Tag Archives: Grandma

The Crow

FLASH MEMORY: my grandpa had a crow!

At least that’s what I remember, I think. I think I’m sure I do.

I remember being 5 or 6 years old. Coming in from a hot summer’s day, running up the red porch steps of his house and past the broken screen door with the holes in the mesh and into the kitchen to find it there, large and black and so alive, staring out from its wire cage which had been placed on top of the counter by the sink.

I remember its giant wings. Its sharp beak and the way its back sloped smoothly down toward its ragged tail feathers. Its sacred black eyes, blacker than black. My grandpa standing next to it, watching it with his one remaining eye.

Why did my grandfather have a crow? How long had he had it? What was he going to do with it?

Answers elude. Companionship? Husbandry? Admiration?

Or something else.

A day? A week? A month?

I can’t say.

And what indeed.

Grandma was there too, standing at the stove across from the sink, the crow, my grandpa. Standing with her back to me making soup, giant daikon sectioned neatly on her cutting-board.

Grandpa, Grandma, Crow. Sink, Stove. Wire Cage, Cutting-board. I stared at all three – at everything – burning the scene into my mind. No one said a word.

The crow beat its wings inside the cage.


I can’t vouch for the accuracy of this memory, only its intensity, or what I like to think of as its tactile veracity. The truth behind the facts.

I don’t want to know if it is real or not. I want neither to confirm or deny but rather to indulge, let the image sit as it sits and shine or fall, fade or endure as it will.

My grandpa had a crow, with giant wings and eyes blacker than black. There was soup on the stove and sliced daikon arranged in neat piles on the cutting-board.

I can’t remember what my grandma looks like, not from memory.




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Filed under Birds, Childhood, Family, Food, Hobbies, Pets, THE PAST

Bad Eggs

My grandma died, and then my mom got rid of all the eggs in our house. For years, no eggs. Not for breakfast, not even for cooking.

No eggs. Not one egg among us. None.

Ours was not a household in which questions from the children were encouraged or treated seriously.

Grandma died, and then no more eggs. 

Grandma died, so no more eggs.

No more eggs because grandma died.

No sense asking why.

It was a mystery among mysteries (another reason we as children did not question it – it was merely one among so many exhausting many).

Later – much, much later – I learned that my grandma died of a heart attack (my mom initially told me she died because she had “a hole in her heart,” once again allowing her penchant for euphemisms to cloud event and circumstance and circumvent understanding). The belief was that high cholesterol was the cause of the heart attack (caused her heart attack). And because my family believed that eggs (and the oil sued to cook them) caused high cholesterol they, all of them, each and every last egg, had to go.

I don’t remember exactly when eggs were reintroduced into our home. But come back they did.

One mystery solved, only to be replaced by another.

At least no one had to die to cement this one, to hold it in place for us all.

At least, I don’t think so.



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Filed under Childhood, Death, Family, Food, THE PAST

Perfect Eggs

“I don’t know anybody who likes hospitals.”

Caitlin from work said this.

Which reminded me…

The white walls. The echoing hallway. The bleach smell and the urine smell hiding just under the bleach smell. That unfiltered light.

Gran wasn’t waiting for us after school like usual. We waited on the porch, not knowing what to do. My sister sat on the stairs with her head in her hands. It seemed like a long time before my dad pulled up by the house, bringing the car to a sudden stop in the driveway, sending Mr. Corn’s husky dog, Panda, into a fit, froth forming at the corners of his black mouth as he choked himself on the short chain that kept him on his side of the driveway, barking his head off.

Then, those walls, that bright, flat light. My dad ushering us through the corridor and my mom standing there, waiting for us. Or maybe she appeared from around the corner. Or from behind the double-push doors.

She pulled the both of us into a hug. She was crying, had been crying, and when she pushed herself away from us she grabbed me by the shoulders with both of her hands.

“Your Gran has a hole in her heart,” she sobbed.

