My Life As A Chinese Opera Star

 In 1982 my husband Jan and I were back in South Florida after spending the previous three years in the Dominican Republic, where he was head of Caribbean operations for Colonial Corporation, a garment manufacturing firm, and I was an expat wife, playing bridge, driving a Honda motorbike, learning pottery and trying to get pregnant.  When I got tired of taking my temperature, we decided we weren't going to have any children (we'd been married 8 years at that point) and I threw out the thermometer and graph paper.  As you might expect, several months later I felt "odd" and sure enough, I was pregnant.  But morning sickness turned into all day sickness, which turned into very low blood pressure and I found myself in the local hospital in La Romana, where the only scientific words I could use to describe my condition in Spanish were "pee-pee and poo-poo".  Nope.  Not going to have a baby in this circumstance.

Jan was a valued employee and was transferred to head the Miami shipping operation and we bought a townhouse in Davie, a suburb of Ft. Lauderdale.  So our happy little family enjoyed the South Florida sunshine for about two and half years with our little boy until one day . . . 

"Mac Howard in Taipei is having heart issues and wants to come back." "Oh?"  "So what do you think?"  "No."  The look on his face was crestfallen.  "You really want to go, huh?"  No answer  

So, in October of 1985, all our possessions were either packed up or put in storage, the townhouse was rented and we stayed in the Taipei Sheraton until the Howards returned to the States.  One evening in that room there was a strange noise as if the building itself was talking.  And then things started shaking.  "What's that", Jan said.  "That" I replied "is an earthquake".  I never got used to earthquakes.  As a matter of fact, sometimes I'd have that kind of rolling floor feeling, like being on a ship and have to check the chandelier in the dining room to see if it was swinging.  Sometimes it was, sometimes it wasn't.

My mother decided to pay us a visit  Luckily, were were due to leave the country for Hong Kong.  At that time neither myself nor Jordan were able to obtain residency visas, so we had to leave for at least 24 hours every three months.  While we were gone, there was a 4.6 earthquake and we returned to an apartment where all the doors were shut, the heavy glass chandelier was smashed on the sides where it had hit the ceiling, there were cracks in the walls and scratches where hanging pictures had swung from side to side.  My friend, Emmie Lui, who had a little boy Jonathan, just Jordan's age, moved out not long after.  She said it was too terrifying.

Our son Jordan, who was 3 years old, was ready for preschool, but Montessori required children be potty trained.  He got to visit the school and that's all it took for him to immediatelt be willing and able to consistently use the toilet.  The little bus picked him and Jonathan up every morning.

Jan was frequently gone as his job required travel over the whole region and especially China to source fabric.  Samples would be sent to the Taipei office where they were washed and analyzed to see if they met U.S. standards.  

So what was I to do?  I was completely illiterate, so language lessons were begun.  Happily, Jordan picked up the language much faster than me, and I could occasionally use him to translate.  

The American military had had a large presence in Taiwan after WWII and when they left, their officers club became the Taipei-American Club and within that was organized the Taipei-American Women's Club.  You had to speak English to join and their mission was to provide social welfare.  At that time, the government didn't have the ability to do much for the poor, so this group of women, many of whom were locals, raised money to buy and donate ambulances.  Thus, this group charged dues and put on events to attract other people of means who would buy tables, etc. and so funds were raised.  After about a year, I became the membership chair.  I had so many experiences: rolling bandages at a local hospital, finding my way around the city (with help) to get the membership booklet printed, making friends and getting help from other Taiwanese women. 

I found I had more in common with the local women than the expats who, in my opinion, thought rather a lot of themselves because of their husbands positions.  I never forgot that back home I'd never be able to afford to live on the 18th floor of a building that was modeled on 5th Avenue, or have a houseman, a laundress 

 or a nanny for Jordan.  

The company paid for everything.  The only expenses we had were food, and gas for the car.  It was quite the privileged life. 

My time as an opera "star" was for one of our fund raisers.  How and why I agreed to this is beyond me as I was quite shy, but perhaps also a good sport.  We did a piece from what I learned is a famous Taiwanese movie based on an opera.  I played the role of an unscrupulous emperor (aren't they all?) who sees a young maiden in the countryside and decides he wants to have her.  Opposed to this idea is her brother.

