A guy at work recently experienced the unfortunate loss of his mom, who died of cancer after a year-long series of misdiagnoses, chemotherapy, and pain management. “Pain management” sounds so abstract and antiseptic. We are not in the doctor’s office now, so let’s drop this façade of decorum and speak truly. It is more accurate to say “…a year of doctors making mistakes, of injecting poison into her body, of puking out her guts and watching herself slowly waste away in the mirror until becoming unrecognizable.” In the end, we greedily take the pills that deliver us from pain, even at the cost of losing our awareness. For most of us, it is even better to lose that awareness, because all thoughts are focused on the fact that death is real and it has finally arrived. It is no longer a concept, and we can’t stop wondering what is going to happen the moment the lights go out.
Westerners don’t deal with death gracefully, as we know. Our culture is wired more towards the here and now, and any thoughts about when we are gone gravitate immediately to the lives of our children, and often times for some odd reason, to how high their taxes are going to be. Spirituality is left to the mysterious meetings my neighbors and coworkers attend in dark, musty churches around the metro. I don’t know what they talk about in there--aside from the odd Christmas service, I have never attended church--but whatever is said, it doesn’t appear to prepare us to confront, or better yet “embrace,” our mortality.
Anyway, this is getting way heavier than I intended. I meant to tell you about the more curious episode of my coworker’s Mom and her pet cats. It was her wish that when she dies, her cats get put down. Upon hearing this, my first thought flashed to the ancient Hindu practice of the recently widowed wife leaping into her husband’s funeral pyre to accompany him into the afterlife. Yeah, that was a real thing, and you can read up about Sati on Wikipedia.
Why did his Mom want the cats put down? Probably to bring something loved and familiar with her into the unknown. If she didn’t believe in the afterlife, then maybe she was afraid nobody would take care of the cats and they would suffer. She knew that her surviving husband never liked cats.
During her last days, the kids tried to talk her out of it. There were other options, like the humane society and pet adoption. It raised ethical questions, particularly for those of us who consider an animal’s life as precious as human life. They were unable to change her mind.
The mom died. Debates started among the family. Emails shot back and forth about honoring their mother’s wish or finding a home for the cats.
The story gets fuzzy here, but there was some kind of miscommunication among the family members that voted to save the cats versus those that wanted to carry out their mother’s wish. My coworker’s brother was particularly passionate about honoring his mother’s memory. I think a decision had been reached to save the cats, but my coworker and his brother had not yet heard on the day they showed up at her house to gather up the cats. When they get to the house, the smarter of the two cats is tucked away behind the furnace. The dumber of the two was lying on the floor, watching these two men trying to catch the other cat. The brothers knew that if they put the dumber cat into a carrier first, the other cat would know something was up and would never come out. But like I said, it was a smart cat and already seemed to know what was going on.
So they caught the cats, brought them to the vet, and had them put down. I know, it is a sad ending. I was rooting for the cats too. I think it is wrong to proclaim a death sentence to a loved pet when we die, but I also know there’s enough fuel here to debate either side. Debates about right and wrong are not my thing. Instead what intrigues me about this is the parallel with Cancer coming out of nowhere, chasing after the mother during the months of her treatment, and finally putting her down. Maybe the brother that was passionate about honoring her memory found some kind of comfort in assuming the role of grim reaper and reenacting the ruthlessness of mortality.
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Death and Cats
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Soft or Hard G
I actually wrote this a couple of years ago, but it fits with my recent Tea theme:
She was brewing a pot of green tea with mango behind the counter when Eric walked into the tea shop. Eric of the Earl Grey White Tip, Eric of the soft brown eyes and books tucked under his arm like "Madam Bovary" or "Pride and Prejudice" or "Interview with the Vampire." Eric of the occasional female friend that none of the girls behind the counter could figure out if he was married to, dating, or divorcing, but the woman had not been with him for the past few months.
She hurried to get the green tea brewed for the other customer so she could move on to Eric. She felt a stirring in her body as she prepared the tea with a honed awareness of Eric standing next in line, a stirring not unlike the warm water in the pot, the swirl of green tea leaves and yellow flakes of mango, the sensuous smells carried on the curls of steam. As she watched the slow unfurling of the leaves in the hot water, she remembered that this motion was called the “agony of the leaves.”