Then, all of us as we waited, sometimes sitting on the floor. My cousin, the oldest of the kids, got up after a long time and went into the closet. He pretended to sob, cried at the top of his squeaking vocal chords, banged and scratched on the door, stomped his overgrown feet and then came out with a smile so full of teeth it was obscene. He stood there and said nothing, bracing himself against the dingy wallpaper, smiling all the time. No one said a thing.

I remember his hanging stomach and him fingering the exposed bellybutton peeking out from just above his sweatpants.

Then, the room, everyone around the bed looking, some crying. And there was Gran with a sheet pulled up to just under her neck. Her eyes were closed.

She was cold.

Then, the eggs.

“Eggs have too much oil,” said my uncle.

“Your Gran ate a lot of eggs. Too much,” said my aunt.

“Eggs are bad for the heart. No more eggs,” said my mom.

Then, for years and years, no eggs. Eggs in other things, for cooking and baking, but not on their own. Never. Eggs were off limits, taboo. Eggs became unmentionable.

Years and years then slowly, with time, they were back again.

Boiled only.

Then, scrambled.

Then fried, sunnyside up.

And finally as another everyday thing, just another option in the fridge, next to the cheese and carrots.


At breakfast the other day, I made soft boiled eggs. It took a few tries, but I finally got the method down perfect.

An inch of water. Boil for one full minute and 15 seconds. Then, perfect eggs.

I carefully peeled back the delicate shell and dug into the softness inside; yolk overfilling my spoon, warm and golden. I was running late but still took the time to make the eggs and eat them without hurry. So good, so good!

So good, I wondered why on earth we hardly ever had eggs growing up.

And then I remembered.


Filed under Family, Food

The Greatest Story I Will Ever Have to Tell

It was 1989 and I was 7 years old.  My grandmother had died and at that moment, I was standing in a graveyard on a cold December afternoon.

I was with my family.  There were a lot of us: my parents, siblings, aunts and uncles and a smattering of cousins.  We took over the place.  We were everywhere.  Someone bought sandwiches and pop.

At 7, my only experience with death had been the loss of a pet turtle, the untimely demise of pet bullfrog (eaten by another pet turtle), and the mass death of an entire tank of bloated fish.   It was an unimpressive resume.  And since my parents simply replaced the turtle with a new turtle (admittedly with Murder Turtle), re-filled the tank with prettier fish, and gave me a Pound Puppy toy in lieu of a new frog, I really didn’t learn anything about death except, perhaps, that things die because it was time to replace them with similar or better things.

It is, indeed, an evil Thing.

Its mouth is open because it's feeding on souls.

The graveyard was on the edge of a small town that was populated by Mennonites and horses.  My grandma had died a month earlier, but it was only now that we could all gather to see her gravestone.

To enter the graveyard, you had to open these huge, black wrought iron gates and close them upon exit.   Since the entire place was on a very high and craggily hill, only three sides were fenced in by brick and iron while the forth, which was the edge of a sheer drop, simply dropped.

It was there that I stood in the waning light, away from everyone else, ensconced in a green-and-orange snowsuit.

The adults were huddled over Grandma’s gravestone, remarking on its craftsmanship and doing a thorough spell-check.  My cousins were running wild with my siblings in a rousing game of “Grave Tag”.  A couple of the younger kids were beating each other with sticks.  There were sandwiches everywhere.

I was staring down the hill at the river down below.  It was beginning to freeze over and I was wondering what happened to all the fish in the winter.  It seemed like such a chore, living in the water as they did.

I turned away from the edge of the hill, intent on rejoining the clan.

And that’s when I saw them.


Three sets.  One for each of the mini vans and one for my uncle’s cheesy cherry-red Firebird.[1]







The snowsuit constrained my movement such that I could go forward only by lifting one leg up high in order to bring it down, hard, into the snow before lifting up the other leg and repeating the process.  In my desperate haste, I fell and kept falling into the snow, leaving the bodies of desperate, puffy snow angles all over the graveyard.

It was a massacre of one.

