larry Rivera. Interviewed him. Took his picture. Spent time with him. Larry was a journalist’s best friend. Colorful. Talkative. Talented. A musical legend. A great storyteller.
I loved listening to his stories and songs. Larry made for great copy in TGI and as far as I was concerned, I couldn’t write enough about him. Always front page, probably our best-sellers, too.
The Hawaiian Islands are known as the Land of Aloha. Larry Rivera, perhaps more than anyone I knew on Kaua‘i, exhibited aloha. He didn’t talk about it. It wasn’t something he sold on his CDs or pitched in his performances. He lived it. He was real. It came from within, the way it can only when one is raised on a Hawaiian island.
When I heard of his death, this might sound strange, I smiled and chuckled. I refused to let myself cry because Larry Rivera always made me happy. If I listen, I can hear him singing, “Aloha begins with me” and it’s impossible to not smile.
In our years on Kaua‘i, my wife and I were fortunate to become friends with Larry Rivera. We were blessed to see several of his performances, sometimes at Garden Island Grille in Koloa. Coconut MarketPlace. Coco Palms.
He invited us to his 87th birthday party at Cafe Portofino. Another time he invited us to join him and some friends for dinner. When he recited the names of his 26 (I think) grandchildren, it was comically perfect. He often joked, though I believe he was serious, it wasn’t that he knew Elvis, but that Elvis knew him.
It was a blessing to be around him because he exuded joy. His wife, Gloria, was almost always with him, waiting and watching quietly at each performance. They were a beautiful couple.
Despite his musical fame, I don’t know if Larry Rivera had much money, but I do know he was rich with love, blessed with family and strong in faith in God.
There was a time I will never forget about Larry Rivera.
It was following one of his performances at Coco Palms. He had his CDs out. Played a few songs for a small audience. Told a few jokes. He always seemed to be smiling, that mischievous glint in his eyes. He had a way of making people laugh, of feeling good.
After the crowd was gone, Larry, my wife and I were left. We helped him pack up. As we were ready to leave, I asked him what it was like, in the golden days of Coco Palms, when he was a young man. We started walking around, and he pointed here and there.
I believe he said he waited tables, tended bar, and greeted guests. Then, he talked of being on stage. He recalled the drums. The lighting of the torches. The breeze pushing the palm trees. He was there. He remembered. It was like he brought me there, too.
As we walked away, I ran ahead and snapped a few pictures of my wife walking with Larry. They were looking down, arms around shoulders, connected in conversation. It remains a favorite picture in our years on Kaua‘i.
Before we left the island, we went to see Larry play one final time at Coconut Marketplace. He knew we were leaving, headed home to Idaho. He was delighted when he saw us, that unforgettable Larry Rivera smile lighting up an already sunny day, that special spirit lifting everyone’s.
He sang his song, “I Don’t Want to Say Goodbye to America.” But as he sang, he changed the words, “I don’t want to say goodbye to Bill and Marianne.” Everyone turned around and looked at us.
“Who?” I was embarrassed at first. Then, I was humbled. This man, this legend, was paying tribute to us. This often cynical journalist certainly didn’t deserve it. Then we waved and laughed, touched yet again by Larry’s aloha.
We didn’t want to say goodbye to Larry Rivera then, and we still don’t today. So we won’t. Our memories of Larry Rivera, his songs, smile and spirit, will be alive and well in our hearts, which is exactly where he would want them.
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Bill Buley is a former editor of The Garden Island.
