Dinner with my Chinese Aunt

                                            Dinner with my Chinese aunt
                                                

     

     Your Uncle Buck really loved fishing.  He died because he loved fishing.  How’s that?  One day, out in the Delta sitting in his boat, he happened to look up with his one good eye and saw a tiny speck.  The speck grew larger and larger, brighter and brighter….It was a...whatchama call it …a space rocket rubbish? Satellite garbage?  Well, whatever it was, the gods struck him right where he was sitting …buried him deep into the water...or incinerated him up in a round fireball, I don’t know which.  I still have goose bumps whenever I think about it.  You didn't know he died that way?  You thought he just had a stroke and keel over?  Who told you such a lie?  

 
     Here, have some more noodles while they are still hot.   And spoon up the green vegetables at the bottom of the pot.  You don't eat enough vegetables, I can see that.  Your eyes have baggy shadows under them and your face is so very pale.  They don't feed you too good in the army, do they?  I can sense these things, nephew.  I can sense these things because I have suffered much in my lifetime.  In the sixty-seven years I’ve been on this earth, I’ve eaten more grains of salt than you have eaten grains of rice, believe me.     

Your poor Uncle Buck, he never knew what hit him.   Was I there when it happened?  Why? Do I have to be?  Oh, you mean how do I know that a space thing struck him?  Well, I have some imagination, you know.  I can figure things out.  I can see him looking up and… Besides, they found this piece of metal with his lower jaw stuck to it like a barnacle.  Those dead ghosts say it wasn’t his lower jaw but you can see how they would come to such a conclusion.  They do not wish to be responsible.  Your uncle did die out there. They said it was some other fisherman but it was him.  He was to have boiled beef tongue and rice for dinner that night.  It was his absolute favorite and he wouldn’t have missed it for the world.  Unless, of course, he was dead, which he was.  No, it was him, it was him.

 It was such a shock, nephew. We have been married for nearly fifty years, and to be separated in this manner….  To this day, I have not fully recovered from this emptiness.  To this day, I still dress in black.  What’s that?  I always wore black?  No, not always.  There was this time at Mao Goo’s funeral, I wore this lovely Mu Mu….No, I did not embarrass anybody.  I had to rush to make the flight and did not have time to change.  Yes, we were vacationing in Hawaii, your mother, Uncle Buck and I.  Ah! You remember.  That's right. You were just turning ten.  Yes, I know, Mao Goo is not his name, it's his title.  It means that this person was my younger brother and your mother's older brother.  If you addressed Mao Goo as just plain "Uncle" (as I see you have a tendency to do), it tells you nothing of this person’s status in the family.  You should always address your relatives by their titles.  How else can you tell who is older, who is younger?  If you do not know his standing, how can you show honor and proper respect to the person more elderly than you?  Americans really don't have much use  for old people, do they? 

You eat too quick.  It is bad for your stomach.  Here, try some of this fish.  You never had fish as fresh as this.  It was plucked out of the water tank only hours ago.  I know, because it was scaled and gutted in front of me.  It was the liveliest one of the bunch and you should see how hard it fought to keep on living.  May its vigor pass on to you.

I don't know why your Uncle Buck wanted to go with me to Hawaii that time.  I think he wanted to see his cousin Charlie before he died.  We are getting along in years, you know.  The thing that bothered your Uncle Buck was that he kept seeing Eurasians.  He was so against mixed marriages.  Now, I have to agree with him on that one.  Mixed marriages are against the natural order of things and it never works out for either party. What about your sister’s mixed marriage?  You think, for one minute, your mother or I, or the rest of the family agreed to it?  She could not have done so in the old country, believe you me.  Has Muy Muy ever told you she was happy being married to that white ghost?  Muy Muy is the proper title for your younger sister.   I insist on using titles, how else will you learn?  And you should address your Uncle Buck as ‘Goo Dern’, even if he is gone.   ‘Goo Dern’ means that the person you are addressing is your mother’s older sister’s husband.  You do not want to use titles?  I see, it’s too confusing for your Americanized brain.  Well, that’s up to you.

You are saying that in America I should be and talk American?  Fie on you!  Just because I have lived here fifty one years doesn't make me an American,  but I don't want to go into that.  I don't want to argue with you on such trivial matters.  You being here make me very happy and I don't want to spoil it by arguing with you about white ghosts.  True, not all of them are bad.  Yes, your white brother-in-law is very respectful but he is still a white ghost and, in the life’s scheme of things, his loyalty will lie with his own kind when it comes to a choice.  This is not a fault!  I would not blame him for taking his own side.  I would do the same and so should you.  Why are you speaking of Jews and Palestinians?  What have they to do with what we are talking about?  You say that the Protestants and Catholics in Ireland have the same problem?  What problem?

 All I know of Ireland is when Muy Muy, your younger sister, took me to see that movie with John Wayne. We all loved John Wayne.  He was so tall and he did look very oriental.  The movie was about him going back to Ireland, where he was born, to get a wife (which is something you should do).  He wanted to marry his own kind, a wise choice, but his future bride refused to be married because her misery brother would not give her a good dowry.  It was a good movie even when I could not understand what was being said.  We have many Chinese movies with the same plot so it was easy to follow.  Technically speaking, Americans do make better-looking movies.  Do you suppose it is because they place such a high priority on entertaining themselves?  I do not know.

 What do you think of the fish?  It is not too cooked for you, is it?  Normally, the flesh is barely in the boiling oil before it is pulled out and drained.  With all the hearsay about worms and parasites infesting the rivers these days, I have to fry it twice as long. I remember your Uncle Buck catching some catfish and stripping the skin off with a pair of pliers.  Oodles of fat white worms came bursting out in wiggling droplets onto the chopping block.  They were lodged between the skin and flesh.  But as long as the fish is fried crisp, how would it harm anyone to eat it, should it? Why are you grimacing?  Don't you like the fish?  He struggled mightily before he died.  I'm glad you like it.  Here, have some more.

