Nicki Chen's Blog, page 31

An Immigrant’s Tale

I met Ms. M only once. The check I’d sent for our two-day stay in her vacation rental on San Juan Island had been lost in the mail. I said I could pay by credit card or PayPal. But she told me not to worry; I could pay when we arrived.

The day of our arrival, we found the house open but she wasn’t there. So we unloaded our suitcases, drove into Friday Harbor, and looked for the Golden Triangle, the Thai restaurant she and her sister owned. Ms. M was in the back cooking. She came out to accept my check, and we spoke briefly. Then she went back to cooking, and we sat down and ordered.

Everything was delicious. It was clear that Ms. M was a good cook and a hard worker. But what was the rest of her story?

If her house had been ordinary, I wouldn’t have wondered, but it was anything but ordinary. Besides being clean, spacious, and well cared for, the Blue House was decorated like my idea of a Thai or Laotian palace. Every wall, table, and windowsill was adorned with something beautiful and exotic.

Even the up-to-date kitchen with its six-burner stove top and granite island was the recipient of Ms. M’s artistic touch.

The house had a prayer room …

An exercise room …

And a comfortable back patio with flowers growing all around.

How did she find time, I wondered, to take such good care of a large house and still run a restaurant? And what was the rest of her story?

By chance, I mentioned my novel Tiger Tail Soup later when I emailed to say I’d left a 5-star review of our stay on her website. That’s when she gave me a very brief summary of her story.

She suffered through the civil war in Laos, and in 1975, when she was twenty-three years old, she and her six brothers and sisters escaped to Thailand. They spent the next two years in a refugee camp. All she had to say about that experience was that it was bad.

She wanted me to send her a copy of Tiger Tail Soup because she collects books about Asia and about people who have suffered through war.

If you’re old enough to remember the Vietnam War, you may remember that Saigon fell in 1975, the year Ms. M escaped from Laos. You may also remember how closely related the wars in Vietnam, Laos and Cambodia were. The Laotian Civil War began in 1953 (when Ms. M was one year old) with an invasion by the North Vietnamese. That year the French handed over some powers to the Royal Lao Government, ignoring the anti-colonial armed nationalist movement, the Lao Issara.

There’s too much to say about the various factions in the war, the involvement of the Cold War superpowers, the CIA’s Secret War, the Ho Chi Minh Trail, and the plight of the Hmong for me to summarize it all here. If you’re interested, these articles and video will provide some background: Laotian Civil War, Laos Profile – Timeline, and The Secret War in Laos, a video.

These past few weeks, with migrants and refugees from wars in the Middle East sacrificing everything to reach safety and also with candidates for president in the United States talking about building higher walls to keep immigrants out, I hope you’ll enjoy Ms. M’s story and remember the courage, suffering, and contributions of immigrants and refugees.

If you haven’t read Tiger Tail Soup yet, it’s available from Amazon, Barnes and Nobel, Apple or your favorite bookstore.

The “Real Change” Vendor

 She’s always there, just outside the door of the PCC Natural Market, standing, sometimes sitting, between the lined-up grocery carts and the display of hanging fuschias and potted herbs. Like the greeters at Walmart, she has a smile and greeting for everyone.

She doesn’t work for the store, though. She’s an independent vendor of “Real Change,” a small street newspaper. It sells for $2. Her profit is $1.40 per sale.

On my way into the store, we smile at each other and she comments on my red jacket. I consider whether or not I have two dollar bills … inside my wallet, inside my purse. I pull out a grocery cart, and my thoughts jump ahead to my shopping list. Maybe on the way out…

In the past I’ve given her money without taking a newspaper. I wouldn’t read it anyway, I told myself. I already have too many books and magazines at home waiting to be read. Save a tree, I reasoned, or at least a small slice of a tree.

At the same time I was vaguely aware that refusing the newspaper was an insult. We both felt it as I walked away. This woman is not a beggar.

I don’t know anything about her life. What I do know is that most of the Real Change vendors were homeless at one time. Many still are. What I do know is that this woman is attractive, hard-working, and unfailingly friendly. She has a slight accent, maybe Korean, and she looks to be about forty years old.

