tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-42812207870407479642024-03-04T23:43:20.926-05:00 jupiterean's wanderingsThuan Nguyenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16529355768857578084noreply@blogger.comBlogger152125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4281220787040747964.post-35227410467015083862017-03-18T10:29:00.003-04:002017-03-20T18:11:55.779-04:00FourMy sister had just finished high school in a nearby city and returned home. We got along well even though I was six years her junior. We would work together in the fields, staying late to admire the sunset while guarding the ripening rice crop against the bad bad birds that would swoop down now and then to peck at the precious grains.<br />
<br />
One day my mother came home with tears in her eyes and a piece of paper in her hand. The piece of paper was an order from the authorities for my sister to join the Young Volunteers Corps. This meant she would be sent to wild jungles and clear the land and turn it into plantations owned by the state.<br />
<br />
There was no other way but to accept the inevitable. The number of days my sister could stay with us kept getting shorter; and on the day of parting, accompanied by my mother, she carried her small luggage to a big empty yard in front of the public meeting house. A fleet of buses was waiting there, and a somber crowd was gathering that comprised mostly young draftees and their anxious families.<br />
<br />
Despite the pep talk delivered by a couple of communist party officials, a huge sound of collective wailing broke out when the buses began rolling.<br />
<br />
And that's how the Young Volunteers got started in our village. It would be years before I saw my sister again.Thuan Nguyenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16529355768857578084noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4281220787040747964.post-59482157334724569692017-01-22T10:02:00.005-05:002017-01-23T20:32:02.355-05:00ThreeMiddle school was a whole new game. New classmates, new subjects with a different teacher for each, quite exciting for a newbie like myself. Our classroom was at the far end of the single-storey school building, with a bush of light purple flowers blooming outside a window all year round. Yet what I remember the most was something that did not even happen in my class or to my friends.<br />
<br />
It happened to a chemistry teacher who was also new to the school. She was young, good-looking and said to be fresh out of wherever teachers were trained. She did not teach my class because in those days kids started chemistry in eighth grade, which was two years ahead of us. I did not pay much attention to her until she was not seen around anymore.<br />
<br />
She had been arrested.<br />
<br />
A newcomer to the village, she had been given temporary lodging in a back room at the school office. Rumor, later confirmed, had it that one day the principal rummaged through her stuff and found at the bottom of her suitcase a sheet of music. It was one of those love songs from the non-communist years and as such condemned and forbidden. The principal then called the police on her.<br />
<br />
A couple of months later during break suddenly it felt as if there had been a big gush of wind sweeping through the whole schoolyard. All the kids started to run towards an empty field right next to the school while yelling "Miss Hue! Miss Hue!" I joined them and behold, there was a line of prisoners walking under police guard to wherever they were supposed to do forced labor for the day. Miss Hue was among them, using her hat to shield her face. After they were gone we got back to the school premises and I saw the principal standing outside, scowling really hard at us.<br />
<br />
Then one day Miss Hue was released. She stopped by to see my neighbor and told her story. She left for her home faraway and I never saw her again. The principal stayed for much longer and did his darnedest to ingratiate himself to his new bosses, but life would have its own twists to astound everyone.Thuan Nguyenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16529355768857578084noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4281220787040747964.post-50095217805713879922015-11-27T20:28:00.002-05:002015-11-27T20:33:33.440-05:00Thanksgiving DayThe roads were deserted on Thanksgiving Day morning. The air was warm for this time of the year. The sky was clear, and there was sunshine on the nearly depleted trees where the remaining leaves had turned from golden splendor to brownish drabness, which reminded me of my own metamorphosis into midlife homeliness.<br />
<br />
I was feeling peaceful and gently uplifted. This day was a reminder to count my many blessings once more. I thanked God for being with me all the time and all the way. I was grateful for the pleasant weather, the fresh air, and the abundant trees surrounding me. I was grateful for my car, which still served me well even though it was more than ten years old and had a leaking oil pan according to the guys at Midas. I was grateful that I had a reasonably decent job even though sometimes I felt tired of it and would have quit hadn't I remembered my bills, that I still had enough brain to keep up with all those pesky new technologies which kept popping up around like mushrooms.<br />
