Writing Spaces

A chair blissfully enveloped in rosemary at the ever-inspirational Sand Rock Farm.

Remember rosemary is for remembrance . . . and writing too.

image: Christie B. Cochrell, Chair and Rosemary

Old Shinji the Gardener

The eager wind
shakes down a snowflurry
of appleblossom
from each crooked branch.

Clearing weeds beneath
the drift of petals,
Old Shinji the gardener
feels spring stirring
in his own gnarled limbs.

He runs the wooden handle
of the hoe between his hands
to try its mettle,
measures it against his arm,
and finds it true.

The sap begins to warm and rise,
and Shinji's rubber boots
move lightly as a dancer's
as he turns the hoe this way
and that, about him.

The old staff fighter,
dormant twenty years beneath
the gardener's muddied shirt,
takes back his wizened body.

Soon his staff is skimming
through the air
in long, swift strokes, eager
as the wind, and singing too.

The air alive with blossom,
with joyful reverence
the onetime kendo master
cuts weeds with his staff.

—Christie, originally published in
Crosscurrents, Winter 1921-1982

The Gardener

The Gardener

by

Jeff Masuda

It was 5:15AM when the boy heard his grandfather washing his hands in the sink of the laundry room. His grandparents had an old fashioned wash basin in laundry room that the grandfather used after work. The grandfather had returned for the boy after watering plants at some offices. He usually left at 4:00AM, which meant he’d risen from bed between 3:00AM and 3:30AM and had had his coffee before leaving for the first round of work.

The boy knew the grandfather’s routine. He sometimes heard the grandfather leave the first time, but not often.

It was dark outside and the boy thought of it as night. He usually woke on the grandfather’s return without prompting. The boy pulled on his jeans and t-shirt and ran to the kitchen. He ran back to grab a wind breaker in case it was cool. It was almost fall.

The boy went into the kitchen and sat down at a small table, not the larger, fancier dining room table over the partition. He thought about this situation: why did they eat here if the other table was better? He thought and then remembered the answer. His grandfather had always said, “I like to eat here, remember old days when we had farm, and house with a little table in kitchen.” He was glad he could remember the answer even if his grandparents would laugh and not mind and say he was just a little boy. He ate quietly as he watched, through the window, his grandfather smoke on the backyard patio. The old man surveyed his Japanese garden. The boy thought the garden seemed perfect. Everything was neat, trimmed, and green yet he did not see his grandfather work in it. His grandfather had landscaped the garden a long time ago. “He works in it while I’m away, when I’m with Mom and Dad,” thought the boy.

The screen creaked open and shut. “You want anything else?” asked his grandfather as he walked into the kitchen. “You want eggs?”

“No, I’m okay,” said the boy. He felt an impulse to hug his grandfather, but he had done this a few times and the grandfather was embarrassed by the show of affection. “We don’t hug here,” the boy thought. His grandmother who had just got up from bed didn’t hug the boy either, but this did not make the boy sad. It was just that the rules were different here and sometimes he forgot. “I’ll remember what to do,” the boy thought, “I’ll remember everything today.”

“Grandpa, why do you get up so early?”

“Just an old farmer. Old farmer, can’t change this.” The boy knew the answer, but he could not help himself from asking. He liked the way his grandfather talked.

“Let’s go,” said his grandfather. They walked to the green Ford van loaded with burlap sacks and all manner of gardening tools. As they climbed in the boy looked at the black metal motor casing that he thought was like a camel’s hump between the two front seats. Sometimes the boy had to sit on the hump because his grandfather had a helper for some of the very heavy work he could no longer do. It was just the two of them today.

The boy felt happy to be alone with his grandfather, and he liked the smell of oil and gas that came from the lawnmowers and the other tools. “I bet I’m the only boy up this early on Saturday. I’m the only one who can do it,” he thought. The sun was not up all the way, but it cast a dim orange light over the streets as they drove to the first account. His grandfather called the houses and offices he gardened accounts. The boy didn’t quite understand this, but he knew the people paid his grandfather to make the lawns, yards, and plants beautiful.

The grandfather lived in San Jose, California, and his accounts were spread out over what they called the south bay area. The boy thought it took a very long time to get to some of the places, but it might be because driving in the dark or dawn fooled him as to time and distance.