I remember the stage fright I felt immediately before going on, but strode confidently on stage, toes pointed out, removed the large red fan from my belt and opened it with a flourish.  And the crowd went wild.  Really.  The laughing and clapping are still in my memory.  They had to quiet down as the music was taped and just kept playing as we lip-synced our parts.  After we finished there was more laughing and clapping and we stayed on stage to have our pictures taken.

What I learned somewhat later is how accomplished in their own right many of these women were.  The woman who took me to the costumer for the outfit and taught me the movements and words? A famous local choreographer.  The woman who organized a flag-bearing official motorcade trip to local hospitals where our ambulances were in use?  The wife of the secretary to the vice-president of the country.  The woman who invited me to the bandage rolling group and who whisked me and Jordan into a clinic to see a doctor when Jordan decided he should shove several salted peanuts up his nose and couldn't get the out?  The wife of the owner of the clinic.

And Pony Hsu (so glad I wrote down her name) who was so sweet and adorable?  Her family owned the largest canned food company in Taiwan.  These were rich, powerful and accomplished women.  

I had no idea, so I was simply myself.  

You may or may not know that the U.S. does not have formal governmental ties with Taiwan - so no ambassador, because of China's One China policy and our desire not to instigate WWIII.  But we do have the American Institute in Taiwan, which opened in 1979 and is wholly owned by the U.S. Government.  When we were there, the Counsel was Mr. Dean.  I was privileged to have dinner with him and his wife - although I have no memory of why, and his wife was in the audience for my performance.  I have tremendous affection for this country and sincerely hope any war with China will be avoided.

Mother of the Groom

You, Jordan Lee Roher, are the apple of my eye, as you know quite well.  You are my only child, and a boy - the name and genetic heritage continues.  In Judaism, boys take pride of place.  Not as much as in previous generations, but still ...  Along with this antiquated thinking, I'm also a subscriber to the saying, "A son's a son till he takes a wife, but a daughter's a daughter the rest of her life".  I heard that often enough from my own mother and came to believe in the truth of it.  So, when you went off to college, I prepared myself for your eventual emotional leave-taking.

Another thing you know as well as anything, is how much I wanted a grandchild.  Marriage?  Yes, that's nice, but really anything will do as long as a child comes of it.  This horrifies you.  I'm joking, joking ... maybe. 

Fast forward four years of college.  Girlfriends?  I know of none.  I was heartened to learn that one purpose of your computer gaming club renting out the university movie theater and sponsoring a "Dance, Dance Revolution" competition was to meet girls. Progress?  Then you went to work in Tallahassee for a number of years.  Then you up and move to Seattle.  Relationships?  I hear of none.  My own mother might scoff at my angst, as what I did to her was perhaps worse.  I married soon after college graduation and then we waited 10 years, on purpose, before getting pregnant.  Poor mom.

In any event, one day while I was at work you called.  "Hi Mom."  "Is everything okay?"  "Yes.  I wanted to let you know that I met someone."  My heart leaps into my throat.  "Really?  And how do you feel?"  "I'm head over heels!"  This is, I hope, the beginning of exactly what I want, and a mere 11 years after you left college.  Patience is a virtue, but now both you and Lily are well into your 30's.  Not much time to lose.  Clock's ticking.  You take a year to get to know each other and then propose on the Seattle ferris wheel with a plastic ring in the shape of a cat in honor of her cat Tater, to which you are violently allergic, and start a series of weekly allergy shots - I knew it was love then. 

 

I had all my and my mother's diamonds but rarely wear jewelry, so it gave me great pleasure to give them to you, which enabled Lily to have some of them reworked into an engagement ring - almost the same thing I got from my mother.

Now it's time to prepare for the wedding.  My favorite story is Lily's mother, Laura's, reaction to one of the possible wedding venues.  As I recall it was a palace of black lacquer, red velvet and leopard print.  A genuine bordello in appearance.  Laura is taken aback and horrified.  Lily is none too happy and quite aware of her mother's reaction, while you, oblivious, have a number of nice things to say about the place.  I see this in my mind and it brings quite the smile.  