<br />
Above all I thanked God for my wife and my darling baby daughter, who would light up a joy in my heart and a smile on my lips whenever I thought of them. While I was driving on the roads of suburban Atlanta my baby was soundly sleeping in Saigon half way around the world with her little pillow tucked under her legs instead of her head, true to her funny ways. My wife had sent me a message on my smartphone to tell me all that, so I was grateful for Viber as well.<br />
<br />
In a word, thank you Lord. It's all your doing, I deserve naught.Thuan Nguyenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16529355768857578084noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4281220787040747964.post-3425874712469043382015-09-30T00:53:00.003-04:002015-09-30T00:57:12.392-04:00Girl ScoutMichael is my six-year-old neighbor who once asked me if I had any kid to play with him. The negative reply disappointed him, but he kindly declared that I was his friend and could come to visit him anytime.<br />
<br />
One late afternoon I answered my doorbell and found Michael there with a girl about his age. She was very girly, blond hair long and curly, dressed in pink, her whole appearance screaming Barbie. In a flustered yet determined voice she explained that her name was Saturday and she was selling Girl Scout cookies, oh no snacks not cookies, and would you be interested sir?<br />
<br />
What choice did I have, except to extend my hand for the colorful menu and browse through it? Something about mint and chocolate, ten dollars. Something else that involved orange and cranberry, seven bucks. I handed her a twenty and asked if she had three dollars to give back to me.<br />
<br />
"Yes I do," she assured me and opened her Barbie purse. It was empty, but she was a quick thinker. "I'll go home and ask my Mom for it," she said. "Be right back!"<br />
<br />
She hurried away on her little pink bike. Michael also decided to leave.<br />
<br />
Ten minutes later she came back and put into my hand two crumpled singles and four quarters. She said to me while getting on her pink bike again:<br />
<br />
"I'll come back to deliver your order, hopefully!"<br />
<br />
Hopefully? I bet she just learned that word and thought it would be nice to use it to conclude a business transaction.Thuan Nguyenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16529355768857578084noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4281220787040747964.post-39062628949272079012015-09-28T00:15:00.007-04:002015-11-22T13:36:31.030-05:00Reflections on a Dead LeafThe morning drizzle had pushed a small maple leaf against my windshield. I sat staring at its lobed shape and deep yellow color, captivated by its melancholic beauty. Somehow it reminded me of my mother's hands, which had also shown veins and dark spots. I thought of where her body was now, and where this leaf was going to be.<br />
<br />
Why should life be transient and death permanent? The second law of thermodynamics states that the entropy of a closed system always increases. Considering that the universe is a closed system and life does not exist in a state of high entropy, it follows that life is on an inexorable path towards being extinguished. But does it have to be that way?<br />
<br />
Years ago I often pondered over this question. It occurred to me that there might be a correlation between entropy and morality, however alien that might sound. Think about this: all the actions that are considered bad involve destruction - destruction of life, of health, of harmony, and more. By nature destruction brings chaos into something orderly, moving it to a state of higher entropy. So here is the correlation: goodness favors reduction of entropy, while sin seeks to increase it.<br />
<br />
From this point it is only one step further to see the second law of thermodynamics as a manifestation of the original sin. The original sin put the universe under the rule of the second law of thermodynamics, which dictates that its entropy will only increase and all life will eventually be snuffed out. This is at least partly what the Bible means by declaring that all have sinned and sin results in death.<br />
<br />
So how do God and His promise of everlasting life come into this picture?<br />
<br />
To defeat death and restore life, the entropy of a system must be reduced, requiring energy. The attributes of an infinite God naturally can blow up any finite mind in incomprehension, but in the context of this topic I would like to think of God as the ultimate source of energy. I would also imagine that His presence exists with zero entropy, sinless and timeless.<br />
<br />
Connected to God, the universe would have its entropy pushed back and prevented from reaching a high level. Life would be freed from sin and death. The second law of thermodynamics would not apply anymore, for the universe would no longer be a closed system. And because of no entropy increase, time would be eliminated as well.<br />
<br />
