fruits from my childhood

Until I was in the first grade, we used to live with my grandma in Riverside.  I don’t remember the back yard much, but I remember she used to pick strawberries in the summer and give them to me to eat.  I also remember my mother picking bunches of a peculiar fruit from a tree.  I remember her hands. She would peel the thin skin of the fruit and plop them into my mouth. They tasted creamy, seedy, and subtly sweet.  I loved this fruit, but I didn’t know what it was and the memory of it faded with its taste.

Some recent years ago, maybe in college when I did my own grocery shopping, I came across the fig at a store.  I saw its odd shape and immediately had a flashback of my mom peeling the fruit. I bought a bunch and sliced one open to see its innards — a creamy border with bursting seeds, just as I had remembered; that fruit from my memory was the so-called fig. I plopped one into my mouth, and sure enough, it tasted like my childhood.

It finally made sense why I loved Fig Newtons. Never had my mind made the correlation between figs and Fig Newtons until I made the connection between the memory and the actual fruit and the fruit that made the snack so appealing. Creamy, seedy, and subtly sweet.

Every year when early fall rolls along, I remember the taste of my childhood fruit.

 

 

 

 

Love Language

No, I’m not talking about the 5 Love Languages; I’m talking about a language that is unspoken yet understood between two people who love each other.

I’m currently in the middle of reading Anna Karenina, near the scene where love has blossomed between Levin and Kitty.

The way they communicated with each other to confirm their reciprocal love was not through a spoken language.  To be discreet amongst the people with whom they were gathered, they merely jotted down letters as codes for their questions and responses.

Here is a snippet of the passage:

‘How can I stay alone… without her?’ he thought with horror and he took the chalk.  ‘Wait,’ he said, sitting down at the table.  ‘There is one thing I’ve long wanted to ask you [Kitty].’

[Levin] looked straight into her tender though frightened eyes.

‘Please do.’

‘Here,’ he said, and wrote the initial letters: w, y, a, m: t, c, b, d, i, m, n, o, t?  These letters meant: ‘When you answered me,: “that cannot be”, did it mean never or then?’ There was no likelihood that she would be able to understand this complex phrase, but he watched her with such a look as if his life depended on her understanding these words.

She glanced at him seriously, then leaned her knitted brow on her hand and began to read.  Occasionally she glanced at him, asking with her glance: ‘Is this what I think?’

‘I understand,’ she said, blushing.

‘What is this word?’ he said, point to the n that signified the word never.

‘That means the word never,’ she said, ‘but it’s not true!’

He quickly erased what was written, gave her the chalk and got up.  She wrote: t, I, c, g, n, o, a.

… He suddenly beamed: he had understood. It meant: ‘Then I could give no other answer.’

He glanced at her questioningly, timidly.

‘Only then?’

‘Yes,’ her smile replied.

‘And n… And now?’ he asked.

‘Well, here, read this. I’ll tell you what I would wish.  Would wish very much!’ She wrote the initial letters: t, y, c, f, a, f, w, h.  It meant: ‘that you could forgive and forget what happened’.

He seized the chalk with his tense, trembling fingers and, breaking it, wrote the initial letters of the following: ‘I have nothing to forgive and forget, I have never stopped loving you.’

She glanced at him, the smile staying on her lips.

‘I understand,’ she said in a whisper.

He sat down and wrote a long phrase.  She understood everything and, without asking him if she was right, took the chalk and replied at once.

For a long time he could not understand what she had written and kept glancing in her eyes.  A darkening came over him from happiness. He simply could not pick out the words she had in mind; but in her lovely eyes shining with happiness he understood everything he needed to know! And he wrote three letters.  But she was reading after his hand, and before he finished writing, she finished it herself and wrote the answer: ‘Yes.’

In their conversation everything had been said — that she loved him, that she would tell her father and mother, that he would come tomorrow in the morning.

Thus, the two lovebirds communicated without talking, and everything was understood.

It’s funny how communication works between two people who love each other. Even with the simplest conversations, like giving directions, you would think that the two would understand the most ambiguous of phrases, simply because they know each other so well.