As mother of the groom and a widow, I have some specific duties: offer to pay for whatever you want (within my budget), provide the rehearsal dinner and make a speech at that dinner.  Oh dear.  A speech.  That speech takes up a good deal of my time, attention and preparation.  While I'm satisfied with it once it's completed, I find that I cannot, no matter how hard I try, say it without bursting into tears.  This will not do.  It'll make everyone uncomfortable including me.  But I come up with a solution that worked like a charm!  Before each paragraph, I penciled in something very inappropriate from the cartoon show South Park.  I would look at that, laugh to myself and then was able to say my speech without blubbering.  

I wasn't as prepared the next day however, when I saw Lily in her beautiful wedding gown.  Instant tears.  I know this about myself and am not too bothered when it happens.

                                                           What I remember from the wedding itself: your future nephew Henry (age 3?), crying and refusing to walk down the aisle, and Dan, his father, picking him up and carrying him while distributing the flower petals, the officiant (a woman whose name I don't remember) having the rings tied with a red ribbon passed around the room for everyone to bless and doing a lovely ceremony, eating the salmon and thinking how delicious it was and watching you and Lily dance.                                          

I also remember a moment when your tie needed straightening.  I stepped forward, but then caught myself, stepped back and let Lily take over.  She is now the person attending to your needs.  The son has taken a wife.

The place itself provided bragging rights for me for quite some time.  You're married in The Explorer's Club in Seattle in the most impressive room I've ever seen.  Everyone I showed it to - and that would be pretty much everyone I know - was in awe.  It was super gorgeous.  I still love the picture!

Your story goes forward, but it doesn't involve your wedding and it deserves more than one entry.  So ... to be continued.

Meeting Daddy

 

By some amazing quirk of fate, I got to attend the University of Miami.  What a revelation in warmth for a girl who had grown up freezing in Duluth, Minnesota.  My parents always vacationed on Miami beach and when I was old enough to take several weeks of schoolwork with me, I was taken along - otherwise I had to stay home and Grandma looked after me.  As a point of reference, their motel of choice was the Waikiki, where we had a small dark room, which is only memorable because when I got a horrible sunburn I had to spend a good bit of time inside. 

In 1967 I graduated high school, my parents sold their pharmacy to the assistant pharmacist, Don Pasek, and we moved to Hollywood, Florida.  I have no memory of the actual move, but I can clearly see my dorm room and roommate - Arden Hetson from Teaneck, NJ.  No idea what became of her.  

In retrospect, the room, in a boys and girls tower, was similar in some ways to a double prison cell.  A brand new prison cell.  The cinderblock walls were painted brownish-grey with heavy duty grey vinyl accordion closet doors on each side as you entered, built in four drawer dressers, and built in desks with shelves, all covered in dark brown formica.  Fitting neatly beyond were two extra-long grey vinyl mattresses on metal platforms.  The only outside light came from a single window between the beds with horizontal metal shutters that closed completely with a lever making the place an impenetrable hurricane fortress.  Today I would be horrified.  Then, I was enchanted.  Freedom.  Adulthood.  The height of luxury!

Because I was six months older than your father, I was a year ahead of him in school.  My freshman year was quite the learning experience: learning about pantie raids, learning that you should actually pay close attention in class or you'll be quite surprised when you walk into Intro to Religion to a test, that you fail and, the one I wanted to learn most, learning to smoke cigarettes.  I was the height of sophistication - in my own mind.  

For some reason, when it came time to register for classes - at the library - with paper slips, some of the classes I needed were filled.  I wound up taking some sophomore level classes my first year and then taking the freshman classes the following year.  So Daddy and I wound up in Econ 102 (macro-economics  I think) together.   As this was a required course, it was given in one of the larger amphitheater rooms.  Blue plush chairs with pull down seats and desks that folded up and over.  Nice.  Turns out I really enjoy the "dismal science," which makes some sense as I was studying to be a high school history teacher.  As I enjoyed the class, I paid little to no attention to my classmates, even the guy who sat behind me to my right and asked to borrow my notes on at least two occasions.  What he looked like and his name were a mystery I didn't feel the need to solve.