Once inside the sprawling grocery store with its expensive organic treats and treasures, it’s easy to forget the woman outside.

I push my cart up one aisle and down the other. I choose a salad and a salmon patty at the deli counter. Stop for a cupcake in the bakery section.

At the check-out stand, I place my bananas and carrots on the belt. The box of pre-washed spinach, the nairn’s oat cookies, the Indian simmer sauce. I pass my cloth bags to the checker. I slide my credit card, punch “no” for cash, sign my name. Finally I ask the clerk for change. “I need some ones,” I say.

When I buy my copy of Real Change on the way out, the vendor compliments me on my new haircut. A sales technique? I don’t think so. It’s hard to fake a sweet personality like hers.

And what about the newspaper? Well, it turned out to be worth reading. I skimmed most of the articles and read a few. The article that particularly caught my attention was a report on a resolution that was passed recently by the Seattle City Council apologizing for past anti-Chinese policies. An interesting story. Maybe I’ll discuss it here sometime.

Near the back of Real Change they run a “vendor profile.” Steve Gunn, the featured vendor that week, is said to have a loyal following at Sixth and Union in downtown Seattle. “I respect people,” he says, “and I also want people to respect me.”

That’s the important thing about being a Real Change vendor or customer:

RESPECT.

Adult Coloring Books and My Small Act of Defiance.

 Adult coloring books are everywhere these days. They’re on the front tables of book stores and art shops and on Amazon’s best sellers list just a few notches down from The Nightingale.

I wonder why they’ve suddenly become so popular. Maybe stress has something to do with it. Art therapist Susanne Fincher says coloring is a way to “lift the mood, reduce anxiety and relieve stress.” Psychologist Antoni Martinez recommends coloring as a relaxation technique, an alternative to meditation. Maybe they’re right. With all the time we spend on our computers, pads and smart phones, we’re overloaded with digital activities. We need the occasional old-fashioned simplicity of a colored pencil and a piece of paper.

That wasn’t what I was thinking when I bought my adult coloring book. No, what made me a ready target for the coloring book craze came from my memories of the happy hours I spent as a child, sprawled on the floor with a coloring book and a jumbo box of crayons.

Every Christmas Eve my sister and I had a couple of new coloring books under the tree. No matter what other gifts we received, Sue and I were already on the floor trying out our new coloring books while Mom was still gathering up the discarded ribbons and paper.

Those simple coloring books bore little resemblance however to what’s now being sold for adults. The new coloring books are gorgeous. Here are a few examples:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Small Act of Defiance

The coloring book I chose this summer is filled with beautiful art nouveau animal designs.

This is where I started, coloring these birds and vines and flowers using a new box of colored pencils.

I do agree with Ms. Fincher and Dr. Martinez; coloring is a nice way to unwind. But for me, the real payoff is something quite different. Sitting down to color feels to me like a small act of defiance. Let me explain:

When I was a child, like all children, I spent hours in aimless activity. I ran around for the sheer joy of it. I built block towers and knocked them down. I dressed my dolls, and I dug in the sand, never wondering why. Play is not a purposeful activity, at least not from the child’s point of view.

Now that I’m an adult, everything has a purpose. True, most of the obligations in my life are self-imposed. I’m the one who chooses to wash the dishes and fold the laundry. I choose to work on my novel and to get some exercise most days. I’m the one who chooses to eat nourishing food instead of cake and ice cream. (Yes, I shout without great conviction. I want to eat my veggies.)

The trouble is, sometimes I’m all too aware of the obligatory aspect of those activities. So then, feeling tired and somewhat rebellious, I stick my fingers in my ears to tune out the annoying cry of my to-do list. I take out my coloring book, and I lay down some color … for absolutely no reason at all.

Simply because I want to.

THE BALLARD LOCKS

Engineers Who Dare to Create.

I’m not the kind of person who looks down at the currents, tides, and waves passing through a big, deep body of water and think, Hey, I could build a bridge across that.

Not on your life. I mean, where would a person even start?

And who would dare to create a large engineering marvel like the Panama Canal? If you’ve ever been through it, you’ve seen how huge it is: a series of locks on both ends and a lake in the middle. It makes you wonder who in his right mind had the audacity to think it was even possible to build a 48-mile-long canal through mosquito-infested land in someone else’s country.