They drove in silence and the boy watched the long, Kool brand cigarette that stayed magically in the corner of his grandfather’s mouth and never dropped. The boy didn’t know if smoking was bad or not, but he had recently been given the job of filling his grandfather’s Zippo lighters with fluid, and he felt some pride that he had done it properly, without mess or accident. He was staying over a few days so the boy thought he would check the lighters tomorrow in case his grandfather needed one.

The boy looked back at the rear of the van. He was always impressed how clean and orderly his grandfather kept the van. The gardening work required cutting grass, trimming bushes and trees, and yet the blades of the mowers dropped very little grass; the cutting tools were cleaned after each stop; the water hoses were replaced on hooks on the walls of the van and secured from unwinding by using old leather belts; the rakes and hoes never had dirt on them; the burlap tarps which held the trimmings, grass and leaves never burst open. It was if the tools were not used at all, yet the work was always completed.

“Will we eat hamburgers for lunch, Grandpa?” asked the boy.

The grandfather laughed. “You want to, eh? Okay, don’t eat too much! You cost a lot of money!”

They arrived at the first place, a residence in the hills overlooking a town. It was 6:00AM. The one story house was not special, but the view from the house was: the town and the surrounding mountains seemed as still as a painting, beautiful and peaceful and the sun broke just above the tree line in spectacular fashion.

The boy liked gardening the homes best because he found the houses and yards much more interesting than the businesses—“commercial accounts” his grandfather called them--which had a boring quality. The cold commercial buildings did not have interesting features and seemed unfriendly. And the commercial accounts had gigantic metal trash bins that forced the boy to either climb up and dump trimmings, or attempt to throw the burlap tarp up and over the side while simultaneously letting go of one edge so the contents would spill over and in. Sometimes he miscalculated and the various trimmings and leaves fell on his head and he had to sweep them up again. He preferred the homes because they had garbage cans he could open easily.

“Get electric grass shears. Trim along stones. Front only.”

The boy obeyed and began his job. The grandfather pushed a mower through a gate to cut the backyard lawn.

The boy always felt awkward and slow when he performed his tasks. His grandfather was so much faster and efficient even though he was 65 years old. The boy knew he was taken along so he could learn, and because his grandfather liked being with his grandson, but he still felt inadequate. The boy maneuvered the shears around the stepping stones on the lawn with both hands on the tool.

The grandfather came back through the gate 15 minutes later. The boy had not finished. Little beads of sweat formed on his forehead as he peeked up at the old man.

“Done?” asked the grandfather.

“Almost. I still need to sweep up the grass.”

“Don’t worry, no rush. We do easy way.”

The grandfather meant he would use his gas powered blower to clean off the stepping stones. The grandfather lit another cigarette and walked to the van.

The sound of blower was like a motorcycle, but lower. He watched his grandfather make sweeping motions as the grass was corralled into the sidewalk gutter where it would be swept up by the boy.

The rest of the morning was taken up by the same tasks at different houses. The back of the van was now filled with tied burlap tarps full of trimmings and grass.

They took a lunch break at a nearby McDonalds restaurant.

“Grandpa, were you in the war?” the boy asked as he ate his hamburger, French fries and Coke. He always ordered the same meal.

“You funny! Funny guy! Always order same thing!”

“Grandpa, were you in the war? I mean, were you in the army?”

“No, too many kids already. My brothers, your great uncles go, though. They younger. No families.”

“I saw soldiers in old pictures in the albums.”

The grandfather laughed. “We in war camp. Government say, ‘for your safety.’ ”

The boy had heard this before, but his teacher had told him there were no camps. He knew his grandfather would not lie, but this family history caused puzzlement.

“What were the camps like?”

“Dusty! Your grandma hate dust. Me too. Can never keep room or clothes clean. Always, always messy!”

“But you got out when the war ended, right?”

“Yeah, then go back and farm.”

“But you aren’t a farmer, right?”

“Ha! That’s right. Easier make plants green than make strawberries taste good.”

Satisfied, the boy finished his lunch quietly. They left to drive to their final stop. His grandfather lit yet another Kool cigarette as he maneuvered the van through traffic.

They arrived at a very long rectangular building on a deserted side road. No workers were there because it was Saturday.

“See bushes along side? We trim all along those, then pick up, dump, go home,” said the grandfather.

The boy felt happy the work day would be over after this and he could go back to the house and play with his toy soldiers in the garden.

While the boy waited for his grandfather to trim the shrubs with the shears, he pretended his rake was a rifle and he was on a very secret mission behind enemy lines. When his grandfather had cut enough ahead of him, he began to sweep the droppings into a lawnmower basket and then dump that into a burlap tarp spread on the ground. The work was boring, but the boy occupied himself with the soldier fantasy while he raked. They worked about an hour.