Your Uncle Buck had many strange ways, undoubtedly from being in Gold Mountain too long.  Old traditions and old country courtesy did not sit well with him. When we visit, it is always I who remind him to kowtow before he shook hands.  When asked by friends or relatives, it is always I who have to make little of our children's  accomplishments.  Buck would be the uncouth one that brags of our children's successes (except for Dur), and always the amount of money they earned.  I remember one year when he sent out post cards telling all our friends and relatives the amount of square footage contained in our children's houses and the salaries they're making.  Can you imagine my utter humiliation when I found out?  I could hardly face my friends, let alone our relatives.

 Is it true that native Indians are not afraid of heights?  I heard that from somewhere.   Your uncle had a bait shop, you know.  Bought the business right after he retired.  Although he never caught anything larger than a perch, that didn’t stop him from giving advice to white fishermen who came to the shop.   Those white ghosts thought he knew all about fishing because he was Chinese and owned a bait shop.  Having a black patch over one eye, did help the image.  What did he do for a living before he opened the bait shop?  I thought you knew.  He was a cook for a very rich family. Come to think of it, it could be the cause of his feelings of inferiority.  No, it wasn’t because he was a cook.  I think it was because he was a cook for a  private family.  Being a cook for a private family made him a servant.  Remember, in his youth your Uncle Buck was an ensign in the Chinese Royal Navy.  Coming here to Gold Mountain, being a cook was the only work he could get, and he was lucky to get even that. 

     His employer was the president of a very large soap company.  Their family’s home where he worked was in the San Mateo hills, a very posh community.   It was deep in the woods with two huge swimming pools but I don’t remember ever seeing water in it.  Your Uncle Buck lived on the grounds over the garage some distance from the main house.  He lived by himself.   His room was only part of the garage; the rest was used for storage.  The maid and the chauffeur, the only other permanent employees, both white ghosts, lived in the big house, probably in the basement.  I was not with him when he was working.  I would never dream of asking his employer if I could.  It just wasn’t done.  The maid and the chauffeur had family also and their families lived in the city just like me.       

You can eat the bones of the fish.  It will add strength to your muscles and will not harm you since it has been overcooked.  Just make sure you bite down good and hard with your teeth so the pointed ends are crushed and do not stick in your throat.  It is a carp, you know, and it has a thousand fine bones in it.  I have never before seen anyone try to debone a carp.  I would have done it if it were at all possible.  You must know, nephew that there are many things on this earth that is just not possible and deboning a carp is one of them.

I rarely saw your Uncle Buck when he was working as a cook.  He would come home for a weekend every so often.   I, in turn, would visit your uncle just one day a month on his day off and I never stay overnight.  Maybe that is why we got on so very well in those days, you suppose?

Once, his employer gave Buck permission to show me the inside of the mansion so I could oh and ah over the lord’s possessions.  He and his family were vacationing in Europe, and the maid and chauffeur were also away, so the place was deserted.  It was such a gorgeous palace but I simply could not live there.  It was so huge! I could spend an entire day  just sweeping cobwebs off the ceilings. There was one large room after another.  There was this huge room my whole apartment could have fitted in three times, and all it had was a green top table where, with long sticks, you hit colored balls into holes; there was no other furniture.  It was so empty that there was echoes when one speaks.  The upstairs had beautifully tiled bathrooms and majestic bedrooms and large closets filled with clothes and mirrors.  The employer had a lot of famous guests and movie stars visiting him there.  There were many signed photographs on the wall, just like at the hair dressers. 

But the strangest room was a little room underneath the main, marbled staircase facing the front entrance.  It had no windows so it was very, very dark.  You had to turn the light on to see, even during the daytime.  The walls were painted green, not wall papered or paneled like the other rooms and the door had a lock on it. None of the other rooms had locks on them. It had a roll top desk, a chair and a small bed with plain bedcovers.    There was a large red book, a Christian Bible, I think it was, lying on the table next to the bed and I remember a lot of family photos next to it.  For a moment I thought it was the maid’s room.  Imagine my shock when Buck told me that this was where his employer slept!  Can you imagine the master of this magnificent house sleeping in such a bare and tiny room under a staircase?   It did disturb me that he did not sleep with his wife but I suppose this is one of those customs of rich Americans.  Often he would give your uncle tips on the stock market that turned out very well for our family.  Yes, we did very well by him. 

Here, drink your soup.  It is not good when it is cold.  No, those black bits floating in the soup are not dead insects.  It is bits of seaweed .  You can be so insulting at times.

The man had two sons, you know.  I got to know them on my once a month visits.  They were little children, then, and they were allowed to help the chauffeur wash the cars and to do little chores around the swimming pool that had no water.  It was fun for them, splashing and spraying water all over the garage and pretending to clean the pool.  We liked them.  They were nice to Buck and me.  They had such nice manners.  It was very sad.  I heard, later, that the older one was committed to a mental institution when he was about your age, for alcoholism I think it was, and the other just ran off and was never heard from again.  Your Uncle Buck was mystified; I was mystified.  They had everything. 