He, on the other hand as he told it, was smitten; although the time I decided to put my hair in pig-tails was quite a personal challenge for him.  Nevertheless, he persevered.  The days and weeks passed and his courage failed him.  I didn't seem interested in his academic to personal attempts at contact.  Finally, it was the day of the final exam.  It was now or never.  His plan was to finish and wait for me outside.  Unaware, I finished, handed in my paper and went immediately to the bookstore to quit lugging around this three pound tome and get some money back.  The sell back book window always had a line a mile long.  Not today.  I was the only one.  I should have been out of there in less than 5 minutes, but that's not how fate planned it.  Because there was no one outside, whoever should have been inside was busy with other things.  I waited and waited and waited.

Eventually, I noticed this guy very purposefully walking  toward me.  "He's going to ask me out" I said to myself "how flattering".  Sure enough, that's exactly what happened.  

The date was for dinner that night .  He had a friend he could visit who lived in the boy's tower, so he walked me back to the lobby and we went our segregated ways.  At the appointed time, I met him downstairs and now we had to walk to the parking lot.  He lived off campus so parking wasn't convenient to the dorm.  Being as shallow as I was and perhaps still am - hopefully not THAT much - I asked which car, in a fairly empty lot, was his.  "The green one".  "Yikes", said my brain.  The broken down green thing with peeling paint was not what I envisioned for Miss Princess.  "Oh, that one?" I asked in as nonchalant a voice as I could muster.  "No, the one on the other side."  And what to my wondering eye should appear, but an extremely snazzy, late model green Corvette.  Wowsers!

Turned out his father ( of course ) was something of a Corvette enthusiast who sometimes had one more car than people who drove, and Jan, probably having this date in mind some days before, had borrowed it  hoping to impress me I assume.  Worked like a charm.

I remember that night pretty clearly.  Dinner at Shoney's Bar-B-Q, which burned down some years later, a Corvette Club meeting, which I found quite boring and may have been the only one he ever went to, and a kiss.  I also learned he was Jewish, quite the plus if things got serious.  I knew I liked this guy.  I learned later that after walking me back he went to see his friend confessing he thought he'd found the one.

And 5 years later we were married.  And nine years after that you made your appearance.  And that's another story for another time.

Oh no, the bunny!

 Oh no, the bunny!

Originally written June 13, 2021.

Much time has passed.  Now I’m retired to a little house on a pond close to Mt. Dora.  Even though this spot isn’t rural, it is very quiet and there’s lots of wildlife.  As a matter of fact, last night at dusk as I sat on the couch looking over the pond, the little brown bunny who lives perhaps under the shed, sniffled its way carefully under the bushes toward Jerry’s house.  Roman, one of my twin almost two-year old grandsons, is a big fan of bunnies. 

The next morning I did my new morning routine of taking coffee and a book to the front porch to enjoy the air and the sights and sounds.  But what’s that in the bend in the road, right where my property touches Richard’s?   A bunch of black vultures are clustered around what I assume must be a dead animal.  Oh no!  The little bunny.  It must be the little brown bunny.  I can’t tell but there’s definitely a lump of something there.  Then I see Richard looking at this group and taking pictures or a video.  

What should I do?  What can I do?  This is nature after all and vultures are supposed to scavenge dead animals.  I feel so sad but vultures have a right to exist even if they are, well, you know. 

But then as the vultures peck at the carcass, I see it has a long skinny tail.  Wait a minute!  That can’t be the bunny. What is it?  As I keep watching I realize it’s an armadillo.  In a flash all my heartbreak over the poor dead bunny is gone completely.  Armadillos dig under foundations and are a royal pain.  Now I’m rooting for the vultures.  

But this is not the end of the story.  The next morning the vultures, during their pecking and fighting have moved the dead armadillo from the road into the grass directly opposite the spot where I read and have coffee every morning.  Well this is pretty uncomfortable while also being rather interesting.  I now know that the sounds vultures make is rather like the light woofing you hear from dogs when they’re curiously investigating something.   I also know that a vulture on the roof sounds like a person walking around up there.  That was momentarily rather scary until I figured the cause.  

Later that day I made a trip to the drugstore but on my return realized that those vultures have now moved the carcass onto my lawn.  No no, now there’s a problem.  It was interesting when it was over there.  It’s gotta go now that it’s over here.  What to do?