It makes sense to me and gives me hope.Thuan Nguyenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16529355768857578084noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4281220787040747964.post-5282529285571311772015-09-24T22:06:00.003-04:002015-11-05T20:35:29.855-05:00TwoBehind the school building was a barbed wire fence. In the middle of the fence was a gap created by cutting down the wire and stomping on it, providing a shortcut to a back lane. Just around a bend on that potholed back lane was a humble cottage, more like a hut. Its walls were made from mud mixed with straw, and its roof was made from a type of long grass. Basic and cheap, this was the type of dwelling that would indicate more or less destitute occupants.<br />
<br />
A boy in my class lived there and was reluctant to admit it when I first asked. With his soft skin untouched by the sun and wind, he did not look like a typical country kid. His trademark was a baggy yellow sweater with a white stripe across the chest. I also had a baggy sweater, a hand-me-down from my brother, and maybe that was why I took a liking to him.<br />
<br />
He was quiet and had a curiously defensive look when talked to, as if expecting something unpleasant. No game at recess, heading straight home after school, he seemed either to prefer his own company or under strict instructions not to mingle and loiter. Still, since I took the same way home, we sometimes walked together until he stepped on a plank across the ditch running alongside the dirt lane, then disappeared behind a hedge overgrown with winged bean vines.<br />
<br />
I never learned much about him, except that he was living with his grandmother in that small cottage, and that they had moved to our village not so long ago. In those years immediately following the communist victory there were many kids just like him around, who did not belong to that sleepy place with cows mooing and hens clucking, but all the same had ended up there like seaweed cast ashore after a devastating storm. Most would leave before long, for better or for worse no one knew.<br />
<br />
My friend also left that summer. The hedge with winged bean vines were blossoming with purple flowers, but the little cottage beyond looked forlorn and soon fell into disrepair. I thought I would never see him again.Thuan Nguyenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16529355768857578084noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4281220787040747964.post-85478942369484041982015-09-18T18:37:00.001-04:002015-09-22T20:33:26.119-04:00OneMy childhood came to an abrupt end one day when I overheard a conversation between my parents.<br />
<br />
I was twelve years old. Two years ago my family had moved to this new place, a village at the foot of a mountain where most people earned their livelihood from toiling on the land except for a few merchants whose shops clustered around the tiny market pavilion. I had eased into the new normal with my new school, new friends and playgrounds.<br />
<br />
My father had ditched his suit and tie and my mother her pretty dresses to put on peasant working clothes. My father had transformed an old bicycle into a contraption that could carry my mother on the back seat, two hoes with handles strapped to the bike body, and a couple of baskets hanging from the sides. Together they would leave early in the morning for the fields and come back quite late, usually when all the ducks and chicken had been fed and repaired to their coops for the night.<br />
<br />
It was true that money was extremely low and we had to grow our own food, but there was an equally important reason for my parents to undertake the labor of farming. Manual laboring was the new political correctness; any other lifestyle was deemed corrupted and could result in real trouble for individuals and their families. For the whole country had fallen to communist forces a couple of years back, and we were having our first taste of living under a communist regime.<br />
<br />
At school we saluted a new flag and was taught to revere a man half smiling from his beard. Under his gaze from a portrait hanging high above the blackboard, we learned that we had been liberated from cruel oppressors and a new bright future was wide open for us. All thanks to the bearded man and his fighters, whose heroic deeds filled up our textbooks and were measured by how many they had killed. We listened to the demonization of those called enemies and were urged to nurture a deep hatred against them, which despite my eagerness to obey I could not find anywhere in my heart. We sang songs that expressed gratitude to the bearded man and his party, who for some strange reason were credited with providing us with food and clothes.<br />
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Ironically at home food was getting less and less on our table, and my clothes became worn and faded with no prospect for new ones. A somber mood seemed to have descended on the household, but I did not mind; for I had friends to play with, fields and streams and groves to roam about, and on a rainy day books to bury my head in. Until one day when I overheard a conversation between my parents.<br />
<br />
I was just outside their bedroom when my father said to my mother, "There's nothing we can do." She softly repeated it as if in resigned acceptance, and a sudden chill seeped through my body. I had always taken for granted that whatever trouble the world might bring to our door, my parents would be able to ward it off with a wave of hand. Now by their own admission, we were facing a problem about which they were just as helpless as I was. The wall of security had just crumbled around me, and I no longer felt protected. <br />