We had a small apartment in Chinatown, you remember.  You came to visit with your parents and you played with your cousin Dur.  My useless son use to throw wooden alphabet blocks at you and then both of you would chase each other all around the apartment.  He was the more aggressive, if I remember correctly.  Strange, how it all turned out.  Now you are in the army and my bookish son is too timid to be in a business.  Your cousin Dur was a great disappointment to your Uncle Buck, you know.  He did not find great prosperity in this country like his siblings.  It embarrassed your uncle that Dur is a schoolteacher.  No, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with being a schoolteacher but your Uncle Buck thought that it was a lowly vocation.  In China, that position is graced with dignity and respect.  You are well honored to be a teacher there…but not here, I guess.  Your Uncle Buck tells me that all the teachers are looked down upon by the general public.  They are poorly paid, treated shabbily, and that their students have no respect for them.  He tells me that teachers are nothing but intellectual losers who can find no other work.  I notice he tells me this whenever Dur is within earshot. 

Well, at least Buck died happy, don’t you think?  He was in his boat doing what he loved to do, smoking and drinking.  Catching fish was only an excuse, I think.  I don’t remember him ever catching a fish.  I have happy visions of him sitting there with a cigar in one hand and a can of beer in the other.  I do hope that that piece of space metal hitting him in the head didn’t hurt.  He was never a really bad man. He only beat me once, you know.

Apologies accepted.  I know that that dead ghost, pompous warlord captain of yours, did not let you attend your Uncle Buck's funeral.  I have burnt incense to the gods and have cursed that white ghost often.  He will die in agony, take my word for it.  There were plenty of mourners there anyway so you needn’t have worried.  Besides, they never recovered your uncle’s body and all that was in the coffin were bags of sand.  Imagine, burning incense and giving service to honor bags of sand…but tradition must be observed, I suppose.  I missed you not being there, though.  Most of the mourners, I have never seen before.  Your Father, Bo, rustled them up from the Tong Hall.  The family association was having a monthly meeting, mostly to settle the question of who is to take charge of the burial grounds for the month, when he broke in on them.  They love to play mahjong after the meetings but they love to attend funerals more.  It means they get to eat for free after the funeral, and they have one less member to outlive. You think I am exaggerating?  I don’t think so.

No, I haven’t attended any Tong meetings since my confrontation with High Foot, but that was years ago. Why did they call him High Foot?  His name was Gong Lee but everyone called him High Foot because he was tall by Chinese standards.  Ah! You remember him.  He was a Communist, you know.  Yep.  Always shouting slogans every chance he got.  Tells everyone that they should share their wealth with everyone else.  He does not believed it for a minute. Such a hypocrite.  I caught him cheating in a mahjong game one night and he and I have not talked since.  What do you mean you can’t cheat in a mahjong game?  Sure you can and I’m not going to tell you how, if that’s what you’re thinking.

High Foot would not acknowledge me whenever we chance to meet.  He thinks that bothers me.  I humor him, and when his back is turned, I tell everyone that he cheats.  What do you mean it is not right?  You think I should tell him to his face that he cheats?  What is wrong with you? Disliking a man does not mean I should not respect him. You are puzzle? Do you tell people the truth in front of them? Of course not!  To have face, to show respect, you talk about their vices or shortcomings only when their backs are turned and they cannot hear you.  Great men do it all the time.  Look at your presidents.  Do not tell me that they don’t show the greatest respect to their people when they tell them what they want to hear rather than a painful truth.  Why hurt people’s feelings or make them fearful when you can make them happy with a lie?  You can learn a lot from them.

You should come eat here more often.  I just don’t see you enough.  Your Uncle Buck really liked you, you know.  I remember when you were sent to Your Uncle Bong's farm after your stay at the sanatorium.  You were recovering from consumption and your mother was very worried that it was stunting your growth.   We visited you one Christmas many, many years ago when you were… seven or eight?  You, of all people, should remember that day very well.  You were very happy to see your cousin Dur, I can attest to that.  Both of you were running around the oak tree shooting that b-b gun we brought you as a present.  Odd, that I can still remember the name of that gun.  It was called a Daisy, wasn’t it?  I remember because I thought how inappropriate to name a thing, that kills other living things, a flower. Don’t you think it inappropriate?  They could have called it Mr. Death or Small Animal Killer, or the Destroyer of Life, or something like that.  But to call it a Daisy…?

You were so excited when you killed your first bird.  I can still see that beautiful red-necked woodpecker high in the tree.  It was hanging from one claw after you shot it.  You could see little drops of blood dripping from his feathers to the ground.  He held on stubbornly even in death. Such a brave bird.  You were a very good shot that I always wondered if you shot your Uncle Buck in the eye on purpose.  Everyone said it was an accident but I suspect only you would know the truth.  You didn’t know you did it?  You mean, after all these years, no one bother to tell you?  My God, I just presume you knew all along!  You were howling so mightily when your Uncle Buck got shot so I just thought you knew what was happening.

Oh, I am so sorry.  I do not mean to upset you.  Your parents tell me that you will not even kill a spider now.  Is it true?  Strange how you can be a soldier and not be able to kill a spider.  It does not speak well of your army.

Do you really have to go so soon? It is not something I have said, is it? I really enjoy your visit and you must come again, soon.  Next time I will fix a rare delicacy that you will not resist.  Deep fried Sea Slug, it is simply delicious….or would you prefer Owl Soup?  They are both very good.  Give my regards to your mother and tell my sister that I understand why she cannot visit me more often even though she only lives three blocks from here.  High blood pressure should be carefully monitored and I realize how afraid she is of having a stroke in my living room.  Tell your father, Bo, that he is welcome to visit me anytime.  It is so difficult for a widow to visit others.  I do not know why this is so.  It just doesn’t seem right.  Do American widows also have the same problem?  Oh, yes, I mustn’t keep you any longer with my constant prattling…so joy qin, joy qin, see you soon, good by.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Change of Scenery

 

 

                                       A Change of Scenery                                        by leland choy

 A  

     Beth slipped her forefinger on the edge of the laced curtain and gently pushed it aside. Her small action revealed a backyard covered with crisp, bluish snow.  It was near twilight.  Noting how beautiful the yard was in the fading light, she took in a deep breath and sighed.  Last winter, she had pruned the roses to match the height of the hedges.  It formed a pathway to the introduction of the front door, even when blanketed in snow. Out of a hard-baked, scrubby yard she had created a garden that could have appeared on the cover of any floral magazine.  Well, she liked to believe it could. 