An engineer, of course … along with a bunch of politicians.

Grand Coulee Dam is another engineering marvel. If you haven’t spent a day touring it, I’d highly recommend you do so.

The Hiram Chittenden Locks

For centuries people in the Pacific Northwest carried or dragged their boats between Lake Washington and Lake Union. If it had been up to people like me, we might still be doing it (or paying someone else to do the dragging). But when logging became big business here, they had to find a way to get their logs down to Puget Sound. In 1883, David Denny and Thomas Burke hired a crew of Chinese laborers to dig a canal.

Connecting the bodies of water was complicated, though, by the fact that the lakes were considerably higher than the saltwater. Call in the engineers.

In 1906, the Army Corps of Engineers sent Hiram Chittenden to be the Army District Engineer. Hiram looked at the various proposals, asked for more money, and proposed a double concrete lock with steel gates instead of a wooden lock.

You can read more here about the history, construction, and operation of the Hiram Chittenden Locks, better known as the Ballard Locks.

Our Argosy Cruise through the Ballard Locks

These boats entered the lock behind us. We all were directed to the larger lock, which is 85 feet by 825 feet. The smaller lock is 30 feet by 150 feet.

“Throw me a rope.”

We were heading from the lower saltwater of Puget Sound into the higher freshwater leading to the lakes. The administrators of the locks are required to maintain the water level of the two lakes at 20.6 feet above mean low tide. They’re also charged with preventing the mixing of sea water and fresh.

Once the boats are inside the lock and tied up, the gate is closed.

Then fresh water from the lakes and Salmon Bay flows into the lock, and our boats begin to rise.

As we near the top, onlookers stare at us and we look back at them.

Once up to lake level, the gate opens. Then we cruise away from the Ballard Locks and under the Ballard Bridge on our way to Lake Union.

The Courage to Create

Engineers have an amazing amount of chutzpah. They aren’t the only people who dare to create of course. Creativity is all around us. Sculptors dare to make that first cut. Gardeners dig up the lawn for flowers which in the beginning only exist in their minds. Cooks try something new and serve it to their family.  Entrepreneurs  have the courage to start new businesses. Writers dare to write novels.

Here’s to us all and all the creativity we’re courageous enough to attempt.

Cruisin’ around Seattle and the Card-Playing Kids

It was the first day of August, a good day to get out on the water. We made our reservations for an Argosy cruise and lined up on Pier 55.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Once on board, we found three seats near the window on the lower deck. It was a good place to sit when we weren’t hanging over the side taking pictures.

I bought some coffee from the on-board snack bar. It hit the spot, but it was a challenge to juggle a camera and a cup of coffee on a boat cruising around Elliot Bay. Luckily the water was calm enough that I was able to park my cup on a windowsill while I took these photos of the Seattle skyline and the Space Needle.

Then I moved across the boat to a windy wide-open window to get this shot of the container port with Mount Rainier in the background. We hit a wake, and I grabbed my coffee off its precarious perch on the window sill just in time.

Views all around. Seattle to the east, Mount Rainier to the south, and the Olympic Mountains to the west.

But not everyone was looking.

As I walked from one side of the boat to the other (not spilling a single drop of my coffee), I had to step around fifteen or twenty kids sitting at three tables in the center of the lower deck. The kids, who looked like high school junior and seniors, had arrived with paper-wrapped burgers. They’d quickly polished off the burgers, and now they were playing cards.

I used to be a painter, so as you might imagine, I hold the appreciation of beauty in high regard. Seeing the kids playing cards instead of looking out at the beautiful view upset me. They were quiet though and well behaved. Besides, it was none of my business.

Our boat cruised north, past Discovery Park and another view of Mount Rainier. Then we turned toward Ballard and the Hiram Chittenden Locks. A marvel of engineering! The kids folded their cards and came out on deck to watch as we entered one of the locks, tied up, watched the gate close behind us, and rose twenty feet up to the level of the lakes.

Then most of the kids returned to their cards, and we continued on, cruising past fishing boats, tug boats, and a pilot boat.