“I’m going to go drive van around building, dump sacks, and come back—wait here,” said the grandfather.

The boy sat on the curb of the sidewalk that bordered the front of the building. He was glad his grandfather had taken the sacks to dump. He was tired.

Their work day was over. It was noon. The sun was high in the sky and the boy felt warm and took off his jacket. He’d grown tired of being a soldier and he tried to think of something new. He failed and kept being a soldier; he crept around the side of the building, peered around the corner, and reversed direction to do the same on the other corner.

The grandfather still was gone. The boy thought he was taking a long time, but he didn’t have a watch. He began throwing rocks across the empty parking lot aside the to kill time. He thought maybe it was taking a long time to dump the sacks, but there were a lot. Maybe his grandfather had taken another cigarette break.

Now the boy felt scared and began to walk behind the long building toward the back. He had been there before and knew where the dumpsters were located. The bottom of his sneakers felt hot. He saw the van and ran toward it, but it seemed small and far away. It was parked next to a steel dumpster large enough to place a pickup truck in.

He finally neared the van in a dead run. He was breathing very hard.

“Grandpa! Grandpa! Are you here?”

No voice answered.

The boy looked left and right, then he circled around to the van’s open rear doors and saw one full tarp.

The boy thought: maybe grandpa is collecting on the month’s bill, maybe he’s talking to someone. He likes to talk to people. Then he remembered it was Saturday, and no one was in the office, and his grandfather didn’t collect bills on Saturday.

“Grandpa!” he cried again.

The boy then smelled something burning. He looked up and saw smoke coming from the dumpster. He climbed the metal ladder up the side of the garbage dumpster and the 6 feet felt much higher. He looked down.

The grandfather lay on his back on a bed of leaves and trimmings. The Kool cigarette had fallen out of his mouth and landed among the leaves. Some smoldered and smoke rose up. The boy felt his panic disappear. He had found his grandfather. He jumped into the dumpster, landed hard on the leaves, and touched his grandfather’s face. No breathing came from the man’s mouth or nose, his chest was still. Tears began to form in the boy’s eyes because he realized his grandfather was dead.

The boy thought about his grandfather’s perfect garden, and the funny stories, the funny way he talked, summer days spent helping him garden early in the morning, hamburger for lunch.

The boy lay down next to the grandfather and hugged him. He buried his face in the grandfather’s chest and drew himself as near as possible. He hugged the grandfather and thought that no one would tell him to stop.

Words of Wisdom from my Father

My father was a math teacher for 35 years; he knew how people learned and how students acted in class. He had, and has, the special ability to help people because he took people as they were and saw how they learned--he could adapt.

Still, he could be frustrated with students. When they were not trying he would say:

"In your ears, and out your rears!"

Words of wisdom for prospective teachers...

Writing Exercises

Tell why somebody would have a pocket full of pine needles.

image:  Conifer cones, Menchi

 

Writing Spaces

A bench struck with sun in the contemplative quiet of an old California mission.

The Turquoise Ring

On Sunday I go to Waimea—Kamuela—to Ka'ai's wedding and the powwow, both unlooked for.

I drive across Highway 270, the back road, which runs from here to there through high, astonishingly green pastureland lavish of horses and cows (ka'aus, I write), traversed by luring little tracks, infrequently interrupted by gates. Some are staid and parallel, some willfully erring—climbing to rounded green water tanks or plummeting on the right to the far blue ocean. Fence posts sprout luxuriantly as living plants, and blue morning glories swarm improbably over stands of prickly pear cactus. After a stretch of the pine I call the rain pine, because its needles seem a driven silver shower— ironwood, Australian Ironwood Pine, the road comes into the open again, comes out upon the three old blue volcanoes, dead ahead.

Always before we've been going through Waimea, probably to make up for my father's interminable time immobilized there. We'd drive from the dry high desert on the north of the upcountry ranch town to the lush wet farmland on the south, usually on our way to Hilo, or to get malasadas—warm sugared Portuguese doughnuts—at Tex Drive-In in Honokaa, further down the road. (Definitely worth driving halfway across the island for.)