 

      She had planned to stay until spring and plant some cherry tomatoes next to the roses.  Someone told her, she forgot whom, that the cherry tomato plants would keep the aphids away. She wanted to experiment to see if this was true.  There were so many things she would like to have done to the house and garden but she couldn't stay.  There was little bitterness; she was raised with the belief that one shouldn't have everything one wishes for.  Pining away would only be a sign of thwarted avarice and a weakness of character.

 

     Her 1947 two bedroom, one story bungalow was nestled deep in the suburbia forest of tract houses.  They were built nearly identical in its interior as well as exterior, twisting and turning with the topography of the land.  All painted in those light pastel colors that seemed to powder off and fade as time passed.  The sight reminded Beth of schools of fishes in the ocean, clustered together in the thousands, moving sharply in a fluid mass of reflected sheen, flashing in a zigzag motion, forever dodging dispassionate but hungry predators. There is safety in numbers. Yes, there is safety in large numbers.   

     The outer walls were made of stucco, and the windows were framed in aluminum. The craftsmanship wasn't very good . Being built right after the war, building supplies were still scarce.  Building codes were less stringent so studs were laid further apart, the doors squeaked and floors bounced slightly when walked upon. There were dark stains in the ceiling from unseasoned shingles. Each house had paving stones leading to ersatz oak, veneered doors.  Each had a brick chimney and a brick fireplace with a raised heath designed so one had to contort their bodies to an awkward position to enjoy the sight.  The floor plans were nearly identical, excepting for minor features added to suit individual buyers.  The rooms and closets were depressingly indistinguishable in size or shape from the other houses.  It was technically designed to make living as pleasant as possible, and at a price level insuring that only the professional, white, upper middle class, could afford them.

 

     The weather slowly turned blustery causing pin-size jets of cold air to sliver through the cracks and seams of the stucco house.  Harold never could install the door or window insulation properly.  She could hear the wind whistle and wheeze as she stood silently there by the window.

 

      Yes, the house was old. She was old. 

 

      The windows had formed an opaque sheen of condensation and she absent-mindedly slid the tip of her forefinger on the wet surface, doing it slowly, hearing it squeak, watching it leave a clear vertical trail through the damp opaqueness.  A drop of water slid slowly downward to the bottom of the pane.  Peering through the cleared strip, she spied a Blue Jay bracing itself against the gusty winds, hopping on the sheet of white frost covering the frozen flowerbeds, it’s beak tattooing the hard ground, frantically brushing aside the ice and rotten vegetation to reveal the life giving substance beneath.  A sow bug here, an earwig there. The scene was touching.  That bird will survive through the winter, she said to herself, just like I will. 

 

      She held her elbows against her chest and hugged tightly.  Harold was out there in the brittle, cold ground and it made her pensive and sad, but only for a moment.  How silly, she thought, he isn’t feeling any of it and he certainly isn’t bored anymore, no, not anymore. 

     The phone buzzed.  It jolted her from her contemplation. The living room was in disarray, cluttered with cardboard cartons of different sizes, packing crates filled with plastic foam pellets, stacked chairs and furniture pushed aside in awkward angles.  The telephone was hiding somewhere under the accumulated knickknacks scattered haphazardly over the floor: items to go, items to be left behind.  I have to vacuum the carpet before I go, she said.  She rummaged for the black telephone. It kept buzzing. 

      She wanted a white phone, If not  white then in any other color but black.  Harold, military as ever, insisted it be black.  “It’s a thing to be taken seriously.  It’s not a toy or a piece of decoration,” he would say, sternly.  “A black phone would be just fine and it is the least expensive and the most practical.”  A cell phone was out of the question.  “Hasn’t it gotten through your head that we live on a fixed income?  How many times must I repeat that fact?” and “What is wrong with having just a land line?” and “Who do we need to impress?” was Harold’s princely reply for any requests she might have had that involved the spending of money.

    The buzzing of the telephone persisted, slowly unraveling the thin fabric of her patience.  She moved deliberately, maneuvering with grace, around the cartons and packing crates, pushing one here, another there, carefully side stepping the larger ones, kicking the smaller ones, honing in on the shrill buzzing.

    

     “Hello?  Oh, it's you, Gladys.  What is it?  Why, thank you, I will miss you too.  No, no, I wish I could and you’re very kind in saying that, but c’est la vie.  One has to go where the husband’s job takes one. Yes, Harold is retired but you know how men are.  He couldn’t stand just sitting around doing nothing.  He never did develop any recreational hobbies while he was in the service.  All he did there was go to the base, come home, eat his dinner and watch TV.  Now, with a whole day and nothing to do, he mopes around the house looking lost.  And that does get on ones nerves: well, mine, at any rate.  I'm sorry we couldn't get together for a farewell bash. 

     “Gladys, Harold would have been a disaster at the party.  You know how unfriendly and curt he is to people, especially with the neighbors.  I don’t know why he was so standoffish.  Could it be because he was a full colonel, perhaps?  Having all that power  over human events and then losing it does affect one’s behavior, I guess.  You, of all people, should know.  What do I mean by that? Why, nothing.  I’m not suggesting anything, Gladys.  I’m just glad he had you as a friend to talk to.  I’m not much of a sympathetic listener, lost that art years ago.  I’m just saying how lucky Harold is to find a person he could talk to and be comfortable with.  I’m not suggesting anything.  Let’s change the subject, okay?