<br />
From that moment I knew my childhood had ended, and things would never be the same again. One day my father was summoned to the District Public Security Headquarters and did not return until six years later.Thuan Nguyenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16529355768857578084noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4281220787040747964.post-84112333879111803862015-09-03T23:34:00.000-04:002015-09-13T18:53:26.060-04:00Windows<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD-EmS8FPrPNT3WweXrDBnkyt9xRECxB32K51Fv0_0vGDrITZszweF1wzj5zCr98nfk-DvqcGiBSw_93csAUXCNzhBJO0nhdm083PmnuPCQrOfmbpvPI8WBTzBYci43CitKb4yiEKrng/s1600/10999320_469961313165249_6206081572518393769_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD-EmS8FPrPNT3WweXrDBnkyt9xRECxB32K51Fv0_0vGDrITZszweF1wzj5zCr98nfk-DvqcGiBSw_93csAUXCNzhBJO0nhdm083PmnuPCQrOfmbpvPI8WBTzBYci43CitKb4yiEKrng/s320/10999320_469961313165249_6206081572518393769_o.jpg" /></a></div>Whenever I am sick, I think of windows. Lying in bed and too tired to think of anything else, I look at my window naturally. Just like today.<br />
<br />
Today there is sunshine outside. Through my window I can see it golden on the big gray trunk of an old pine tree and on part of the crepe myrtle tree bearing bright purple flowers in my backyard. The rest of the crepe myrtle tree is stuck in the shadow of a wall where its colors are of a more sober shade. A piece of blue sky shows above the wooden fence. The view, modest as it is, unfailingly steers my thoughts to a more cheerful direction.<br />
<br />
I also remember the bedroom windows in my past. One was upstairs, looking right at a maple tree which was green in summer, golden and red in fall, and gray bare in winter. I used to wake up to the sight of that maple tree and the chirping sound of birds which penetrated even the window glass. I was going through a rough time then, but it was good to have that window to start a new day.<br />
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There was another upstairs window that looked down upon a young cherry tree in my front yard. It was spectacular in spring when it was blossoming in full pink with red robins flitting back and forth, but I loved it best when it started to show tiny buds that signaled the end of a dull winter. It was comforting to see hope started with such modesty before growing into such splendor.<br />
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In my life there were also dreary windows, which offered nothing more than the view of a bleak wall, stained with traces of rain and dust accumulated over years of neglect. Even in the brightest of days they only let in a weak, pallid sort of light, begrudgingly given to the unfortunate occupant of the room. No help to the downtrodden spirit really.<br />
<br />
There are windows that I never had, those seen in some impressionist paintings with boxes filled with bright red geraniums overlooking an old, narrow, cobbled street. It must be nice sitting there in the morning, a cup of coffee in hand and the aroma of freshly baked pastries wafting in the air.<br />
<br />
My favorite window was one that opened to the front yard of my old home, where my mother planted red roses, purple and coral gladiolas, white marguerite daisies, and a variety of pansies. I used to sit there, watching birds and butterflies play among the flowers and plants, or sometimes the rain coming down pitter-pattering on the shuddering leaves. It was so peaceful I would stay there for hours, the open book in my hand still unread.<br />
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Soon I will have that window again, I promise myself. My mother will not be there to plant her flowers anymore, but I will be watching my little girl playing on the lawn. Her little hands will touch the first flowers in her life; and her guileless smile will brighten up my many days to come. Thuan Nguyenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16529355768857578084noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4281220787040747964.post-80177309975639690272015-08-29T21:09:00.002-04:002015-08-30T17:07:42.348-04:00September, AgainSeptember is knocking at the door again. Early signs of fall are starting to show -- milder temperature, rain, and trees changing color. Soon, more and more leaves will fall.<br />
<br />
Yesterday evening I went to the same funeral home where I had said my last goodbye to my mother four months ago. This time it was for someone I knew from church. If my mother had been an autumn leaf, ripe for falling, then this friend was still a summer leaf which should have stayed green for many more years. Cancer has put a premature end to her life and a big empty hole in her young children's life. I stood listening to the sobbing of her daughter and thought of my own pain, which after four months still feels raw.<br />
<br />
My friend will be buried at the same cemetery where my mother was laid down to rest, a beautiful place that has become dear to me in a bittersweet way. I first came there to pick out the plot and the marker design for my mother's grave. Then I came to put new flowers in the vase. I came to tell my mother about my life, my job, my feelings, and most of all my baby daughter.<br />
