My mom had some classic expressions when she was angry. One of my favorites was "You're making enough noise to wake up the dead." Gertrude Millman had to deal with three boys at home, a job well below her considerable abilities and a husband who didn't always pull his weight around the house. Mom would have had a field day with the funerals in Vietnam and the kids in our neighborhood, who are real screamers.
Another person on our street died, a nice old lady who had a store that I would sometimes visit to buy tea or chocolate. She succumbed rather quickly to cancer, and her death set off three days of music, song, karaoke-like tributes and so on. I respect the woman, her family and their faith, but the funeral proceedings were so loud that even though everything was happening more than 100 yards away, it sounded like it was in our living room downstairs. I thought of my mom, who died very quietly a little more than 11 years ago. I miss my mom.
Mom wasn't really named Gertrude at birth. It was Joanna, according to my dad, but since she was Ukrainian, folks at the hospital somehow screwed it up and turned Joanna into Gertrude. I think I'm reminiscing about this because my daughter Joanna turned one (1), and when she smiles or focuses on something, she looks very, very much like my mom. If she has my mom's determination and generous nature, she'll be well-served in life. Joanna shows signs of these traits already when she relentlessly climbs couches, chairs, tables, counters and motorbikes, and when she always offers Phuong and I some of her breakfast, lunch and dinner. Adorable kid.
Another reason I'm writing about this stuff is that I've returned to San Luis Obispo, Calif., to try to assist my older brother, who's in very poor health physically and mentally. He fell and fractured his arm and isn't doing well at all. The situation is upsetting, but is making me reflect on family and my uncomfortable childhood. I'd rather not think back, but it's the nature of what's happening now. When I say "family", I'm not referring to my first wife and children -- all wonderful people. The only uncomfortable memories of those times were when I behaved something like my dad. Funny thing about the past ... you can't change it. Perhaps you can learn from it, but that's so much easier said than done. Dad wasn't evil and had a good heart, but in my view now he needed a stronger commitment to family. Enough of this.
My tennis shenanigans continue. I was having a pedestrian match with a nice neighbor when the lady who manages the court decided to burn some trash, including ubiquitous Vietnamese plastic and rubber bands. My opponent initially took the brunt of the smoke, coughing and tearing up. I brilliantly rallied and won a couple of games. Then we switched sides and my fortunes changed. I choked, literally and symbolically, eventually losing the set 6-4. The woman apologized, but had no intention of offering a discount or reimbursing us. Typical. I played another neighbor a week later and for the first time in my stellar tennis career, I lost a game during the changeover. Somehow 2-3 became 2-4. I ended up losing the set, 3-6, after 11 hard-fought games. This guy also used the innovative and controversial Bulgarian-Vietnamese scoring system where the score could begin 30-15 on the deuce court or 40-all in the ad court.
Speaking of burning plastic, our neighbors burned their paper and plastic trash to honor the deceased lady down the street. And while I did tai chi in the park near our house, some guys who live on the street in hammocks near the park burned their trash. My chi went up in smoke.
My trip to San Luis Obispo included a stopover in Shanghai, China. Not a pleasant experience. I waited in a long, slow-moving line at immigration and when I got to the uniformed official, she said I needed to fill out an arrival form. First I heard of it. I got back in line after filling out the form. Back to the official, who asks for my visa. I say it's a five-hour layover, not a visit. Oh no, she says. I'm surrounded by three officials. Finally, one says I can go and get my luggage -- China doesn't transfer luggage on connecting flights to other countries. I get the luggage, and while I'm getting an e-ticket at a kiosk the uniformed girl at the computer says I can't have the transfer ticket/sticker to LAX on my bag when I re-check it in. She rips it off. I finally get to the counter, and the uniformed official asks me where my transfer sticker/ticket is. He says this is a big problem. I point to the little Ripper who took my transfer sticker/ticket off the bag. More officials, more discussions, and I can finally go. But as I go through security, I'm told I need a departure form. Over to the counter and back in line I go. I got to the departure gate after 3 hours, 42 minutes. Oddly, the folks were all nice when I made second pass though the gates. Our departure gate changed three times and I barely made the flight. But everyone has horrid travel stories. Just sharing mine.
Miss my wife Phuong and baby Joanna. Love ya' both and see ya' soon enough. Can't wait. Joanna kisses my image on Skype. Love my kids in the U.S. Love ya' mom.
