There is a joke that goes like this: A dad and a mom are asked if they have a favorite chair in the house that they especially like to sit in. The dad responds, “Oh, yes, of course! The big leather armchair where I read the paper!” Then the mom thinks and thinks and thinks . . . what is her favorite chair? And she finally responds, “Well, I don’t think I have ever actually sat down!” Mom doesn’t stop to sit down, or to read the paper, or to watch the bamboo grow. She doesn’t stop for miracles. There is simply too much to do. She leaves the window, humming, and as she turns around past the kitty litter and drone of the dishwasher, she grabs the morning trash bag and steps outside, her dark blue Keds kicking the morning sun off the porch.
Suddenly, the bamboo chatters, its wooden reeds calling her name. A small brush warbler flies close to her head, wafting a breeze in her hair and a song to her ear, beckoning her to follow. The bird disappears in the enchanting bamboo. It’s as if the warbler is guiding her, hovering for a minute in throaty song: “Beverly come see . . . come seeee . . . come seeeee the bamboo grow . . .” She turns and stares. With trash bag in hand, she stares at the moving leaves where her name lingers, and her blue Keds leave flat marks in the damp lawn as she wanders to the edge of the yard where the bamboo grows thick behind the metal chain-link fence. On the other side, the leafy wooden reeds spread for several acres along a path that is long overgrown. The path leads to caves, hidden in the mountain like sunken eyes. Hidden, like the vacant eyes that were staring out through its dark opening when the Japanese hid there during the war. We children have snuck back there, carefully bidding the light good-bye and inching into the dirt cave, slowly, slowly, one inch at a time, then screaming at the “BOO!” that inevitably comes from the sibling behind you. Once our hearts had stopped pounding and we could breathe again, we would find spoons and metal helmets, cigarette butts and joints, and bones. No boo then. Just imagining what war was like. What hiding in caves in the dark was like. What being bombed by the Americans was like. We had heard of torture. “For sure,” we thought, “someone was tortured in this cave,” we could feel it. “Maybe even an American!” We shuddered. Then we would run like lightning out of the cave, past the growing bamboo, and tumble and stumble into the backyard, laughing suddenly again with hiccups, racing for the lemonade sure to be in the fridge, racing for the perfectly cut apple on the white plate, racing for the goldfish, racing for the safety of our clean and neat home. The details of a home are usually what fill up a mother’s life . . . but how often have her children stopped to consider that her sacrifices are actually gifts?
Mom clutches the trash bag, and stares past the chain-link fence, peering into the dark green shadows, not wanting to think of the mournful caves. She hears the bamboo shudder and chatter like one of those wooden hanging chimes. It’s eerie, yet lovely. It makes a hollow sound as the wind beats the gentle sticks, like distant Japanese dojo drums. Standing there listening to the drum song, she is a dot of red against a lime-green backdrop. She stands still, the bamboo swaying and bending over her rose-flowered dress. She arches her curly head to the side, resembling an ikebana arrangement herself. She is the hikae, a dark rose in the center of lime bamboo that is now the shin and soe, and she stands still and concentrates. She stands and waits; she squints her eye, she wants to see the bamboo grow. A rose lady stands in her yard, a brown paper trash bag like a gentle thorn at her side, and she waits, and she watches. She reaches out to mark a spot in the air, her pale finger barely touches a leaf, and she stands outstretched and measuring, birds chattering in the reeds, time passes and she stands and quietly hums, she stands and measures until the spot of bamboo infinitesimally, with miniscule yet definite journey, stretches slowly upward. Ahhhh. She has seen the bamboo grow. Time. Well. Spent.
Later that day, as we run home, clattering doors breaking the silence when we enter the cool quiet home, I stop short at the flower arrangement that dominates the stereo cabinet. “Mom,” I gasp. “It looks like the Japanese fireworks we saw during the summer festival!” There is a tall, dark bamboo cylindrical vase, about four inches wide and a foot and a half tall, and it sits on a small mat of bright green bamboo leaves. Stretching out one side of the bamboo vase is a thin, flaming pyracantha arm ladened with berries. It reaches out, toward the front, and slightly dips down. Toward the back, a shorter, fatter pyracantha arm boldly rises up, its berries lightning red. In the center, three yellow large chrysanthemums explode out of the bamboo, bending forward, like huge fireworks bursting from the sky. They set off the orange of the pyracantha perfectly. I inhale her day, through the flowers.