Finally, she finished with her customer and he stepped up to the counter. She did her best to sound composed, "Good morning, would you like the usual Earl Grey with White Tip?"
Eric scanned the board for today’s specials. "How about Rose Congou. Or is it pronounced Conjou? Is the G soft or hard?"
Why was the pronunciation of the soft or hard G the most erotic experience she had had in weeks? She felt her cheeks burning as she considered various responses: "You can have it either soft or hard, depending on your mood," or "The G is hard, like orgasm." But instead she replied, "It depends, I hear it pronounced both ways. I think the owner says "Congou" with a hard G.”
"I'll have a pot of that, and a ginger cookie, or should I say GinGer?" Eric said, smiling. She laughed a little too loudly and tipped over the canister of tea, dried rose petals and dark leaves spilling across the counter. As she wiped them off with the palm of her hand, she thought about knocking everything off of the counter in one passionate motion, hopping up and pulling him atop her, “Take me here, take me now!” But instead, she only managed a chipper, “Anything else for you today?”
“No thanks,” he replied, and she punched his frequent drinker’s card. One more and he’d get a freebie.
She hurried to get the green tea brewed for the other customer so she could move on to Eric. She felt a stirring in her body as she prepared the tea with a honed awareness of Eric standing next in line, a stirring not unlike the warm water in the pot, the swirl of green tea leaves and yellow flakes of mango, the sensuous smells carried on the curls of steam. As she watched the slow unfurling of the leaves in the hot water, she remembered that this motion was called the “agony of the leaves.”
Finally, she finished with her customer and he stepped up to the counter. She did her best to sound composed, "Good morning, would you like the usual Earl Grey with White Tip?"
Eric scanned the board for today’s specials. "How about Rose Congou. Or is it pronounced Conjou? Is the G soft or hard?"
Why was the pronunciation of the soft or hard G the most erotic experience she had had in weeks? She felt her cheeks burning as she considered various responses: "You can have it either soft or hard, depending on your mood," or "The G is hard, like orgasm." But instead she replied, "It depends, I hear it pronounced both ways. I think the owner says "Congou" with a hard G.”
"I'll have a pot of that, and a ginger cookie, or should I say GinGer?" Eric said, smiling. She laughed a little too loudly and tipped over the canister of tea, dried rose petals and dark leaves spilling across the counter. As she wiped them off with the palm of her hand, she thought about knocking everything off of the counter in one passionate motion, hopping up and pulling him atop her, “Take me here, take me now!” But instead, she only managed a chipper, “Anything else for you today?”
“No thanks,” he replied, and she punched his frequent drinker’s card. One more and he’d get a freebie.
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Molly on the Far Shore
A young woman wore a summer dress and danced in the sun on the far side of the river. Her name was Molly, a redheaded Irish girl with green, green eyes like pale green tea. Her large family of redheaded siblings and redheaded parents and aunts and uncles picnicked on a nearby knoll. On the other side of the river, a young boy stood on a sandbar and watched her dance. Even from across the water, he could see the green of her eyes and her red, red hair. He concentrated on ways to get across; surely he could beat the currents, he thought. Maybe with enough longing, he could overlook the fact that he never learned to swim. Maybe he could hold open his coat like sails and catch a strong wind gusting down the valley. He watched her twirl and felt his spirit grow light enough to lift him up, but his feet remained anchored to the shore. He scrambled twenty yards up the shoreline to a small boat pulled onto the sand, tied to a willow tree. He fumbled with the rope, but he couldn’t figure out the secrets of the knot.
A young boy sat in a wooden boat tied to a tree. Molly danced on the far shore.
A young boy sat in a wooden boat tied to a tree. Molly danced on the far shore.
Monday, May 11, 2009
Giving Dad a Shave
William was sitting on his mother’s lap, leaning back into the crook of her shoulder while the family watched television, only his father wasn’t looking at the screen. He was scowling at William. “Boy, you’re eleven now. You shouldn’t still be sitting in your Momma’s lap.”