    “I’m just happy that he found the position he was looking for and was hired. I certainly wouldn’t have hired him.  No, he isn’t doing this because we're in need of money.  Financially, we’re in great shape but thanks for asking.  I’m sorry about yesterday but I couldn’t bring myself to meet everybody and say goodbye because it would just tear me apart.  Besides, Harold has already gone ahead, so somebody had to be here to answer the door for the moving people.  Oh, yes, he left last week.  Are you surprised? Should he have said something to you?  Oh, never mind, I’ll miss our weekly get-togethers too, and I’ll miss you, especially.  Give the rest of the girls my best and tell them not to gossip too much about me when I’m gone. 

     "Oh, Gladys, I was just teasing.  I know you didn’t say anything to the others, but if you’ve been married as many times as I have, you’d expect a little gossiping.  It doesn’t bother me; I’ve been through it so often. Yes, believe it or not, we’ve known each other for over two years.  I know, I know, it seems like a lifetime. Now, stop it, or I’m going to cry.  We’ll keep in touch, don’t you worry.  I’ll write as soon as we get settled, okay? I promise.  And we’ll visit…wouldn’t that be nice? All right, I have to go now; you take care of yourself, goodbye, bye.” And she press down on the disconnect button.

     She paused, looking down at the receiver as it lay there on the palm of her hand.  She thought to herself, she would never hear that voice again. The doorbell chimed. The movers were here. 

     

 



 

Paper Money.

 

                                                 Paper Money

     We have the rare opportunity to interview J. P. Morgan who was just recently admitted to heaven after serving 910,656 hours, 36 minutes, and 43 seconds in purgatory.  There he is, on cloud number nine.  Let us approach him.  Excuse me, sir, but aren't you the famous financier and banker John Pierpont Morgan? 
    
     That I am, and how can I help you? Do you need a loan? 
    
      Well, no, I'm a reporter from the Heavenly Post and it's a requirement for all new-comers to be interviewed.
   
      Oh, I see, well then get on with it. 
     
      Yes sir.  One of the things my readers are interested in is what exactly is paper money?   And you are undoubtedly an expert on the subject,
    
      That I am.  Paper money has a very long history and is extremely complicated.  It came into being with the dawn of civilization when bartering became too inefficient for business.  Now, do you want the complicated explanation , the simple explanation, or the kindergarten version of the simple explanation? 
    
      Pretend you're explaining it to your kids. 
    
      The kindergarten version it is.  And do not look at my nose.  I am very sensitive to people staring at my nose.  I have Rosacea, a skin disease, and there is no cure for it.
    
      But you don't have Rosacea anymore.  You are in heaven, and any afflictions you might have had is now gone.
   
       Really?  I didn't know that.  Are there mirrors somewhere ....so that I can see for myself?
    
     Trust me, your nose is fine, so can we get back to the question, what is paper money?
    
      Oh, alright.  Paper money is a consensual agreement by the affected parties that this piece of paper, created by a third party, is of a set intrinsic value depending on its denomination and, unlike a promissory note, is transferrable, without title, within the parameters recognized by all the parties concerned. 
    
     And that is your kindergarten version of a simple explanation?
    
     Yes.  As I said before, money, in any form, is very complex.  Would it help your readers if I use an allagory?
    
     It would help.
   
     Suppose you see a ten dollar bill on the sidewalk.  Would you pick it up?
    
    Yes, I would.
    
     Why? After all, it is nothing but a small, rectangular, piece of paper, touched by countless germ bearing hands, trampled on, dirt bearing, and with no more intrinsic value than a soiled wet tissue, except that it is printed in green and has a portrait of a president on it.  So why are you picking it up?  You can't eat it or use it for the making of things.  Is it because you want to clean up the sidewalk and remove litter to keep the heavenly city clean?  Or is it that you are particularly fond of the color green, or is it the portrait of a president you find attractive?
    
     Of course not.  I'm picking it up because it's......money.
    
      No, you're picking it up because you have faith.  You have the  blind faith that when you go to a store or restaurant, people will take this really useless piece of paper in exchange for whatever.  This faith is based on an illusion that this form of money you're passing around is written by an omnipotent, God-like entity and that others will have the same faith, as you do, that this is a transferrable legal tender for all services or goods desired.  So to answer your question, paper money is basically nothing but faith.  But here is the caveat, a big one.  If a small percentage of people, for some reason, loses the slightest faith, then a domino effect takes place and paper money becomes...paper.
   
      Does that happen often, people losing faith?
    
     All the time.
    
     How?
    
     When the organized society that is printing the money gets into trouble and begins to print more.  Some smart guy, like me, will realize that there is much, much more paper currency floating around then there are goods.  Slowly, more and more people like me begin trading the paper money for goods.  Paper money begins to lose value until it reaches the point where it is redeemable for nothing, and people will see what paper money truly is: paper, and only good for writing notes, starting fires, or wiping bottoms. 
    
      Another question that my readers are interested in, and that is, how does one country buy goods from another country when their paper money is not the same?
   
      You want the kindergarten version of the simple explanation?
    
      Now you're being patronizing.
    