Of all the lessons that I have learned from my mother, perhaps the most important lesson—the power of standing still—is one that I will always be learning anew. Until we stand still, we don’t really notice the feelings and the essence of people around us; we are caught up in our daily routines and schedules and appointments. We miss the tilt of the earth, the hum of a bee, the ache of a heart, and all of the details that make life a miraculous treat.
I try to track Mom’s journey. There are dangling threads in her tapestry I can’t quite capture. So I trace a path: She started blossoming in Japan. Then when we returned by ship to the States, she seemed to be crushed for a minute as we waited out a six-month holding pattern in Austin, Texas. We were renting a cramped two-bedroom apartment behind a dilapidated 7-Eleven, a far cry from our house on the hill in Yokohama with the koi pond and the jump rope. We were waiting for my dad’s new assignment in DC to be finalized. It was just Mom and us five kids, dropped in Austin in the middle of a school year. I was eleven, in sixth grade, and was shocked to witness the segregation in the Texas schools. In Japan, on the navy base, we had lived with every race and color. We had schooled with the diversity of children from all walks of life, children of Americans serving in the armed forces. Every race, color, and creed.
But my Texas school was almost entirely white. Walking out to the cafeteria tables at lunch time, I saw a lone black girl sitting, eating lunch from a brown paper bag. I sat with her. Mom had often sung the Bluebird song to me: “Make new friends, but keep the old. One is silver and the other is gold,” but I didn’t need the song to spur me forward that day. The girl’s imposed isolation angered me. My new school endorsed spanking kids with rulers, and that angered me, too. Our ugly little home angered me. Even the Slurpees at the 7-Eleven angered me.
I don’t know what Mom did with her days when we were in school. Cleaning our little apartment, I guess. I think she was angry, too. Fortunately we were near my grandparents on my dad’s side, Mammau and Tattau, and we would often spend weekends out at their lake home, swimming or laying on the dock, eating pecan pie and peach cobbler, or picking bluebonnets when they were in season. My dad’s brother, Uncle Don, and Aunt Linnie also lived in Austin, and they provided companionship for Mom and so much grace and fun that we didn’t hurt so much thinking about our faraway house in Japan, surrounded by bamboo and caves and wooden chimes.
Finally in the summer of 1970 we moved to the Washington, DC, area because Dad would be working at the Pentagon. He had found us a home in a new cul-de-sac in Maryland, and I would enter the local middle school, which in those days started in seventh grade. As I follow this thread now, something darkens. Dad didn’t like the Pentagon. He didn’t like the red tape he encountered there, and he wasn’t used to being at home so much. He missed the sea, and he was stressed and angry and grumpy. A lot. He was like an angry bear at times, and Mom’s advice was just not to poke him: “If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all!” So we were on our best behavior. A lot. We were glad when they discovered the opera, downtown jazz, birding, and the symphony. It took the focus off us, and made things a lot more pleasant.
But most importantly, Mom discovered a local flower club. Everything seemed to get a bit lighter then. She befriended the garden club ladies and enjoyed their camaraderie. Making friends in between the housework and schoolwork and garden work, she was mentored by Katherine
Foster, and her voice began to quietly emerge.
At the time, I wasn’t really paying attention to these changes in Mom. I was busy trying to be popular in school, growing my hair long and rolling it in big curlers, plucking my unibrow into two fine arches, and spreading Clearasil and foundation in equal proportions as I applied my morning makeup. But I do remember Mom taking me to meet this woman that she revered so much. She said, “Sometimes she scares me a little, but I want to be like her. Strong and independent.” Katherine Foster taught an ikebana class, which Mom took. She was in her late sixties and reminded me of Katharine Hepburn—not only because her name was Katherine, but also because she was beautiful and sharp and elegant. She was a horse lady to boot, so to me she seemed tough. She had a stable and fields with wooden fences, and she actually cleaned her own horses and rode them.