The card-players were too young to have seen Sleepless in Seattle, so they couldn’t be expected to care about the houseboat Tom Hanks’ character and his son lived in on Lake Union. Here it is on the left.

I have several math geniuses in my family, so I should have recognized the clues. The card-playing kids were maybe 70% male, 75% Asian American. A dead giveaway. Still, I didn’t put it all together until I read the back of their teacher’s T-shirt:

University of Washington  Summer Math Camp

Space Needle competing with tower cranes

Seattle is having a growth spurt. In every direction, tower cranes rise above the skyline. The card-playing kids may not have noticed them, but I’m guessing that when they grow up, some of them will design a future generation of skyscrapers and engineering marvels.

Vive le difference!

Next week’s post: “Engineers, bikinis and the Ballard Locks.”

P.S.– Did you know that the US won the International Math Olympiad this year? The winning team was six boys, no girls. It looks like only half of them were Asian Americans, although among the 250 American qualifiers for the exam, about 75% had an Asian surname.

Two Wedding Receptions and a Kidnapping.

The wedding went off without a hitch. The best man remembered to bring the rings, the flower girl and ring bearer were adorable, the soprano sang a beautiful rendition of Ave Maria, and the bridesmaids paraded gracefully up the aisle ahead of the bride. Even the groom, who appeared nervous the previous day, seemed to be, if not exactly carefree, at least reasonably relaxed thanks to the Valium slipped to him by the mother of the bride.

The reception in the church basement seemed to be going well. The bride and groom stood near the stairs to receive their guests, and the ladies of the Altar Society expertly served the cake, punch, and coffee. Bowls of mints and multi-colored pastel Jordan almonds and baskets filled with groom’s cake were strategically placed around the room. In the 1960s, the typical grooms’ cake was fruit cake cut in small cubes, wrapped in aluminum foil, and tied with a ribbon—a party favor not meant to be eaten but to be placed under your pillow so you could dream of the person you were fated to marry.

So … everything was proceeding as planned. But not everyone likes a wedding that follows the script. The maid of honor (my sister), for one. And she had an idea. If only she could convince the best man (my brother-in-law) to help her kidnap the bride, they could add a little fun to the wedding. She’d chosen an unlikely co-conspirator though. My brother-in-law was the ultimate law-and-order-kind-of guy. And yet, she convinced him.

the kidnappers

As they carried me off, I tried to get away. But given the size and strength of my brother-in-law, I struggled in vain. They drove me to the next town, and kept going. “Please, please,” I cried, playing the damsel in distress. “I want to go back to my husband.”

In his birth family, my husband had been pegged the rebel, but he’d also been well schooled in the courtesies a host owes to his guests. When the kidnappers finally brought me back thirty minutes later, he was not amused. Our guests had been kept waiting to see the bride.

Our second reception for close friends and family was at my parents’ house. My mom had been preparing the food for weeks. Mid-June can be cool and rainy in Western Washington State, but that day was sunny, perfect for a party in my parents’ back yard.

The drink of choice seemed to be Jim Beam.

Punch is good too. My dad passed some out the window.

The groom buttered up the great aunts.

My grandma and great aunt Gertie offered to chaperone the honeymoon. We refused their offer, dragged them out, and took off for San Francisco.

Weddings are not just fairy-tale events. They’re opportunities for two groups of people to get acquainted with each other. Besides, they can be lots of fun.

Do you enjoy weddings? Have you been to some good ones? Do you have some tales to tell from your wedding?

Weddings Used to Be Simpler … and Cheaper.

For the past few months I’ve been reading Autumn Ashbough’s blog, When West Dates East, keeping up on all the details of her wedding preparations, and laughing my head off. Autumn is an excellent writer; plus, her life and her family supply lots of good material. Last week, perhaps feeling a little writer-ly jealousy of all the drama in her life, I commented that my wedding was nice … and also boring. I could sum it up one short post, I said. She’d already written dozens, and we still hadn’t arrived at the main event.

Autumn’s response: “I would like to see the post from your wedding, Nicki. With pictures!”

Sooo … here goes.

The year Eugene and I got married, 1967, was a simpler time. People said their vows (probably in a church), had a simple reception (probably in the church basement), and drove away for a simple honeymoon. (We drove to San Francisco.)