     I will use a parable. Tommy wants some marbles from Dick.  Dick agrees but want something in return.  Tommy has nothing, but promises that when he does he will.  To keep tract, they get themselves each a little black book.  Both mark in their little black book what had transpired, the date, and the agreed value of the marbles in terms of points.  Later, Tommy has some thing that Dick wants.  He gives it to Dick and Dick just cancel the points earned.  No money exchange hands.  Just numbers of points in each other's black book.  But eventually, one  will have a hellva lot more points than the other, and you call that an imbalance of trade.
   
     You mean like the United States and China?
   
      Yes.
    
     What if the imbalance of trade reaches such a point that Dick insists that all the points be balanced?
   
     Well, Tommy can do one of two things.  One, he can print more money which will undervalue the points that Dick has in his possession.  Two, he can do the expedient thing, but only if he is a lot stronger.
    
     And what is that?
    
     Make up some excuse to beat Dick up, then take away his black book.
    
     You mean....?
    
     Yes, have a really serious war.  Either way, Dick, or China, will lose out because Tommy owes so much to Dick.  So it is to Dick's, or China's, interest that Tommy, or the US, is in good economical health, and friendly so that he can pay back the points.  I know my explanation is muddy but it does cover the ground. 
    
     On behalf of the Heavenly Post, I want to thank you, Mr. J. P. Morgan for this enlightening interview.
    
     Anytime....say, do you know where I can find a mirror?

      
     
    
    
    
    
    
                                   
    

Star Bright

    

                                               Star Bright                                                               by leland choy

     One summer morning in Mexico a tourist, strolling through the outskirts of Cancun, came across some open aired, market stalls that usually lined the sidewalks of the poorer sections of town.  On the shelves in one particular stall were displayed little ceramic dishes decorated with tiny white stars painted against a dark background.  Those stars were dazzlingly bright and it bestowed on those humble dishes a touch of majesty that it would not have had otherwise.  The dishes were small, she picked one up, it fitted the palm of her gloved hand.  She thought they would make perfect gifts  to give to distant relatives. She purchased a dozen.  They were  incredibly cheap.

    
     While waiting for her purchases to be wrapped, she looked around the threadbare stall and noted how tired the old Indian shopkeeper was, and how the whole place smelled of mildew.  But these dishes were beautiful and would look handsome on any kitchen counter.  She was glad to be patronizing this elderly lady rather than those aggressively young, light skin,  salesgirls in the mall next to her hotel.  She didn’t even try to bargain with this sweet old Indian lady.  

     As she was about to leave, she caught sight of a small boy hunched down in the dark shadows of the stall.  The boy sat next to what she presumed to be a primitive furnace used for firing the clay dishes.  It made the interior of the stall oppressively hot.  She watched as he steadily painted the white enamel stars inside faintly chalked outlines marked on the raw clay.  He was intently focused, even while sweat dripped down his little nose.  A fly crawled up the little boy's thin arm and under his arm pit, but it didn’t seem to bother him.   The boy was now glancing furtively at her.  He couldn’t have been more than eleven.  “How old is he?”  Then, thinking this the epitome of rudeness, she turned and addresses the boy.  “How old are you?” she asked.

     “Oh, he cannot speak English,” the old lady interceded. “But he will be seventeen next month.  He is my grandson. I have taken care of him since his mother went away many years ago.”

    
      “Has he done anything other than these little white stars?” asked the tourist as she began to scan all the items displayed on the shelves.  All contained patterns of little white stars.
    
      “Oh yes, oh yes,” nodded the Indian lady.  “He is very good.  He has been painting since he was a little boy.  Come, I show you the beautiful work he has done.”  She shuffled forward with an old,  tattered binder and proudly opens it revealing pages of art work in plastic sleeves. 

     “But…these are all stars, rows and rows of little stars.  I thought you said he painted different things?”

    
      “They are different, Senora.  They are all of different colors!  See, there are red stars, green stars, and all of different sizes.”
    
      The bewildered tourist noted that the grandmother was not being facetious. “But don’t you think he should perhaps paint other things, like people, trees, a fruit now and then?”
    
      “Oh, but he would like to,” said the grandmother, softly.
    
      “Well then, in heaven’s name, why doesn’t he?” asked the tourist.

     The old lady hesitated and glanced over at the boy.  Then she said in a sad and breaking voice, “Because only his stars will sell.”

     The tourist, glancing at the purchases in her shopping bag, suddenly realized that she had just contributed to his dilemma.  She looked at the young man once more and, without saying another word, quickly walked away. 

             

         

Butterfies

  

 

Butterflies      

 

      Nearing the end of the Korean War, I was drafted into the infantry and because of my nationality, I was shipped to Germany.  The army felt that if  I was shipped to Korea instead, I might, in the heat of battle. have  easily been mistaken for the enemy and be shot.  It would have been no         great lost  except that the government would have had a difficult  time  explaining to my mother why I was killed by total strangers who were basically

 

               on our side.                                               

    
     While I was in Germany, I met Dietrich Plagmann, an ex-army corporal who served in Rommel's Afrika Korps.  He was taken prisoner in 1943 and shipped to England where he learned English. We bumped into each other during a beer festival and became good acquaintances (acquaintances you borrow money from, friends, you don't).  I liked him because he was foreign and spoke English with a heavy German accent.  He liked me because I was strange looking and spoke English with a heavy
                                                   
                                                     Cantonese accent.
    