My first thought is to get a sturdy rake and a garbage bag, but while it’s my first thought, it’s my least appealing option.   Can I get someone else to handle this?  Do my tax dollars pay for armadillo removal?  Who might handle this?  My first call is to animal control.  They’d be happy to come and pick up a dead pet so they can scan it for a chip.  But a wild animal?  ‘Fraid not.  They suggest calling the city utility department.  That’s a thought.  Sanitation workers?  Maybe.  Another, “sorry no” but they recommend Florida Fish and Wildlife.  Okay, make the call, another no.  Dead end.

Coincidentally, just as I hang up there’s a knock at the door.  It’s the monthly lawn pest control guy here to introduce himself as he’s new and we’ve never met.  I walk outside with him and mention the armadillo/vulture issue continuing “over there”.  He launches into a speech about the importance of buzzards.  While I’m quite aware of and appreciate these sanitation workers of the wild, I’m much less enamored when they’re doing the work up close and personal. 

“Would I like him to move the armadillo?”   Yes please.  Yes I have a shovel.  He puts on a mask, takes the shovel, picks up the very stiff creature, walks it across the street up the embankment and heaves it a good way over the bushes onto the former sod farm.  Then he even graciously uses the water spigot on his truck to wash off the shovel.  My hero!

So it’s an “all’s well that ends well” episode.  But it brings to mind my skeptical thought on coincidences.  I think they’re just that.  Coincidence.  This one sure was lucky for me.  I’m still a skeptic but maybe just a little more open to alternate ways the universe might be working.  Maybe.  

But wait, there's more to be learned from this story.  A word that's come to the fore in the past year is "woke".  I looked up its meaning and it harkens me back to the 1970's when, as a women, I got involved in the women's movement.  In those days learning to look at the way things are with a different mindset was called consciousness raising.   Now, as I think about my feelings about the bunny (pure, innocent, Peter, the white rabbit who was late for an important date), my obvious antipathy toward the armadillo which has generally a poor reputation here in Florida, sticks out as a prejudice.   I accepted that as normal and okay when I originally wrote this piece.  Now, I have the same prejudice - but I'm at least aware and I could soften my heart just a little bit towards this armadillo.  I guess that's progress.

Library Books

I'm sure just about everyone has been to the library and taken out books.  Me too.  But I seem to have a little problem; not with taking out the books, but with bringing them back.  Yes, I know, all I have to do is call the library and renew the books.  Sounds easy, doesn't it?  And it is, unless you don't.  And I don't. Then there are fines to be paid, and of course the guilt.  

Luckily, the library also sells books.  And they sell them at a price that even I think is too low.  That's a shocker, huh?  How would you feel about buying 4 wonderful books for $1.  Yes, that's the going rate at the Davie/Cooper City Branch.  So, I buy as many books as I can find and when I'm done I simply bring them back and buy more.  It's much cheaper than the fines and I can take as much time as I wish with each one.  Plus, I'm supporting the library instead of being charged for my crime.

The other good thing about buying them is that I can choose only the size I want.  I don't care for hardcovers, too difficult to hold.  You certainly can't hold a large one with one hand while you sip coffee with the other.  Plus, people who bring in these books tend to fall into several categories, one of which is perfect for me; good books.  Good - as opposed to romance novels, which have their own cart, there are so many of them.  Then there are the self-help and spiritual books, also not my cup of tea.  But right on the top, within easiest reach are the Pulitzer Prize and other award winners.  Then there are English translations of Latin American authors.  I always find those worthwhile.

So, two days ago I brought back 10 books and bought 7 at the astounding price of $1.75.  I'm reading and enjoying "Drinking the Rain" now.  School begins again on January 4th and some of the above will have found their way to the lower shelf, indicating they can be returned.  Here's a secret.  I write my first name and my last initial in each book.  In one respect it's a way of reaching out to the future reader.  In another way, it's a reminder that I've already read the book.

One additional perc to this library, which was a surprise to me, is that it's right next to a horse pasture.  I never noticed them before but here are couple of pictures I took, having brought my camera just by chance.

I love the library!

Flipping Out

Yes, the best fisherperson on Cadotte Lake is at it again. Nice, fat leeches are helpful, of course.


After having studied the fishing report online (oh yes, I now 'study' fishing reports), I learned that the best fishing is 9 AM and 8:30 PM, so last night at 8:00 I'm out there ready to go.