I tried to yell ahead to prevent my relatives from abandoning me IN A GRAVEYARD, but stopped after only a few short cries when I realized that my screams would simply not be heard.  Everybody was already in their cars, and I knew my parents were blasting that special brand of Vietnamese pop music that was the soundtrack to my childhood.

The engine starts and the music flows.


By the time I made it to the tree in the middle of the cemetery, it was too late. I stared up after my family only to see the taillights twinkle in the distance and then disappear into the thickening darkness.

I was alone.

In a graveyard.


Unsure of what to do, I stood there for a moment by a cluster of eroding gravestones and looked them over to find among them the bright shining stone of my dead Grandma.

When my teacher, Mrs. Glue (was that really her name?) came to the funeral home to pay her respects, she had taken me aside to tell me how sorry she was that my grandma had “passed away”; had whispered it like she was letting me in on an open secret.  But English euphemisms were not yet embedded in my repertoire of Things to Say and I could only exchange “chết” for “dead”.

Dead for dead.

“My grandma is over there.  She’s dead.”

Poor Mrs. Glue.

If you’re still out there and not chết yourself, after all these years, please know, after all these years, that it was not my intention to offend.

Now I know better (or more, in any case).  But then it was about clarity.


I realized that my only recourse was to go to one of the nearby houses for help.

By now it was getting really cold – night cold – just as my body heat began melting the snow that had invaded my suit during my many, many falls.  The melt mixed in with my sweat and, in addition to the fiery chill that burned me down my face and neck, all the intermingling wetness alerted me to the fact that I very much had to pee.

I trudged toward the gate as quickly as I could and fell twice in the process, leaving two more sloppy snow angels in my wake.  It was locked from the outside, and I was too short to reach through the bars to lift the handle. There was a wedge of empty space between the bottom of the gate and the top of the ground, but there was also wadded, packed snow in between.  To get through, I had to get down on my belly and use my hands as little shovels.

Scoops, really.

I started to dig, dig, dig and p—u—s—h at the same time, squeezing my body through the gate at I went.  It was like trying to give birth to myself, but the pain and humiliation this time were mine alone.

Bit by bit I thrust past the black iron.  I was doing it!  I was going to make it!  The bottoms of the bars pushed hard against my back at the halfway point, but I pressed on, digging and pushing and digging and pushing until, finally, FINALLY

I was totally, fully and perfectly stuck.

Pinned down in the middle, I kicked my legs and swung my arms up and down in an attempt to “swim” out of my predicament.  When that didn’t work, I tried for the “alligator death roll” to freedom, but I could only manage to sway heavily from side to side.  “The Superman”, in which I thrust first one arm and then the other in front of me in the desperate attempt to propel myself forward, only succeeded in reminding me twenty years later that I was an incredibility stupid, sad little girl.

Each time you get a little more wrong until you run out of times.

Excelling at total failure has always been a gift of mine.

Exhausted and still very much stuck, I succumbed to my fate.  I wondered idly what my parents were going to replace me with to fill the void for my siblings.

Fuck it.  They were probably just going to take them to MacDonald’s.

We got a lot of MacDonald’s when Grandma died.


I heard it.  Gravel and snow being crushed under the tires of our rattling mini van.  And the next thing I heard after the crunching of the snow from my mother’s footsteps was her sharp gasp upon finding me splayed out AND pinned on the ground.  I lifted myself as far up on my arms as I could go and let out a furious “WHHHHHHY???” just she screamed “OHMYGOD!!!





She dug me out, with my father’s help.  We walked towards the car in silence.

As we drove away from the graveyard, my siblings bug-eyed and speechless in the back, my mom started laughing for release, but stopped when my dad turned up the pop music to drown it, all of it, out.  They still cringe whenever I bring up “the happening” at the graveyard.

How difficult the whole experience had been, after all.

You know.  For them.

[1] He was a bachelor for a Very Long Time, as I recall.

[2] Asian Left Out Near Eternity.

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