• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

By Root 864 0

comes to everyone, of course, but for those who are markedly different from their peers, it is a daily reminder of that difference. To most people, my sister and I didn’t seem to have much in common, but I knew from that day on that we were remarkably alike. If nothing else, this insight helped me to survive the intensely competitive atmosphere of my prep school. I knew that getting a D on a math test was not the worst thing in the world. And when I got an A-plus in English, when my writing won praise from my teachers, I could put it in perspective. I knew there were other kinds of intelligence that were just as valuable, and needs that could not be satisfied in school.

Our parents are nearing eighty years of age and, while they often seem to have more energy as the years go by, the fact of their mortality looms large for their children. Becky, God bless her, is incapable of hiding her fears. We went for a walk one Christmas Eve not long ago, and she said, out of the blue: “I don’t want Mom and Dad to die. I worry about what will happen to me.” “It scares me, too,” I replied. “But everyone is scared to think about their parents dying.” I’m not sure I convinced Becky on that score—she tends to think that she’s alone in her suffering, and all too often in her life that has been the case. But I believe I did manage to reassure her that her brother and sisters would not abandon her.

As we walked through a light Manoa Valley rain—bright sunlight, prickles of moisture on bare skin—I remembered the two little girls who used to hide in their rooms every afternoon after school. How good it is to have those difficult years behind us. Becky will tell you that she’s “slow.” I guess I’ve always been fast by comparison. What does it matter, on the borderline? We’re middle-aged women now, and our parents are old. As for the future, human maturity being what it is, the slow process of the heart’s awakening, I sometimes wonder if Becky is better equipped for it than I.

THE CHRISTMAS

MUSIC

For nearly twenty years, my immediate family has lived as a three-generation commune in Honolulu. The arrangement is not uncommon there, because of the many Japanese- and Chinese-Americans, for whom such family structures are traditional. Many of my high school friends had grandparents living at home. For my family, the venture began as a way for everyone to have a place to live in the face of Hawaii’s exorbitant housing prices, and at first it spanned four generations—my father’s mother lived there for a time. But over the years, the family has found many reasons to value this way of life. “There’s always somebody home at my house,” one niece told her kindergarten teacher, who had asked how she might reach family members during the day. (With two ministers, a financial planner, a jazz musician, and a law office manager, there’s only one person who works on a nine-to-five schedule.) And one year, I was touched to hear my four-year-old nephew call out, “Anybody! Anybody!” when he was in some kind of jam and needed help. I was one of four family members who responded (three adults and a teenager), and I thought to myself, there are worse ways to learn about trust in this world.

My parents, while they were worried at first about becoming free baby-sitters, tell me that they can’t imagine any other way to have grandchildren except on the intimate, daily basis they currently enjoy. The commune has seen two deaths—my grandmother Norris and aunt Kathleen—and four births, of my three nieces and one nephew. We recently sent our first fledgling out into the world; the oldest niece has graduated from high school and is adjusting to life in a college dorm. The family also has survived for years the Christmas visits of myself and my husband. We’re forgiven for lingering well into January, putting off our return to winter, as I bake bread and my husband cooks a splendid Christmas dinner, including chocolate mousse from scratch. (One niece, on having her first taste at the age of three, asked why she couldn’t have it every day.)

For many years, Christmas