Like many couples then and now our first impulse was to make the wedding small. But when we sat down to write a list, every name seemed to lead to two more names, people who couldn’t possibly be excluded without hurting their feeling. I don’t remember how many people we invited, but when we were done, Immaculate Heart of Mary Church was full.

Most of our wedding guests lived nearby. Eugene’s brother and sister were the only people who arrived by plane. Eugene’s parents, who lived in Singapore, wished us well but declined to come halfway around the world for the wedding, so Eugene’s boss, Sid McIntyre, offered to stand in for his father.

Despite the fact that Eugene was born in China and moved to town only five years earlier while I lived there most of my life, he contributed more names to our guest list than I did. Five years was more than enough time for an extrovert like him to make plenty of friends.

Our wedding was typical for a Sedro-Woolley WA wedding. In 1967 no one had catered dinners and videographers, and certainly not a mountaintop wedding or a Hawaiian beach wedding. In fact, as far as I know, people didn’t even plan fancy rehearsal dinners in those days.

Beautiful wedding gowns, however, are timeless. I’ve always adored beautiful dresses. So I can’t explain why I didn’t go on a search for the most elegant wedding dress in the land. For some reason, though, I decided to make my own. In the 1960s, women knew how to sew. Even young women. We were required to take two years of cooking and sewing in Home Ec classes if we wanted to graduate from high school.

I made my dress, but I didn’t make my veil. I used the old saying of something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue as an excuse, and borrowed one from a friend.

My maid-of-honor and bridesmaids also made their dresses. (Or maybe my mom made them. I can’t remember.)

My mom and grandma (shown below) were the real seamstresses of the family. My sister (on our right) still carries on the tradition.

I see that I was wrong to say I could sum up my wedding in one short post. Come back next week and I’ll tell you more. In the meantime, check out Autumn’s blog for a modern-day tale of wedding planning.

Street Corner Gardens and Hanging Baskets

My usual writing spot at the kitchen table was all cleared off and waiting for me. A song bird chirped in the patio, a few wispy clouds decorated the soft blue sky, and John Williams–randomly chosen by my “mellow” iTunes playlist–plucked his guitar. I pulled out a chair and paused. Nope. Pushing the chair back in, I rolled up the pages I was planning to work on, slid them into my rather commodious handbag, and grabbed my car keys.

Once or twice a week I like to get out of the house and write in one of my favorite tea or coffee shops. Cafe Louvre, where I was headed that day, is within walking distance, but I was eager to get started, so I drove.

In the summer, Edmonds has a lively feel. People emerge from their wintry nests to fill the sidewalks, shops, and cafes. Not surprisingly, when I drove past the cafe, all the nearby parking spots were taken. I drove farther down the street and up the hill. After a few loops, I ended up several blocks away from Cafe Louvre.

No problem. The walk gave me a chance to enjoy the street corner gardens along the way. These mini gardens, planted and maintained by Edmonds city staff and community volunteers, are a real delight.

Unlike private gardens, street corner gardens are open to all, and they’re free. The Butchart Gardens near Victoria BC, for example, charge $31.45/adult this time of year. Even Seattle’s beautiful Japanese Garden, which is a public park, charges $6.

In the 21st century we no longer dress up and entertain ourselves by promenading through formal gardens. Street-side gardening with hanging baskets and street corner plantings fit better with our lifestyle. We don’t even have to get out of our cars or leave the sidewalk table in front of Starbucks where we’re sipping our iced lattes.

I lived once in a place where I was surrounded by too much gray and not enough green, too many hard, brittle surfaces and too little that was supple and alive. I’ve experienced the way everyday ugliness saddens the soul and how, in contrast, beauty imparts joy.

Look up. What could be lovelier than a blue sky and wispy clouds!

Do you have street corner gardens or hanging baskets where you live?

A Good First Line.

 If you Google “pick-up lines,” you’ll find oodles of suggestions. Funny pick-up lines, cute, clean, cheesy, dirty … They’re all there. One site has a list of 920. It appears that pick-up lines is an extremely popular subject. And for good reason. When you meet (or would like to meet) someone, all he or she has to go on is your appearance and the first few words out of your mouth. So those first words had better be darn good.