“Leave the boy alone,” she said. “You’re still my baby, aren’t you?” she teased, hugging him close, but William started to squirm away as he watched his father. He had always been intimidated by the cigar smoking, gruff man, but now he studied him closer. He felt that inevitable tug as a boy starts to cross the threshold of boy to man, the trepidation of leaving the protective wing of his mom, and yet drawn to those masculine instincts just starting to form. He noted the way his father chewed on the cigar at the corner of his mouth, the casual tilt of the whiskey glass in his hand. That night he heard his mother and father arguing in their room. William tucked his head under the pillow, buried himself beneath the sheets and tried to become invisible.
Each night his father came home from work, his mother needed to give William a push to go hug him. His whiskers scratched the boy’s cheek. When he slipped off his shoes, his black stocking feet stank. William had the job of putting his shoes in the closet, and hanging his father’s hat on a peg. He ran his fingers over the felt brim, smoothed the brown feather tucked into the sweat stained band.
He turned twelve that summer, the last summer vacation before he would have to start working, and he spent his days secretly trailing after his father from twenty yards back, to and from the plant, in the evenings when he’d stumble out of the bars, on the weekends when he would run his errands. He adopted the way his father would lean against a wall or a tree with one leg cross over the other and propped on a toe. He carried change in his pockets and jingled the coins when he’d walk down the sidewalk. He learned to spit into the sand without getting any on his chin. He substituted a toothpick for the cigar and sucked on it all day, shifting it from one side to the other using only his mouth.
Now when his dad came home from work, there were no more hugs, but his dad grinned proudly, ruffled the boy’s hair, slapped him on the shoulder and told him to go get him a glass of whiskey, “two fingers high, no ice. And no sipping,” he chided, shaking a finger at his son. When the boy returned with the glass, he said, “Okay, you can have a little sip,” as though relenting, but William hadn’t asked. He took a small taste anyway, just enough to wet his lips. It burned.
That weekend, he tailed his father as he went on another of his errands, this time to the barber shop for a cut and shave. William’s mom still cut his hair, but something about the barber shop drew him. He had only been there once a few years ago, but remembered the checkered tile floor, the smell of pipes and cigars, and a baseball game playing on the radio. His dad never wanted him to come along, for some reason, so he followed him in secret and waited from behind a tree across the street. After twenty minutes, his dad came out with a clean shave, trimmed hair, and his arm slung around the barber’s sister. They disappeared up the stairs leading to a small apartment above the shop. The blinds dropped shut. Half an hour later, his father came slinking out of the building and around the coiled barber pole and swaggered toward home.
Back at the dinner table, he watched this man accept food from his mom without a hint of guilt or regret, watched him tell her the pork was overcooked and the peas too cold. The next time he announced that he was going for a cut and a shave, William followed. Once again, his father came out of the shop with the barber’s sister and disappeared upstairs to the apartment. William balled up all of the fury a boy of twelve can muster, ran into the barber shop, grabbed the straight razor off the sink, and stomped up the stairs with a man’s bearing instead of a boy’s. He slashed his father forty times and left the barber’s sister untouched but soaked in the blood of his father. “That’s for momma. It’s you that was never good enough.” He dropped the razor, walked out of the apartment, and disappeared into the streets.
“Leave the boy alone,” she said. “You’re still my baby, aren’t you?” she teased, hugging him close, but William started to squirm away as he watched his father. He had always been intimidated by the cigar smoking, gruff man, but now he studied him closer. He felt that inevitable tug as a boy starts to cross the threshold of boy to man, the trepidation of leaving the protective wing of his mom, and yet drawn to those masculine instincts just starting to form. He noted the way his father chewed on the cigar at the corner of his mouth, the casual tilt of the whiskey glass in his hand. That night he heard his mother and father arguing in their room. William tucked his head under the pillow, buried himself beneath the sheets and tried to become invisible.
Each night his father came home from work, his mother needed to give William a push to go hug him. His whiskers scratched the boy’s cheek. When he slipped off his shoes, his black stocking feet stank. William had the job of putting his shoes in the closet, and hanging his father’s hat on a peg. He ran his fingers over the felt brim, smoothed the brown feather tucked into the sweat stained band.