My father would point out Kamuela's old liquor store as we passed, a well-weathered building with lots of character, which he told us the Marines took over for a bar and café, where they could eat eggs and an occasional chicken. It's in his war novel, and part of family legend. I don't go that far today; only as far as the green church in the block of churches. I see little chickens turning on spits along the road in town as they do south of Kona in Kealakekua, enveloped in a thick fragrant cloud of smoke. The Sunday afternoon chickens, roasting. My town is different from his, but holds that other inside it.
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White tents soar up from the baseball field. In the clearing at their center are the Indian dances. Right away I covet the feathers pluming from the backs of the dancers. I'm overtaken by desire that is more than I can bear—to be so fine, so beautiful, so sure. Like fine angels (Saint Mich', on his Paris bridge), like the feathered shafts of arrows. These men are foreign, avian. And yet like brothers. I feel belonging and bereft, both. I walk among them enraptured, and they never see me. I walk among them sorrowing for the places they go without me. Back to their tribes. Into the pure heart of the dance. Spanning rivers.

Inside the tents they're selling things. I love the sage bundles, wrapped in red or blue thread. Sage to purify. I love the old silver, the black-veined nuggets of turquoise. Like chunks of raw pigment, of resin—pungent, resonant. I love the wheat-head weave of the smallest baskets, meant to hold things, but perfect in themselves. I would have loved one of the Indian tacos, spicy meat and pinto beans in fry bread, puffed and golden, if I weren't already overfull from the wedding lunch in the basement of the green church up the road. The bride and groom stand with arms around each other watching the dancing from the edge of one of the tents, no longer wearing the long, open-ended, ceremonial leaf leis, but still visibly within their grace.
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I think of Flagstaff, Arizona; the turquoise on my grandparents' beautiful gnarly hands. I remember how safe and loved I always felt with them, there, remember sitting in pajamas in a circle of lamplight golden as a halo. How gentle they seemed to me, but how strong. Like these people here who have made me feel included now, in their family day, letting me belong. Allowing me in.

The way to my grandparents, the way home, was straight through the heart of Indian country—between Zuni and Hopi, Navajo and Apache—passing the reservations, the pueblos. Santo Domingo, Cochiti, San Felipe, Jemez, Zia, Santa Ana, Canoncito, Isleta, Jicarilla Apache, Laguna, Acoma, Ramah Navajo, Zuni. The Navajo Nation, extending into three states. No wonder I feel I belong to them, their wildlands and settlements have gone singing through me, like the lonely trains in the night.

I remember too (but oddly secondarily) of the deer dance I went to one Christmas afternoon at the Tesuque or Pojoaque pueblo, in oblique winter sunshine, one Christmas we hadn't come to Hawaii—the dancers with their pine branch antlers, their leggings, coming through the crusted old snow—but so many other opportunities I never took, to learn what was around me. The odd dichotomy of taking too much for granted, and always wanting to be elsewhere. (Longing instead of belonging?) Funny how it comes together here, this afternoon, as if something in me has all of a sudden healed. In a real and wonderful sense, I am of these people—Hawaiians, mainland tribes, earth dwellers; these are my ways—the way, that the Tao is said to be. I, too, come back to the island to learn the old ways. as I instinctively used the Navajo night chant (also Way) in the Hawaiian ceremony for my father at the Place of Refuge, along with the canoe sail petroglyph. Everything coming together.
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I buy an antique turquoise ring from the Indians, unsure of its provenance. For me, it will have come from Waimea or Kamuela—that is all that matters. Its history is what I choose to give it, like the two French settlers in North Kohala. It is instead of the blue stone in a Paris window which I never bought. Round instead of square, a greeny turquoise with rust the dried-blood color of red Hawaiian earth, when you get those unexpected glimpses of rich fields through partings of undergrowth that startle you suddenly along the road in the green heart of the jungle—like a mongoose running across it; an immensely rich color I love. The red too of the mesas in northern Arizona, between Santa Fe and Flagstaff; the canyons of my childhood. My own old heirloom ring, that I have come back for, that they have kept for me until I was ready to have it, not be careless of it.

It will remind me of so much, coming together. The lessons of our shared parents and grandparents, of wind, water, and earth. Cultivation. The journey of discovery that moves equally backwards, that stays in one place and comes to learn every mood, shade, injury to the land and living things under one's care, within one's ken. There is this personal history that accumulates, that accompanies the other. Right progress needs to include some looping-back motion; it is inclusion itself. Prayer finding its direction. Joining the dance.

—Christie, from Island of Spirits and Kings (written in North Kohala, Hawai'i, September 2001)