<br />
My daughter had been born just one month before my mother passed away, a new joy to fill in the painful emptiness. Such is the way of life, nothing is ever undiluted. In a blooming rose there is always a flawed petal. In a dark night there are always a few stars twinkling somewhere above.<br />
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One more September is coming to my life, bringing with it the beauty of fall tinged with a bit of melancholy, and I know I have to embrace both.Thuan Nguyenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16529355768857578084noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4281220787040747964.post-22998946051665257942014-12-23T21:46:00.000-05:002015-01-03T22:14:01.182-05:00A Fall Leaf<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-Y2P1nO5GA7DOrqIdre30Kayj1mIeKev453r-Ox2Amn5L-y6krXfJdS607HThE2rqcVtbgDV6FNchGsC6tjZYVol_gcmflm-2XIPODuS-jUA1Gwc3OTFUhm8lNYWvXW40to33V1aiTg/s1600/fall-maple-leaf-elena-elisseeva.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-Y2P1nO5GA7DOrqIdre30Kayj1mIeKev453r-Ox2Amn5L-y6krXfJdS607HThE2rqcVtbgDV6FNchGsC6tjZYVol_gcmflm-2XIPODuS-jUA1Gwc3OTFUhm8lNYWvXW40to33V1aiTg/s320/fall-maple-leaf-elena-elisseeva.jpg" /></a></div>Outside my window one afternoon in October, a single maple leaf was falling. For a moment its golden color gleamed in the soft sunlight, while a light breeze was gently helping it to the ground.<br />
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And I thought, how gracefully it is coming to its death while looking its most beautiful too.Thuan Nguyenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16529355768857578084noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4281220787040747964.post-45621154148145578752014-11-29T11:57:00.001-05:002014-12-19T20:06:04.267-05:00Road TripOne sunny morning last year, while I was mowing my lawn and tangling with the thick, lush summer grass in suburban Atlanta, the phone in my pocket rang. Congratulations, you got the job. The starting date was two months away, so the cogwheels in my brain started turning and clicked into a plan which would gratify my long suppressed wanderlust. It was a travel plan, the Grand Canyon being the destination. I had seen photos of the place as a little boy, yet after almost twenty years living in America I still didn't pay it a visit. It was now or never, for soon I would no longer be a bachelor and would have a family nicely in tow.<br />
<br />
I was quite used to driving alone over long distances, letting my mind wander back and forth, listening to music, looking at the scenery when there was something interesting coming into view. But for the most part, the experience was monotonous and mind-numbing; and sitting in the car for too long didn't do me any good physically either.<br />
<br />
It started raining when I crossed into Alabama, and by the time I approached Birmingham it was definitely pouring. The highway was blocked for repair so I had to make one detour after another across a totally unfamiliar city while the rain was coming down in torrents. Eight hours later, the traffic was blocked on a highway in Arkansas for almost two hours, during which I turned off the engine and lowered the back of my seat for a nap, then woke up when the trucker behind me blew a honk. By the time I showed up at my sister's house in Fort Smith in exhaustion, it was two o'clock in the morning. I always try to see things in a positive light, glass half full and all, but that day was a disaster and there was no way to spin it otherwise.<br />
<br />
<br />
The road to Magazine Mountain was a narrow and winding one, passing through a small old-fashioned town with cracked asphalt streets, single-storied storefronts, and a church that lorded it over all the rest. Beyond the town, little houses perched high on the hillside, then the road dipped to skirt a lake rippling in the breeze. A hamlet, worn and dilapidated, broken tractors dejectedly sitting in overgrown yards, then the road tilted up among pine groves until patches of yellow flowers appeared under a scorching sun.<br />
<br />
From the top it was a grand view looking down the sheer drop to the verdant forests below and afar. The cliffs were of gigantic dimensions, their light color sharply in contrast with whatever green vegetation miraculously growing out from the cracks in the vertical rock face. I idly wondered if trees had self-awareness, because if they did then the trees that grew on rock would certainly feel unfairly treated compared to those that grew on fertile soil; but then they had a better view from where they were, didn't they?<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE3U2pKCPLPnRs7PvaQ08vYLRm5DvdDAAK0vr1luI-EwPMoUAubyq_URiUPhEWGHZaxXOq_AYbVfV_vWwkMKUeUF_473GXetkiPxfaJa_gaQ8OLumJfGxKNNeEBJRuiaPsE6U6zS-wYw/s1600/mountmagazine.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE3U2pKCPLPnRs7PvaQ08vYLRm5DvdDAAK0vr1luI-EwPMoUAubyq_URiUPhEWGHZaxXOq_AYbVfV_vWwkMKUeUF_473GXetkiPxfaJa_gaQ8OLumJfGxKNNeEBJRuiaPsE6U6zS-wYw/s400/mountmagazine.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<br />