He turned twelve that summer, the last summer vacation before he would have to start working, and he spent his days secretly trailing after his father from twenty yards back, to and from the plant, in the evenings when he’d stumble out of the bars, on the weekends when he would run his errands. He adopted the way his father would lean against a wall or a tree with one leg cross over the other and propped on a toe. He carried change in his pockets and jingled the coins when he’d walk down the sidewalk. He learned to spit into the sand without getting any on his chin. He substituted a toothpick for the cigar and sucked on it all day, shifting it from one side to the other using only his mouth.
Now when his dad came home from work, there were no more hugs, but his dad grinned proudly, ruffled the boy’s hair, slapped him on the shoulder and told him to go get him a glass of whiskey, “two fingers high, no ice. And no sipping,” he chided, shaking a finger at his son. When the boy returned with the glass, he said, “Okay, you can have a little sip,” as though relenting, but William hadn’t asked. He took a small taste anyway, just enough to wet his lips. It burned.
That weekend, he tailed his father as he went on another of his errands, this time to the barber shop for a cut and shave. William’s mom still cut his hair, but something about the barber shop drew him. He had only been there once a few years ago, but remembered the checkered tile floor, the smell of pipes and cigars, and a baseball game playing on the radio. His dad never wanted him to come along, for some reason, so he followed him in secret and waited from behind a tree across the street. After twenty minutes, his dad came out with a clean shave, trimmed hair, and his arm slung around the barber’s sister. They disappeared up the stairs leading to a small apartment above the shop. The blinds dropped shut. Half an hour later, his father came slinking out of the building and around the coiled barber pole and swaggered toward home.
Back at the dinner table, he watched this man accept food from his mom without a hint of guilt or regret, watched him tell her the pork was overcooked and the peas too cold. The next time he announced that he was going for a cut and a shave, William followed. Once again, his father came out of the shop with the barber’s sister and disappeared upstairs to the apartment. William balled up all of the fury a boy of twelve can muster, ran into the barber shop, grabbed the straight razor off the sink, and stomped up the stairs with a man’s bearing instead of a boy’s. He slashed his father forty times and left the barber’s sister untouched but soaked in the blood of his father. “That’s for momma. It’s you that was never good enough.” He dropped the razor, walked out of the apartment, and disappeared into the streets.
Sunday, May 03, 2009
Divine the Right Tea
Two tea girls work behind the counter in a nearly empty store. It is a beautiful Spring day. Who would want to be inside, drinking a hot cup of tea? Besides me. I’m here, drinking tea, thinking, writing. The tea girls are conscious of me, the sole customer sitting at a table and tapping away on a laptop. They seem to know that I'm writing about them, that maybe at this moment they are becoming characters in a story, novel, or poem. As they wipe down the counter, they laugh and whisper to each other, stealing glances to see if I’m watching. One of them laughs as she wipes the counter, “Here’s me cleaning. I wonder if I’ll become a Grecian maid wiping down the sculptures in a garden.” How self-conscious they must feel, like at a family gathering when somebody pulls out a video recorder. Or is it fun? I wouldn’t know. I’m usually on this side of the keyboard, this side of the camera, of the action, of the friends and family and lovers. I don’t like to be the subject of anything.
Steam rises from the pots of water, creating clouds of mist that they have to swim through. Oh come on; this begs to be captured in art, in poetry, but I’ll resist. I have never been good at poetry anyway. I am here to think about my next short story, the Tea House. Research, so to speak. What are the questions customers ask? What kind of people wander in off the sidewalk without a clue of what they want, while others march in with an order scribbled on lined notepaper? I’ve brought along my writing tools; post-it pads and bright yellow file folders to storyboard the characters and conflicts, jot down the many blends of tea that can be entwined into subplots as metaphors. How much can you tell about a character by the kind of tea they drink?
Most customers have no clue what they are looking for, other than a specific something or other that they can’t seem to describe without sweeping generalizations. “I had this great cup of tea at a restaurant once, you know, a Chinese restaurant, or was it Mongolian? something sweet? kind of flowery? or grassy? with a kind of astringent aftertaste?”