But that didn’t happen to me and my husband today in a rather comical situation.

We ate lunch at a ramen place and decided to get dessert at a popular ice cream shop nearby.  We had 10 minutes left on our parking meter and thought it would be okay to quickly get ice cream and make it back to the car since there were only a few people waiting out the door (usually there’s a long line out the door). We walked over and stood in line, realizing that though we were up next to go inside, there were 3-4 groups inside deciding on orders. Husband was getting anxious about the parking, so I told him to get the car while I ordered for him and to wait for me in the lot behind the ice cream shop.

When I was paying for the ice cream, he texted me, “I parked on College Ave., head away from the ramen place.”

Confusing, no? Where on College Ave., and what did he mean by ‘away‘???

(To provide a bit of context, College Ave. extends for ~3 or 4 miles north and south, and the ramen and ice cream places are both on College Ave.  When husband said “away from the ramen place,” I immediately wondered “north or south?”

I stood outside the ice cream shop, holding two cups in hand, one beginning to drip on the sides. I texted him, “What do you mean ‘away’? North or south?”

“South, opposite the ramen place.”

Again, I wondered, “What does he mean by ‘opposite‘?” but continued to walk south, because that’s what he said.

While walking some distance, maybe a 1-2 minutes later, he called again asking where I was; perhaps this was our only moment of understanding in which we understood that we didn’t understand each other.  Maybe he had a feeling that I wasn’t going where he wanted me to go.

And alas, I was going opposite of where he wanted me to go. When he said ‘south’ he meant ‘north’ (because he has a horrible sense of direction), and when he said ‘away’ and ‘opposite’ of the ramen place, he meant, ‘towards the ice cream shop.’

It is (sort of) my fault; I knew this about him; I knew he had  a horrible sense of direction, and I knew he always, always, without fail, instinctively went the opposite direction of every destination we have ever embarked upon. I should have known that when he said south, he meant north.

I laughed and laughed, and he was perplexed.

A Challenge to Prove Intelligence

My afternoon group of 6th graders are full of questions that are sometimes… frustrating. E.g., a fill in the blank question has an ‘s’ attached at the end to hint at its verb tense or that it is plural. A student asks, “Do I need to add the ‘s’ when I write the word out, or will it be okay if I leave it out since it’s already added?”

Anyway, a couple days ago, I presented a spelling review challenge with a code-decoding exercise.  Its written instructions seemed vague, but that was part of the challenge. If you found the solution to the first code, the instructions would become clear.  I anticipated a tsunami of redundant questions, so I presented the exercise in a psychoanalytical approach.

“The instructions to this exercise will be vague at first. But take the time to see a pattern within the codes and try to solve the first problem.  Once you find the first solution, everything will be easy. If you figure it out without asking me any questions, you will prove to me that you are very intelligent.”

Even my most nettlesome students kept quiet as they pondered and pondered.  A few minutes later, I saw a head bobbing up, and the student looked at me with a smile. I knew that kid would solve it first. A few minutes later, another smile, then another, then another; smiles all around as they patted themselves on the back for proving their intelligence. They even said, “That was fun!”

I smiled too.

The Coffee Dance

A middle-aged caucasian man with a long white beard and helmet hair walks into Peet’s.  I saw him in the parking lot unloading his Harley and I had to beat him to the entrance.   He stands behind me as we wait in line for our turn.  It’s a busy morning, but the wait won’t be long since there are three cashiers and a handful of customers who order simple things, like coffee.  None of the “Large, um… sugar-free… non-fat… frappucino/ice-blended” nonsense. Medium coffee, $1.45*. Next.