Katherine had noted Mom’s timidity, and she took her under wing. She seemed to be teaching Mom how to stand up for herself, how to appreciate her own worth, and how to stand up for her children. Mom, in turn, became more outspoken, and gently stood behind her own ideas. She began to build a name for herself in the ikebana clubs. She began to insist upon her own life.
Then we moved from the cul-de-sac in Sandy Spring, Maryland, to the Cheltenham Naval Base in Prince George’s County. We had a big three-story house with white columns, and behind it sat the navy base tennis courts. Dad was the captain of this Cheltenham base, and we were the captain’s daughters, and it was the nicest house we had ever lived in, with those columns out front and three stories of brick with windows that had shutters . . . and a yard with roses and hydrangea . . . and I felt . . . important. I felt rich. Mom helped my sisters and me set up a sewing room on the third floor, and we bought Butterick patterns and made our own dresses for prom and the cotillions at the Annapolis Naval Academy that were soon to come.
Who were Mom’s friends then? I lose the thread. Did she create a new garden club? Did she like being the captain’s wife on this base, with all the requisite duties that went along with the position? Was she lonely? I know we took classes together—ceramics classes. We poured vases and ashtrays, and we made a white Virgin Mary that I still bring out every Christmas. I made my boyfriend an ashtray. A navy blue one. Mom drove me to his birthday party one night. Did she know I was no longer a virgin at sixteen? I was in tears, because he had cheated on me. Did Mom know why I was in tears? I delivered the ashtray, and immediately left the party, climbing back into the car with Mom. Still in tears. But proud, with my head high, and we drove home. Did she ask me about my cheating boyfriend? No. She just reached over and patted my hand as we drove.
Not long after that, at the end of my senior year of high school, Dad got honored with the command of a military communications base in Greece. We began the familiar routine of packing one box each to ship to our new home and one suitcase each, and my sisters and I began looking for colleges abroad. I said good-bye to my new boyfriend, Shawn, who was funny and lovely and wore red roller skates and was a fabulous dancer and a skilled actor, if not a bit of a drama queen. Mom watched us wiping our tears as we said farewell, making plans to see each other in Greece, and holding hands on the swing by the tennis courts. Her heart aching as all moms’ do, in empathy for their children. Feeling her daughter’s broken heart. Later I said good-bye to my good friend Ronnie, who was quiet and loyal and protected me from high school ridicule and pressure when I admitted I couldn’t smoke dope because I got too paranoid. Ronnie passed by his friends skipping class in the morning, and with hands deep in his jeans pockets, walked me to my class, saying “make an A” with a lopsided grin. I said good-bye to our house with the columns, I said good-bye to the sewing machines and to the Annapolis cotillions, I said good-bye to the lovely tennis courts, to the ceramics studio, and finally, together with Mom, to Washington, DC, itself.
We drove around the Washington monuments one last time. The Smithsonian, our favorite museum, the Lincoln Memorial, our favorite president, the Jefferson Memorial, our favorite place to rent a paddleboat in the summer. We drove around Hains Point and the Tidal Basin, remembering the fat cherry blossoms of the early spring. The trees had stood like proud ballerinas en pointe, shimmering in frothy cherry blossom tutus, and Mom had explained the historic friendship between Japan and our capitol.
She told me that three thousand cherry blossom trees had been gifted to DC by the Japanese mayor Ozaki of Tokyo in 1912, and that ever since, the exchange of flowering trees was the gift of choice as our countries grew their important friendship. I remembered her speech almost word for word; I had never seen my mom so patriotic. Here in this embrace of cherry blossom trees, Mom had the meshing of three things she loved so much: America, Japan, and flowers. She wanted me to know that ikebana and flowers were more than just a beautiful ornamentation on a tansu chest. They were more than just a gathering of friends chatting about their day as they created arrangements. They were in fact a cultural bridge from one country to the other. I could tell she felt that what she was doing with ikebana was an important mission, the motto being “Friendship through Flowers!,” and I could tell she was sad to leave it all behind as we prepared to move to Greece.