A phone call from an old friend prompted me to head in a more southerly direction than I had planned. The Grand Canyon had not gone anywhere in the past few millions of years, so chances were that it would stay put for a few more days. In the meantime, I was going to spend some time with my buddy in Dallas.<br />
<br />
In Oklahoma I veered south through some farmland then the refreshing lakes near the town of Eufaula. The rest of the countryside was not much to see, just more farmland and a few shabby villages where the only thing to pay attention to was to reduce my speed. I once was stopped by a cop in rural Arkansas, who looked exactly like the Louisiana cop in the "Live and Let Die" James Bond movie. If you haven't seen it then let's just say he was fat, bald, and had bad teeth. To avoid such an encounter again, I kept my eyes on the speedometer like a model citizen.<br />
<br />
This part of Oklahoma was separated from Texas by a bridge crossing the Red River. I wondered if it was the same river in the song "Red River Valley". I'd also read somewhere that there's another Red River in Canada. Anyway I crossed the bridge and entered Texas, where everything was big. If you think everything being big in Texas is just an overused cliché then just go into a Texas restaurant and find out, you will be amply surprised.<br />
<br />
<br />
Big nature gave way to big concrete when I got to the outskirts of Dallas. My friend kept calling to ask me where I was. Easy lad, you'll soon have more of me than you'd want to. Half an hour and a couple of misdirections later I parked in front of a newish brick front house in a newish subdivision. The guy who answered the door was more thickset than I remembered, roundish in the middle, but his welcome smile was still the same, his carefree laugh sounded the same, his wittiness had not diminished one bit. His wife was away on business, so with no spouses in the way we quickly settled into the easy comfort of two men who had known each other since forever.<br />
<br />
Dinner at a dimly lit Thai restaurant, then a walk around an artificial lake in an area that looked imposing but so new it lacked in atmosphere. Somehow it felt fake, almost like seeing the Eiffel Tower in Las Vegas. Even the lake didn't seem alive, there was not a single breeze coming from it. Let's just go home, I suggested.<br />
<br />
Our conversation came naturally and abundantly. We trusted each other so completely there was no need to hold back anything, and it was truly refreshing. The next day, we had lunch with my friend's parents, who lived in another part of the metropolis. His father kept saying oh and ah when he saw me, for the last time we had met I had been a small kid, shy and malnourished, quite the opposite of the way I looked today. Well, the last time I had seen him, the gentleman hadn't been bald, still I didn't oh and ah any; but I guessed I should defer to the elderly, being a good boy and such.<br />
<br />
When I left Dallas the next morning I carried with me two surprises. One was a hug from my friend, who I had thought would never show any emotion under any circumstance. The second surprise was a picture he had taken of me the previous evening after talking me into posing as the driver of a rickshaw on display at an Asian mall in Arlington, something I had never thought I would do under any circumstance either.<br />
<br />
<br />
The road to Amarillo took me through a part of Texas that had seen better days. Dreariness was an apt and adequate description, and I thought it must be sad to grow up around here. I stopped by a rest area, went into a farmhouse-style building that housed a display of some items from the old days in this region. With amusement I learned that the nearest town was Clarendon, founded by a Methodist minister and his followers in 1878. Life was austere in Clarendon - no drinking, no gambling, no brawling, and no womanizing either I guess, such that the more rowdy crowd living nearby sarcastically named it "Saints' Roost". Conservatives frowning upon liberals and liberals mocking conservatives are certainly not new in America.<br />
<br />
A thunderstorm was coming to this flat land, and such an impressive sight it was. Running alongside the highway was a railroad track, beyond the track stretched a green field as far as my eyes could possibly see. Then near the very horizon rose a white farmhouse with a line of tree tops, where the clouds above became darker and meaner, bigger and heavier, more threatening by the moment, an invasion force relentless spread out to occupy the whole large sky. Nothing in this empty land got in the way of the oncoming assault; even the wind was rushing away in great worry. It was formidably beautiful.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
A few miles west of Amarillo there was a row of Cadillacs buried halfway in the ground, covered in gaudy graffiti. I took a glance and didn't bother to stop there, but I found a photo from the Web to show you. Maybe one day when I get old and can no longer go places I might contemplate on it long enough and find the answers to some profound philosophical questions. For now I gave up before I even tried.<br />
