You Don't Mean It!
I was parked near the Ferreteria, as the hardware store in Spanish-speaking countries is known, waiting for it to open one morning when a scruffy bird flew to a nearby electrical wire to give me several pieces of its mind. I ignored it at first but as it grew increasingly irritated, I feared that the delicate power lines clasped firmly in its claws would give way, shutting down the electricity throughout the town. It berated me as if I had just axed its entire family, turning its head every possible angle as it kept one beady eye fixed on me at all times. His wind-beaten wings fluttered and flapped so heartily as he bounced up and down that I held my breath feeling sure the line would shake loose from the bent nail that fastened it to its skinny wooden post. I finally cranked the truck and inched it forward until the nervous creature flew away. I certainly didn't want to be responsible for a power outage that would likely last a week or more given the lackadaisical attitude of the utility companies in this part of the world.
Gus had decided to show me how to make the Costa Rican version of rice and beans that afternoon. "Give me some of dem rice and beans," he sang as he danced around the kitchen. Gertrude came in and burst out laughing at the fact that he was going to teach me anything about cooking, then marched out, shaking her head as she put on her hat to go to the market. He showed me how much dried flaked coconut to put into a bowl before pouring boiling water over it. We let it steep while he was measuring out the beans, then he poked at the thin strips of coconut meat to see if they had softened enough to mash. When they were ready, he took a fork and squished the coconut to milk it, then poured the pale white liquid into the water that was heating up in the pot, tossing in the beans as the milky liquid clouded the clear water in a swirling pattern. "You add some onion," he said, throwing in a handful of the tiny white cubes he'd just chopped. "Now we wait for the beans to cook and we will add the rice when it's time."
I was quite enamored with the dish because it was sweet without being cloying. I wrote down his "recipe" while seated next to him at the dining table—his fidgety finger following my pen across the page to make sure I didn't miss anything. When I had it down to his satisfaction, I closed my writer's notebook and a shiver coursed through me. "Are you cold?" he asked. "Oddly, yes," I answered, a first for me in Puerto Limon—I couldn't seem to get warm. The misty air wouldn't allow it as it invaded the world with dampness, the rain whispering on the zinc roofs of the nearby houses bringing an unusual softness to the weather. This was the counter opposite to what I had experienced to this point in the seaside town, which I could only describe in hindsight as a barrage. It was as if the precipitation gods had decided to make peace with the mortals languishing there and stop incessantly hammering them with their weapons. Though chilled to the bone, I was happy they'd replaced their staccato volleys with the peaceful soughing sound of liquid caressing the metal that capped most of the buildings in town.
I tried to keep home close to my heart by writing about the week I'd had during our surprise break from the mission field. I'd gone to the 75th birthday celebration of Mom's mother, Mama, who had a quilt rack set up in her living room as she always did during the winter months. She was telling me about the pattern she'd created as she ripped open the birthday gift I'd brought her like an excited child. She was thrilled when she saw that I'd given her a package of colorful gift-wrap stamped with American quilting patterns, painstakingly looking at every design to tell me which ones she had made and which ones she hadn't. "See this?" she demanded happily; "it's the double wedding ring, and this is the basket. Ah, here's the tulip. I once made the chain for Kim, and the flower garden has always been one of my favorites."
By the time she'd rifled through the paper, she'd named every pattern, commenting to me that her "glowcoma," as she called her glaucoma, had not slowed her down a bit even though she couldn't see out of her right eye after four painful operations, one of which was a transplant. As we talked, I sat close to her, enjoying the warmth of the strong midday sun pouring through the window behind us. She had on a lilac ruffled blouse and sweater, and her skin seemed alarmingly thin, so translucent in the harsh light that the vein running from her left temple to her eyebrow seemed startlingly blue. She'd been a seamstress most of her working years and a perpetual gripping of fabric as she ran it through the various sewing machines she used had made her hands when they were at rest appear as if they gingerly clasped plump strawberries in their fingertips.
I couldn't remember a time when they'd been smooth due to her perpetual gardening, which she seemed to do less of since she was widowed for a second time and taking care of the property on her own. Her nose was bulbous on the end but not in an unattractive way, even given the thinness of her face. Her eyes behind her thick glasses seemed defiant and birdlike—not fierce enough to be hawkish; more on par with those of a obstinate blue jay. When she was recounting something that had made her angry, she would look straight at me, puckering her eyebrows and narrowing her eyes to mere slits. When she laughed, she would throw her head back and half-cackle, the sound cracking from deep in her throat. After lingering only slightly with her eyes turned toward the ceiling, she would bring her head down and cover her mouth with her crooked hand so that the mischievous glint in her one sharp eye and the dullness of the cloudy one that no longer served a purpose save to make her feel whole held sway.
If she was shocked, she'd say, "You don't mean it!" and lean her upper body toward me—her neck extended, her brow furrowed and her gaze intent as her lips parted and teeth stood on edge waiting for my reply. She had always been thin and rangy since I could remember, and had caused her four daughters fits of embarrassment when she admitted she'd bought padded panties to mask her flat butt when she'd go square dancing with her girlfriends. I remember her being loving only on the rarest occasions, and she was a fierce enemy if anyone got on her bad side. She was, quite simply, a woman who was not afraid to fight. In fact, it became obvious to me in my junior year in high school that she rather enjoyed a good skirmish.
The episode that convinced me of this was one of the most embarrassing stories of my teen years. She made all of the cheerleader uniforms for my squad in high school and she was stubborn about her work. When one of the mothers of a fellow team member came to pick up her daughter's outfit, she complained about the quality. Mama proceeded to call her a host of unsavory names and ran her off the porch with a broom! I'd never known her to apologize because it simply had never occurred to her that she could have been wrong in any way, shape or form. I had to work extra hard that year to make up for the scandal she'd caused with my fellow cheerleaders and I vowed that I'd never allow myself to be such a bitter woman. I couldn't have known at the time—at 29 years old and incredibly naïve as to how it felt to be beat down by life—that time has its own way of molding us into who we become in spite of our resolve.
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