Toodle out to 'my' spot - pretty much between me and my neighbor Don Niles - the really little cabin by the water - throw out both anchors so I don't twist around, check the water depth, put a pretty leech on the line and out she goes. Now I fill up my bucket with water, expecting to take somebody home and just sit down for a moment when I realize I can no longer see my bobber. Sure enough, a nice little keeper. A few more throws to areas where I'm not happy, replacement and - bingo - there's the next one. However, when I put this baby in the bucket, the first one gets very annoyed and flips itself out and starts flopping around on the pontoon deck.


OK, I take the one in the bucket off the hook and start chasing the other one who is truly "flipping out". I get him back in, they both calm down, I rebait and settle down again. After awhile, sure enough, here comes another one. Put him in the bucket and that same guy who flipped out before, flips out again - back on the deck. I give him some Prozac and put him back in with his two friends.


Now I'm figuring that it's going to be difficult to get another guy in there, but - too late - he's on the hook and I'm pulling him in. Get him right up to the boat but the line breaks and he, my hook, and the leech is gone.


So I bring the whole kit and kaboodle into the kitchen which is fine until I turn on the light, then they decide that with enough effort they can probably get themselves out of there. So the kitchen and me turn into a watery mess. I dump them into the sink, wrap them in newspaper, and into the fridge they go.


Now it's the next morning and I've just finished filleting them so they're ready for dinner Friday night - Don and Sarah are coming up to go fishing - with the best fisherperson on Cadotte Lake.

Swinging

How does he manage it? ESP? The Donald has some type of magical powers - must be - otherwise there's just no explanation for the present he got me for my birthday.

It all started last year when Nancy and I went to Hannah's cabin in Wisconsin. Perched on a steep hill overlooking a little lake, it's a quintessential 1920's style log cabin - really perfection. Outside, facing the lake is a lovely, log swing. Sitting there quietly, listening to the wind and the birds, I knew that this is exactly what I must have down by my dock.

So this year, I started researching log swings. The one made by a family firm in Michigan was very good, but the price tag of $288 was a bit steep. I even happened to mention it to a woman in the cafe at the Brimson Market who turns out to be an adviser at the Univ. of Minnesota. She said her husband is getting into working with wood and might be interested in making this. The next day I sent her an email so she'd have my information and could see the type of swing I'd like.

Peggy, who owns the cabin on the north side with her brother Peter, also heard about my desire. Pete is pretty well-to-d0, and was supposed to be coming up shortly. I said now that their cabin is all redone in his beautiful white pine, the only thing that was missing was a log swing. Yes, that's just what Pete should buy for the place, a nice log swing - $288 - including shipping. I'd be happy to send him the web site and will also use it when no one's there to make sure it stays in good operating condition. We had quite a few good laughs at this joke.

Then came my birthday, Friday. Don and Sarah were supposed to come up when he got off work and I'd serve the three fish I'd caught. Everything was ready. Table was set and I was just waiting for his call to make sure when I should start cooking. Well, I got the phone call alright. But instead of coming, they had to cancel because he had to work late. Hey, wait a minute! This will never do. OK, if you're not coming now, then there's a penalty involved. You have to come tomorrow for lunch. Not only that, but you have to come earlier and (finally) visit the Brimson Market and "Cookies from Cadotte". I didn't know if they'd be able to make it or not, but I was thrilled when, from under my blue canopy at the market, I saw them walk up.

I didn't think my day could get any better and I was really excited to get home and serve the nice lunch. Driving up I stopped to talk to Sarah who was picking flowers for a bouquet for the table. Then, turning into the drive I got just up to the cabin when right on the lawn, in front of Don's truck . . . there is was - the swing - the very one! I was in shock. I had never mentioned this to him, had I? No, I'm sure I hadn't. How had he known? How could this be?

So, my wish for a log swing has been fulfilled and it's everything I could have imagined and more. Nestled under a cedar tree, it is an oasis, and an excuse for a big comfy pillow to lean on and a book. Today, Sunday, is sunny and warm with just the most perfect breeze. Sitting on the swing, reading my book, looking up at the sky and clouds through the branches and waving at the woman in the boat pulling a water skier, I think I must be back in the 1950's or early 60's. No strife or bad news of any sort. Just comfort and happiness.

By the way, I blew out all the candles with my strawberry-rhubarb birthday pie (Sarah's of course). It should be a good year for everyone!