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I woke up early in an Albuquerque motel and drove to Elena Gallegos Park, going north on Tramway Boulevard. The quiet, cool morning air was exhilarating. The sky was limpidly blue, not one single speck of cloud to break its wholeness. The park lay in the shadow of the Sandia Mountains, sparsely covered by low trees and bushes. A few people were jogging or just walking along the trails. It was an easy and pleasant scene, far removed from the hustle-bustle of large cities or the dreary drudging of farm life.<br />
<br />
I parked next to an old white camper and was standing on the roof of my car for a better view of the park, when a tall, white-haired gentleman emerged from a trail and headed straight to the camper. We exchanged greetings and I learned his name was Jean-Paul. No surprise that his English had a trace of French accent. He had come to New Mexico fifty-two years before, and had been staying there ever since. What story could there be that had made a young Frenchman barely in his twenties leave Paris to come to this remote region, almost a desert wilderness, to live out his long rest of life? I was as curious as twenty cats but politeness prevented me from prying. Maybe the monsieur had run away from a tragedy, a crime, an unrequited love, a scandal of some sort. Too bad I didn't ask, now I will never know.<br />
<br />
Roses and roses, they were the first things I noticed when I stood in front of the Sandia Peak Tramway station building. Just off the rose bushes, some pottery were artfully arranged as a reminder of the rich local heritage. A couple of benches for weary feet to rest, a bicycle rack for the more sporty type of whom I had seen a few in helmets and spandex on my way here. From this vantage point my eyes swept across a sparse landscape of stunted desert vegetation with the city of Albuquerque further down to the west, all drenched in the glaring sunlight at nine o'clock in the morning.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMzZnAGTzumWHzNpmzRhFR_esXHWDrK6iVOuC1EmdXyClQdDZlkAbF5y7WREzhMMANH9pOqXOkP78YitEar_ZeoHvFfRO_uA3n0EEMUhCBKdG9Dvxj2cKsKnV84PCoUSKoWGZ-H6SGGQ/s1600/bike.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMzZnAGTzumWHzNpmzRhFR_esXHWDrK6iVOuC1EmdXyClQdDZlkAbF5y7WREzhMMANH9pOqXOkP78YitEar_ZeoHvFfRO_uA3n0EEMUhCBKdG9Dvxj2cKsKnV84PCoUSKoWGZ-H6SGGQ/s400/bike.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Twenty bucks bought me a ride on the aerial tramway climbing four thousand feet to the Sandia Peak and back. After roughly twenty minutes of waiting we filed into a glass-enclosed tramcar where a guide in uniform was already present with a welcome smile. The cable system started, and we were hauled out of the dock into vacant air. The guide was talking volubly about the mountain and its ecosystem, the tramway and its history, with some jokes thrown in for taste. The enthusiasm in his voice was dampened somewhat by repetition, for he must have spoken the same lines hundreds of times already.<br />
<br />
I was only paying a fraction of my attention to the skinny long-haired guide anyway, for my eyes were riveted by the spectacular scenery slowly unfurling outside. As we were rising in the air, we passed thrillingly close to the gigantic rock walls, looking down on a multitude of canyons and cliffs and spires, all very rugged, extremely perilous, and absolutely breathtaking. This must have been what eagles could see while they were soaring up the mountain, and the sight filled me with indescribable elation.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipqRLau3Nu1a3gSaftNIY8xE247ukTUek9dOXaXkSOlOjeDenyu9wi_AMnO4Mc0FfWaMkVv8HdheQtd36xNnx33L-apES0E9joRwkpMYGLHnjwqyrYZFGyIeAif1AMxmGDG9fvGvTXRA/s1600/sandia2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipqRLau3Nu1a3gSaftNIY8xE247ukTUek9dOXaXkSOlOjeDenyu9wi_AMnO4Mc0FfWaMkVv8HdheQtd36xNnx33L-apES0E9joRwkpMYGLHnjwqyrYZFGyIeAif1AMxmGDG9fvGvTXRA/s400/sandia2.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Right in the middle of such a sumptuous visual treat, a timid little voice arose anxiously, "Where's the emergency exit, Daddy?" followed by a few chuckles in response. Ten minutes later we landed at the top.<br />
<br />
The temperature up here was considerably cooler. The trees were much taller and greener, mostly pines, firs and spruces, some so old their trunks were gnarled and twisted and hoary. Wild flowers appeared here and there along the trails, yellow and white and purple, some shy some bold on their green background of leaves. Stopping at the edge of an observation deck, I looked at the rugged mountains nearby and the arid land way deep below, marveling at the raw beauty of this outlandish panorama.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFkaxnQFQjGx78Wv12_Gj40Qf3uGW1U6WXgk-mrdCAgOrfry5VPzmBt4EqyVWjCSRbsg-92Q90ZLNgPCs8QDWXGyJaeeDyCaKkpuasCc-YypLvOQmSEsRO1J-sBV2iyVyWxtw7UPfRgQ/s1600/sandia6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFkaxnQFQjGx78Wv12_Gj40Qf3uGW1U6WXgk-mrdCAgOrfry5VPzmBt4EqyVWjCSRbsg-92Q90ZLNgPCs8QDWXGyJaeeDyCaKkpuasCc-YypLvOQmSEsRO1J-sBV2iyVyWxtw7UPfRgQ/s400/sandia6.jpg" /></a></div><br />