The same holds true for books. When we’re in the market for a new book, first we look at the title and cover; then we open up the book and read a few sentences. Some opening lines are better than others.

Here are a few I like:

 

“There are gods in Alabama: Jack Daniel’s, high school quarterbacks, trucks, big tits, and also Jesus.”

—Gods in Alabama by Joshilyn Jackson

 

“Afterward, he tried to reduce it to abstract terms, an accident in a world of accidents, the collision of opposing forces—the bumper of his car and the frail scrambling hunched-over form of a dark little man with a wild look in his eye—but he wasn’t very successful.”

—The Tortilla Curtain by T.C. Boyle

 

“A mile above Oz, the Witch balanced on the wind’s forward edge, as if she were a green fleck of the land itself, flung up and sent wheeling away by the turbulent air.”

—Wicked by Gregory Maguire

“It was said that boys should go on their first sea voyage at the age of ten, but surely this notion was never put forth by anyone’s mother.”

—Blackbird House by Alice Hoffman

 

“Though I often looked for one, I finally had to admit that there could be no cure for Paris.”

—The Paris Wife by Paula McLain

 

“Anna was a good wife, mostly.”

—Hausfrau: A Novel by Jill Alexander Essbaum

 

“Lydia is dead. But they don’t know this yet.”

            —Everything I Never Told You: A Novel by Celeste Ng

 

“Wars came early to Shanghai, overtaking each other like the tides that raced up the Yangtze and returned to this gaudy city all the coffins cast adrift from the funeral piers of the Chinese Bund.”

—Empire of the Sun by J.G. Ballard

“Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta.”

—Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov

 

“When the lights went off the accompanist kissed her.”

—Bel Canto by Ann Patchett

 

“Shanghai slept early in those days, already settling down at eight o’clock, the blue-green evening sky clearing s the sediments of darkness and hubbub slowly sank to the bottom.”

—The Rouge of the North by Eileen Chang

 

Do you like some of these opening lines? Do you have some favorite first sentences to add? I’d love to hear them.

After this distinguished list, I hesitate to add the first sentence of my novel, but here goes:

 

“I was pregnant when Yu-ming went missing.”

—Tiger Tail Soup: A Novel of China at War by Nicki Chen

Small Town Fourth of July

Loggerodeo 2015

Sedro-Woolley, WA, the town where I was born, celebrated its first Loggerodeo in 1886, making the Loggerodeo the oldest continuous Independence Day celebration in the state.

My sister and I drove up to Woolley (as we affectionately call it) on Friday afternoon, July 3. And oh, dear! TRAFFIC, TRAFFIC, TERRIBLE TRAFFIC! (Although I shouldn’t complain. The next day we drove the speed limit (or more) all the way home.)

We drove up on Friday because my high school classmate had invited his graduating class, neighbors, church friends, and relatives to picnic and watch the July 3rd fireworks over Big Lake from his front lawn.

As you can see, he has a ginormous lawn. (A couple of his kids live in houses next door, so part of what you see belongs to them.)

Sorry. No fireworks pictures. My lack of skill with a camera does not permit.

The next day we went to the Loggerodeo Grand Parade. This house we walked past took my eye. It’s all dressed up for the holiday.The parade had big horses …

… and little dogs on the sidelines.

Logging trucks are always a staple in a Loggerodeo parade …

… as are marching bands, floats, and little girls twirling batons. These tractors were briefly upstaged by a fly-over.

Bales of hay with a patriotic theme.

We didn’t stay for the rodeo, but we did stop in at the chainsaw carving contest. Carvers from all over the world come to this three-day-long contest. All their works of art are carved from cedar.

Here’s the process (more or less): Take a chunk of a cedar tree like this one in the foreground …

… start your chainsaw …

… add a pile of sawdust …

… and a hunky guy …

… and let the sawdust fly. Here are a couple of the more humorous results:

Intricate work for a chainsaw.

I don’t know who won the contest, so I’ll have to end with a big shade tree and a dappled sidewalk. During this unusual heatwave we’re having, I’m in love with big shade trees.