But there’s usually a crowd at the cream and sugar counter for those with a sweet tooth.  There are three of us pouring and stirring, trying to get out of each others’ way.  There is an Ethiopian man in the way of the coffee lids and I who am in the way of the stirring sticks. The bearded man who stands in the most inconvenient area of the station fumbles from one side to the other.  “Sorry.  We gotta do the coffee dance,” he says, and looks over at us for a comment or response of any sort.  The Ethiopian man and I make immediate eye-contact, but he quickly glances back at his coffee.  He is expressionless. His non-expression causes my puzzled expression, and then I look at the bearded man and smile.  I knew it would have been the polite response to say something, anything really, but I had lost my voice and couldn’t draw out the strength to say what needed to be said — “Yeah,” “Haha,” “It’s okay” — I didn’t know and I still don’t know.  You see, I’m terrible at making conversation.  An awkward silence begins and continues for a very long time.  Maybe five seconds.  As I finish the customization of my drink, I imagine the poor fellow looking at the wall or something.  And I dash out of Peet’s in my own silly coffee dance, “I am in a hurry and I lack conversation skills.”

 

*estimate price

We Have Ourselves Some Noble Fir

If you click on my ‘About‘ page, you’ll see that my favorite music consists of piano jazz and Christmas music (better if combined!); which means, I enjoy listening to Christmas music in the summer — heck, all year long.  It also means I love Christmas. This may be because it’s the one celebration, other than Easter, that my family and I truly celebrated with joy.

The truth is, my family never purchased a real Christmas tree.  I’m not sure why, but instead, we owned a faux alternative.  I remember buying the plastic tree.  Fort Worth, Texas, 1993 or 1994, Christmas Eve.  A desolate Macy’s due to a bad economy (the beginning of it), or maybe because nobody bought/buys Christmas trees on Christmas Eve. I remember a dark parking lot, so it must have been in the evening.  My siblings and I ran through the home decoration section, which seemed to us like the equivalent of Disneyland in our Texan lives.  Trees decorated with glittery ornaments, pink and purple lights, colorful feathers, twinkling stars, I don’t really remember the specifics. My dad asked us to pick ornaments and there were millions from which to choose.  I didn’t want our tree to look haphazard or kitschy with random themes conglomorated into one.  I stopped my siblings and looked over at a pretty tree on display.  I convinced them that the pretty tree should be our tree, so we bought the same lights and ornaments as the pretty tree, and that’s how we ended up with a mini Macy’s tree in our living room for the next ten years.  *Note: The mini tree safely rests in my storage space.

Early this fall, I asked my husband if we could have a Christmas tree. A real one. “No,” he said, “Our place is way too small.  It won’t be able to fit.”  My world came crumbling down, but I knew I had some time (maybe 3 months) to convince him.

September, October, and November had passed, and Christmas tree farms were being built left and right. “Christmas Tree Wonderland,” “Delancey Christmas Tree Farm,” trees everywhere and not one in my home. Husband, for some reason, dug up a small one hidden in one of my boxes and I set it on our living room coffee table.

Friday, December 2nd. Husband had the day off after a morning exam, so he ran errands until I came back from work. When I returned, he said he had a surprise for me but he would give it to me later.  A surprise??? Hmmm. (I have to admit, I was a little suspicious/skeptical because he hasn’t been what I would consider an expert at surprises. hehehe. ;) j/k, Love!)  As we do on most Fridays, we were planning on eating out for dinner, and for some reason, he ran to the car trying to hide a sleeping bag, while I suspiciously watched from the passenger seat.  He said he would have to give the present at the very end of the evening. Hmmmm….

After dinner, I suggested we buy Christmas decorations for our home, i.e., candles and maybe a wreath.  He agreed and I was telling him the directions to Michael’s. “Go straight and make a right,” I said. But he made a right and went straight, and continued to go the wrong way while I was frantically telling him to go back.  He kept on saying, “What? Isn’t Michael’s this way?” while continuing to drive in the wrong direction.  “No, it was right there! We passed it, you need to go back,” I kept insisting. A red light was up ahead, and suddenly he turned into the block, leading us into a Christmas tree farm, and I finally realized his surprise.  He wanted to buy me a Christmas tree!  You can imagine my excitement; I kept punching him until I ran out into the Christmas tree farm. It was 1993 again, but this time in a real farm with goats and sheep.

We bought decorations and lights, and to make a long story short, we set up our first Christmas tree, my first real Christmas tree, in our humble abode. Thank you, Love.