Somehow the tea girls divine what they are looking for, or make something up that sounds convincing. Some people just want to be assured and guided, and when she holds open a container for the customer to study and smell the leaves, they latch onto it right away: “Yes, that looks right. I’m betting that’s the one.” Others will never be satisfied, almost like they are intent on finding reasons why “no, that’s not quite right.”
I drink Magnolia Oolong, (catalog description: gently scented with magnolia blossoms so that the cup is light, sweet, floral and invigorating), but only when I’m at the shop. At home, I’m a completely different person. I am Imperial Gold Yunnan (…composed almost entirely of golden tips. It is stunning to behold. It steeps up thick, rich, velvety, sweet, and bold with a long lingering aftertaste and an almost tactile silkiness) or China Black Special (brews up very hearty, rich, and smooth with a pronounced sweet note, almost caramel like). Previously, there were phases of Earl Grey White Tip (…a large portion of white tips--the most prized leaf of the plant--and blended with the finest oil of bergamot available. Incredibly aromatic and flavorful.). There was a time when I was irrationally enamored with Blue Beauty (…brews up very aromatic, sweet, floral, and slightly spicy with a pronounced silky texture. The leaf is sprinkled with ginseng and licorice root, and then folded many times so you will get many steepings from the same leaf), until later I wondered, “what was I thinking?” like when you wake up beside someone you only barely remember from the night before. Early on, one of my first loves was Rose Congou. It’s gone now. There’s a story behind that one, but not for today. I need to do research. I need to eavesdrop on the family that has sat at a table beside me. I need to spy the titles of the books stacked beside an older woman who sits alone.
Steam rises from the pots of water, creating clouds of mist that they have to swim through. Oh come on; this begs to be captured in art, in poetry, but I’ll resist. I have never been good at poetry anyway. I am here to think about my next short story, the Tea House. Research, so to speak. What are the questions customers ask? What kind of people wander in off the sidewalk without a clue of what they want, while others march in with an order scribbled on lined notepaper? I’ve brought along my writing tools; post-it pads and bright yellow file folders to storyboard the characters and conflicts, jot down the many blends of tea that can be entwined into subplots as metaphors. How much can you tell about a character by the kind of tea they drink?
Most customers have no clue what they are looking for, other than a specific something or other that they can’t seem to describe without sweeping generalizations. “I had this great cup of tea at a restaurant once, you know, a Chinese restaurant, or was it Mongolian? something sweet? kind of flowery? or grassy? with a kind of astringent aftertaste?”
Somehow the tea girls divine what they are looking for, or make something up that sounds convincing. Some people just want to be assured and guided, and when she holds open a container for the customer to study and smell the leaves, they latch onto it right away: “Yes, that looks right. I’m betting that’s the one.” Others will never be satisfied, almost like they are intent on finding reasons why “no, that’s not quite right.”
I drink Magnolia Oolong, (catalog description: gently scented with magnolia blossoms so that the cup is light, sweet, floral and invigorating), but only when I’m at the shop. At home, I’m a completely different person. I am Imperial Gold Yunnan (…composed almost entirely of golden tips. It is stunning to behold. It steeps up thick, rich, velvety, sweet, and bold with a long lingering aftertaste and an almost tactile silkiness) or China Black Special (brews up very hearty, rich, and smooth with a pronounced sweet note, almost caramel like). Previously, there were phases of Earl Grey White Tip (…a large portion of white tips--the most prized leaf of the plant--and blended with the finest oil of bergamot available. Incredibly aromatic and flavorful.). There was a time when I was irrationally enamored with Blue Beauty (…brews up very aromatic, sweet, floral, and slightly spicy with a pronounced silky texture. The leaf is sprinkled with ginseng and licorice root, and then folded many times so you will get many steepings from the same leaf), until later I wondered, “what was I thinking?” like when you wake up beside someone you only barely remember from the night before. Early on, one of my first loves was Rose Congou. It’s gone now. There’s a story behind that one, but not for today. I need to do research. I need to eavesdrop on the family that has sat at a table beside me. I need to spy the titles of the books stacked beside an older woman who sits alone.
Hasn’t nine years in this tea shop gathered for me enough story material? I’m only stalling, now. I’ve drained the dregs of the pot. Time to go.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
