Rice Bowls begin

Rice Bowls

It was Oak Street in Aberdeen, then it wasn’t. It was Twelve Avenue in Seattle, then it wasn’t. It was Ferry Street in Eugene, Oregon, then it wasn’t, etc. None of these places and more where I had lived, they were not my neighborhood, my home. I was less than a guest.

In Toishan the sun was brighter, the rain wetter, and the breeze more welcome. I was born there in a village in some southern part of China’s Guangdong Province. Big Brother Mao was chairman. He oversaw 600 million people, most of them like me and grandma, my uncles, aunts, and cousins. We were peasants.

Wallace Stevens walked to and from work at Hartford Insurance where he was vice-president. He had diabetes and he needed the walk. While walking, he composed poems in his head.

In the village called Nan On or Southern Peace, I did not know what poetry was but I saw the blazing sun on the guava trees, the dogs running in the village yards,  and men and women arcing in paddies planting rice.

Thomas Mann wrote exactly one page before breakfast.

I watered grandmother’s gardens twice a day. These are the “wet” gardens aligned next to the village pond. I dip a spout into the water and I sprinkle it on rows of vegetables. I don’t know how long this arrangement had been in place. Some things were practiced for centuries such as arranged marriages. I saw such a marriage in the next village. A bridal sedan brought the bride. It must have been thrilling for the bride as a musical troupe accompanied her to the groom’s village. I have been told that my parents were married this way at age sixteen.