     I was interested about his time spent fighting the British and his experiences as a prisoner of war.  He was interested in learning to speak American (it's not the same as English), getting a work visa, and coming to the U.S.  I couldn't get him to talk about his war experiences so, in turn, he was learning to speak American with a Cantonese accent.  We did have some  great times discussing politics.  Once, near the end of an evening of drinking, when we were slovenly inebriated, we began philosophizing about the causes of  the 2nd World War, and we ended up with      
                                                  
                                                     Adolf Hitler
                                                                  
                       
     Have you ever heard of the Chaos Theory? he asked.  I said, Isn't that the one that says does the flap of a butterfly's wing in Brazil set off a tornado in Texas?  You are well informed, he said, and did you know that Hitler wanted a career in the visual arts and that he fought with his father over this?  I didn't know that, I said, but I am interested because I, myself, plan for a career in the visual arts when I leave the service.  Small world, he said, and did you know that he failed to get into the Vienna Academy of Arts not once but twice?   Imagine that,                 
                                                   
                                                     I replied. 

      He took a large swallow of beer and said, the examining board looked at his drawings which were mostly buildings and landscapes, and some idiot on the panel decided there wasn't enough people in the drawings, which might indicate that he couldn't draw people.  But the joke was that Hitler had no problem drawing people.  There was a rumor that one member on the panel, an idiot in my book, spilled hot coffee on himself and had to go change his pants.  By the time he arrived late to the examining room, he was angry at himself and at anyone who looked funny.  He took one look at Hitler and blackballed him because he felt like it.  You know the kind.  Yes, I said,                                
                                                
                                                   I know the kind.
                                                
     He continue to drink beer as if I was paying for it and said,...supposing that panel member did not spilled hot coffee on his pants, maybe his grasp was right on the mark?  Maybe he did not have to change his pants?  Ya, now, supposing he drank his coffee instead and felt much better and was in a cheerful mood when he walked into that examining room?  Would he not received Hitler's drawings, crude though they may be, and accepted him into the Vienna Academy of Arts?  Hitler would have graduated, received his degree, and gone on to became a professional visual artist.  He would have met a nice quiet fellow student who would remind him of his mother and married her and have children. 
    
      When the first World War broke out, the Wehrmacht would have assigned him to the propaganda ministry because he had a degree in the visual arts and he would have ended up making visual charts and posters for the military.  He would have never seen action, and when the war was over, he would have come home to his wife and children, teach art at the Academy from which he came, and lived a quiet and productive life.  But because of that eine tasse kafee, he became a monster causing millions of deaths and untold sadness.  So would you not say that a mere cup of coffee, being just a few millimeters off kilter and thereby causing it to tip over easily by the passing of a hand, be responsible for
                                                 
                                                      the Second World War?

      You are joking, I said, and he asked, How am I joking?  Because, I said, Flapping wings of butterflies will not make tornados in Brazil.  A spilled  cup of coffee will not stop countries from beating up on each other.  You can just as well say that Hitler could have gotten the Spanish Flu and died because he was stupid enough to be in a place where a sick person had coughed and sneezed a few minutes earlier, or that he turned at the very second a bullet whizzed by and, instead of missing him, blew his head off, and so on.  I believe that the butterfly story is not a good example of the Chaos Theory, and you read into it               
                                                          
                                                     wrong.      
                                                  
     Of course, he wasn't listening.  Eric had already passed out and had his head leaning on his shoulder with his mouth open and snoring.  I left him sitting on the bar stool, and on the way out, I told the bartender that Mr. Plagmann would settle the bill.  It wasn't much, just a few marks.  But, you know, that was the best beer I have ever                             \
                                                
                                                      tasted.
                                                       

                              

A Face in the Distance

 
                                             A Face in the Distance
        
         Many, many, many years ago, I read "The Machine Stops", a short  story written by E.M.Forster in 1909.  It was about a man living in a future world that was controlled by the "Machine" and this Machine gave the  people everything they could ever want.  It also gave them means to communicate with one another without having to leave their safe and secure domicile.  This man wanted to speak to his mother who lived a great distance away.  To converse with another person at that time, one used the electronic devices provided for by the Machine.  But he was tired of  talking into gadgets and seeing his mother's face on a screen.  He wanted to meet her in person.

       But there was a problem: his mother saw no reason to leave her comfortable apartment to talk with her son when they could just as well  talk through the devices that the Machine has provided.  Yet, the man saw the continual absence of her physical presence would amount to a form of estrangement.  He felt their humanity slowly being eaten away.  And no one, no one except himself, seemed to care.

     There were other themes in the story but the one that stayed with me was the subtle suggestion that there is danger in relying solely on the use of machines to provide for all means of existence.  Forster also illustrated, in his short story, that there is danger to humanity from not having personal contacts with one another.  The story ended with the tragic consequences of having trusted the machines.

       A remarkable thing was that he wrote this short story 106 years ago,  where he writes about devices similar to ours that connects people to each other without having to be in the same room, which would necessitate  being within talking distant and breathing in one another's scent (we do have a scent and we do unconsciously react on it like other wild animals). I would recommend everybody to read it.

       I do not agree that having a conversation without your warm body being present is dangerous.  I see young people in groups, strolling along the mall, being euphorically oblivious to each other while tapping or talking into a small, hand held instruments.  It's amazing how much they have to say to people far, far away while ignoring the one already there, but I see happiness in their faces.  I also see that there is absolutely no danger to the person other than stepping accidently into pot holes because one isn't looking.

     Speaking as a very, very shy person (which I am), these new ways of  communicating without confronting each other's awkwardness, or having to have eye contact, or having to check one's appearance (seeing that there are no coffee stains on the clothing, spinach on the teeth), or checking one's breath with a cupped palm, is just too much of a blessing. 

      A good example is funerals.  I'm not good at funerals.  I say inappropriate things.  Like when I address the bereaved person in the greeting line and, by my nature, crack a joke...to lighten things up, and am met with scowling faces, great, great disapproval, and disproportionate blows to the head.  Now with our modern E-mail, facebook, I-phones and other telecommunication devices, I can just text my condolences and, most important of all, being able to edit the damn thing so I don't have another embarrassing faux pas,.  That's all I have to say.  Thank you.