All around the National Mall, people were getting ready for the 1976 Bicentennial. Mom and I drove around and watched the preparations taking place. We were bereft that we were going to miss it. Dad’s transfer date was at the end of May, so we would miss the two hundred–year Bicentennial. We would miss the spectacular fireworks. We would even have to miss some school.
Mom patted my hand. “Sorry you’re going to miss your senior graduation, honey.”
“That’s okay, Mom. Sorry that you are going to miss your favorite holiday, the Fourth of July. The Bicentennial will be the largest fireworks show in America, ever, and we’re going to miss it!”
She did not say, “That’s okay, honey.” She just sighed, staring out at the bustle of people, and said, “Oh . . . I do love fireworks!”
Something fierce began to flow through Mom when we moved to Greece. She became Athena, the goddess of war and wisdom. Goddess of civilization. Goddess of the arts. Goddess of crafts. Goddess of war strategy. Goddess of the city. Goddess of so many things! We had barely unpacked our bags at the American Hotel before Mom said, “I’m not going to have you swimming in the pool all day. Go explore!” She gave us a guidebook, and off we went, exploring the Parthenon, the Acropolis, and the Greek flea markets of Monastiraki. As we explored Athens, Mom got down to business. From the pay phone of the hotel, she immediately followed up on the colleges we’d researched while we were still in America: one in Rome for my oldest sister, one in Germany for my second sister, and she planned how she would get each daughter to these exciting destinations by the end of August in time for school. At seventeen I would just be entering my first year of college, and Mom and Dad both agreed I was too young to go to school away from home, so she walked me through applying to Deree College in Agia Paraskevi. (It was an American accredited college, and I was able to complete my first year there. I studied Greek language, Greek civilization, Greek philosophy, and I discovered my love for acting through the Greek theater at the Acropolis.)
We found a wonderful home with marble floors in a little town called Mati, which was just up the coast from Marathon, the town from where the soldier Pheidippides had run twenty-five miles to announce the defeat of the Persians to the Athenians. Apparently, he wasn’t in the best of shape, and immediately after he delivered the message “VICTORY,” he rolled over and died. “Ahh,” I said to Mom, “a very good reason to avoid excessive exercise!” “Like hell!” interupted Dad. “That’s a good Goddamn reason to get into shape!” Mom just smiled and encouraged Dad and me to try to jog along the same road, which we did later on in the year. Our little town of Mati was also just a few miles away from the naval base NAVCOMSTA Nea Makri, and Mom would drive past tavernas and sheep, bread shops and old men on bicycles, as she went to visit my dad at work. Mom was the wife of Captain Thad Harden. He had
been sent there to maintain peace between Greece and America and Cyprus, and Mom had diplomatic duties as well. She hosted Greek high priests, and mayors, and wives of visiting ambassadors. She threw luncheons for the navy wives. She counseled homesick sailors. Because Dad was the captain of the base, and there was tension between Cyprus and Greece and Turkey, he was also a target and he often had security men surrounding him. Mom was instructed to check for car bombs hidden under the wheels of our black Lincoln. She took it all in stride. She even adopted the Mediterranean style of eating, cutting cucumbers and feta into tomato salads, and ordering baby lamb at the tavernas. Though she often depended on me to translate the Greek, she was also taking classes herself to learn the language; filling notebooks with new letters and words and paragraphs, she murmured parakalo and efharisto, “please” and “thank you,” throughout the day. She was meticulous, tenacious, and enthusiastic. The perfect student. She was also managing a household, schooling my younger brother and sister, and navigating the travel of my older sisters to Germany and Italy and then back to Greece for holidays. Without house help. Without a computer. Without a cell phone. Without the internet.
She loved her time in Greece, but it was not a time of freedom for her; she had duties, and like Athena, she would carry them out! Assisting my father in diplomatic international relations would fall into the category of “goddess of war strategies,” but Athena was also the goddess of wisdom, and Mom had learned long ago to stand still for a minute, and witness nature’s miracles.
The Seasons of My Mother Page 10