       
    

The Attributes of Heaven and Hell

                                           Heaven and Hell

                     (The second part of an Interview with Mrs. God)

       Let me begin by asking, is there really a heaven... or even a hell? 

      "CERTAINLY THERE IS A HEAVEN.  THERE SHOULD BE COMPENSATIONS FOR PEOPLE WHO HAVE FOLLOWED HIS PRECEPTS, AND I THOUGHT HEAVEN WOULD DO NICELY." 

       If there is a heaven, then I presume there is a hell? 

       NO, NO, THERE IS NO HELL.  HELL IS ONLY A THREAT TO KEEP PEOPLE IN LINE.   ...ALTHOUGH FOR MANY, IT DOESN'T SEEM TO DO ANY GOOD.  THERE IS NO PUNISHMENT, ONLY REWARDS."
    

       Then where is the punishment for those who commit horrific crimes against humanity?

       "OH, YOU MEAN PEOPLE LIKE CALIGULA, GENGHIS KHAN, ADOLF HITLER, THAT SORT OF PEOPLE?" 

       Yes, that sort of people.

      "WELL, IF WE LOWER THEM SLOWLY INTO BOILING WATER AND THEY SCREAM FOR ALL ETERNITY, WOULDN'T WE BE AS SADISTIC AS THEY, AND WOULD THAT REALLY CHANGE ANYTHING?  WHEN SUCH EVIL PEOPLE DIE, THERE WILL BE NO HEAVEN FOR THEM.  AT THEIR DEATH, THEY WILL JUST CEASE TO EXIST, AND THAT WOULD BE HORRIBLE ENOUGH.  THE HELL YOU'RE THINKING OF EXIST ONLY ON EARTH,  CREATED BY PEOPLE WITH FREE WILL.  NOW, THOSE DOING THEIR BEST TO FOLLOW GOD'S EDICTS WILL GO TO HEAVEN."  
   
      What do you mean by doing their best? 

      "NOTHING IS PERFECT, NOT EVEN US GODS.  WE UNDERSTAND THE DIFFICULTY IN BEING HUMAN SO THE TERMS FOR ENTERING HEAVEN IS QUITE LIBERAL.  IN OTHER WORDS, IF YOU HAD EVERY INTENTION OF BEING A GOOD PERSON, THEN YOU'RE IN." 

       My god, if I knew that, I could have had so much more fun with my life! 

      "YES, YOU COULD HAVE...."
    
       Okay, my next question... what is heaven like? We go off into the sunset and play golf for all eternity? And suppose I met my mother in heaven and I'm a lot older, wouldn't there be a problem?  And supposing my spouse dies and I grow very much older before I pass on?  What happens when we meet again?  We would have nothing in common. 

       "YOU HAVE A MISTAKEN NOTION OF WHAT HEAVEN IS LIKE. IT IS BEYOND DESCRIPTION IT HAS NEITHER TIME NOR SPACE.  YOUR MOTHER WILL ALWAYS APPEAR TO YOU AS YOUR MOTHER AND YOU WILL ALWAYS APPEAR TO HER AS THE CHILD SHE LOVES.  SAME GOES FOR ALL YOUR RELATIONSHIPS.  YOU WILL ALWAYS APPEAR TO OTHERS IN THE BEST STAGE OF YOUR LIFE AND VICE VERSA.  IT IS A SIMPLE MATTER FOR US TO ARRANGE.  YOU WILL ALWAYS APPEAR AS A FATHER TO YOUR SON AND AS A SON TO YOUR FATHER, AND SO ON."
      AS FAR AS GLOWING SUNSETS, AND PLAYING GOLF, IT'S ACCORDING TO WHERE YOU WANT TO BE AND   WHAT YOU WANT TO DO.  THE DIMENSON OF TIME DOES NOT EXIST.  THERE IS NO TIME.  IT WILL ALWAYS BE WHAT IT WILL ALWAYS BE, AND I HOPE YOU CAN GRASP THAT CONCEPT.....WHICH I DOUBT." 

      You mean I can be where I want to be, with whom ever I want, and at any time I choose? 

      "THAT'S WHAT HEAVEN IS ALL ABOUT."  
    
       There is one thing I'm curious about.  Of the many emissaries that you sent down to earth,  Which do both of you favor the most? 

       "LIKE ALL PARENTS, WE FAVOR ALL OUR CHILDREN, SOME MORE THAN OTHERS, AND THAT IS ALL I WILL SAY."

       Okay, here's my last question.

      "YOU HAVE ANOTHER QUESTION?  MAKE IT QUICK, I HAVE TO LEAVE."

       I'm beginning to understand....both of you are just a part of One and therefore You are God, period.

       "NOW YOU'RE GETTING IT." 

       My question is...do you have a boss?  I mean is there someone above you?"

        HOW QUAINT, HOW UTTERLY  PROVINCIAL TO ASK SUCH A QUESTION.  YOUR IMAGINATION IS EARTH BOUND SO YOU CAN'T POSSIBLY THINK OUT OF THAT CONCRETE BOX OF YOURS.  IN YOUR VERY, VERY  LIMITED INTELLIGENCE, YOU CAN NEVER  GRASP THE COMPLEXITY OF US" 

       Well, I can try.

       "REALLY?  WELL DON'T....WE ARE A FORCE UNTO OURSELVES!  SOME THINGS YOU WILL NEVER COMPREHEND."  NOW I MUST GO." 

       I really don't know what to say, except on behalf of all humanity, thank you for speaking to us, and for giving us the time of day.  Thank you again. 

       "YOU'RE WELCOME."