A pair of hikers emerged where a trail was wedged between a gorge and a cliff, an older white-haired gentleman and a much younger, wiry one, both sweating from what I assumed had been a strenuous walk in the rough mountain. The younger man was saying it was a wonderful hike, sir, and thank you so much for inviting me along. The older man just smiled and mumbled something polite. I wondered what their relationship might be that the older man was carrying himself in such a calm and relaxed manner, while his companion was all earnest, serious, and profuse in speech. They could be mentor and protégé, or the older man could have a daughter whom the younger one was hoping to marry. They were out of my sight now, and I could still hear the young man loudly articulate about work and education. Oh well, a new and upcoming guy, I'm sure.<br />
<br />
Later on, while driving out of the parking lot at the foot of the mountain, I saw the two of them again. My car window was lowered, so I heard the young man talk again. He was saying, guess what, it was such a great hike, sir, thank you for inviting me along, sir. I chuckled to myself, not so sure about his being upcoming anymore, and headed to downtown Albuquerque in search of a place for lunch.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLl5R-k3MlYR0gcppo1Pyhm331IeSqWjf1FgZs0n0dCCPw6ftqcIhfp9NoXTjhpp5ilO7DPPlVF1CapRObInzixRK-YXZIBHEdKP1GstjfcpKWbxcHWR7gIiWM-v8_1osfAy7cEgoMnQ/s1600/sandia10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLl5R-k3MlYR0gcppo1Pyhm331IeSqWjf1FgZs0n0dCCPw6ftqcIhfp9NoXTjhpp5ilO7DPPlVF1CapRObInzixRK-YXZIBHEdKP1GstjfcpKWbxcHWR7gIiWM-v8_1osfAy7cEgoMnQ/s400/sandia10.jpg" /></a></div><br />
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Flagstaff is an exception in Arizona. Instead of packed red earth and rock formations with not much for vegetation to hang on to, this area is amply covered in pine trees. I was heading North on Route 89 in the morning sunlight, fresh and soft, the kind of diffused light that makes everything beautiful and dreamy. Then the greenery faded and another kind of landscape came into view, straight out of Tony Hillerman's novels which I had once been so fond of.<br />
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The land was empty all around, but it was neither flat nor rolling with soft contours. Instead, it looked like it had been violently chopped and sliced and shaved by an enraged supernatural hand into a vast, dry wasteland of flat-topped elevations called mesas that stretched miles and miles, separated by deep zigzagging canyons that exposed gigantic rugged cliffs. Against their dull red color, the only growth I could see was a kind of shaggy grass that looked so tough that I suspected cattle wouldn't have deigned to eat. Yet the space and the devoidness gave me a strange feeling of liberation, of not being confined or attached to anything, while the wind was freely blowing in my face.<br />
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I wondered how it would be to have been born and bred here, generation after generation, like the Navajos and the Hopis I had read about. This land was so barren one was bound to work extra hard and get little in return, which would set low expectations in the mentality. Then harsh life had to be embraced at least for the sake of sanity, so whatever philosophy they had hatched had to be stern, no epicureans there for sure. And in this enormously empty territory, one had to be very used to solitude.<br />
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<br />
I drove into the Grand Canyon National Park via the east entrance on the South Rim. I had read books and seen pictures of this natural wonder, still I was filled with great awe. Who wouldn't be, standing in front of something so big, so grandiose, so fearsome? The sheer size of it made one feel reduced to piteous insignificance. Its cliffs were like the ramparts of a city where ancient giants had dwelled. Its irregular-shaped formations were like the remnants of an epic battle among the gods of ancient times. One mile deep below, the winding Colorado River looked like a puny stream that was on the verge of expiration.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZfXDIdSXD_t90MfUZL25kjtgW2U8nuLfC2H8wf_GlftTuuuRki6tRv_O3S2AbAbol6OWQdwpnRZbxs5xzmslutsuRmXOhGyzx8-nqvktDqmTEsZxaA5Tl9g76hmus39Uj-BDSmPUzYQ/s1600/GrandCanyon2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZfXDIdSXD_t90MfUZL25kjtgW2U8nuLfC2H8wf_GlftTuuuRki6tRv_O3S2AbAbol6OWQdwpnRZbxs5xzmslutsuRmXOhGyzx8-nqvktDqmTEsZxaA5Tl9g76hmus39Uj-BDSmPUzYQ/s400/GrandCanyon2.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRhkACP5ITGzHIvtjhHvTM3KHyNcfk9FIaCa2DYr-5-tS8OMHuioj_UJa_0C4YYgOKilPCOHRpIdJbuat7tqKRJyugVFLYFP4ONDTGQ3Q66AmXwEZcJ-2LQklOvkaQEVjbUgku7iIPOg/s1600/GrandCanyon6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRhkACP5ITGzHIvtjhHvTM3KHyNcfk9FIaCa2DYr-5-tS8OMHuioj_UJa_0C4YYgOKilPCOHRpIdJbuat7tqKRJyugVFLYFP4ONDTGQ3Q66AmXwEZcJ-2LQklOvkaQEVjbUgku7iIPOg/s400/GrandCanyon6.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieFGkFasA1JzYNBUc2lTsqD4V626KEdc-6KVFjbslddj71DLu55p3Kh-TBNknuT7uYwSi_t243UyQlWt1QEFXuly9c5OYqPVKnCeqrylQmCPA8KZ2VO6U26tRWy_ElLWyB3x8PJKo4Gw/s1600/gandcanyon12.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieFGkFasA1JzYNBUc2lTsqD4V626KEdc-6KVFjbslddj71DLu55p3Kh-TBNknuT7uYwSi_t243UyQlWt1QEFXuly9c5OYqPVKnCeqrylQmCPA8KZ2VO6U26tRWy_ElLWyB3x8PJKo4Gw/s400/gandcanyon12.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYBvO6DeL8ylyFrZFyyKL_D_GoZxI3wGDV-TZZ2AfTCXpVBipl8RX66CDx5wzeSa3d9vFmr7KTPqmQ2Bjdz2CggeFCfOsxTFjkjBKc2_OvbfB0FHuV-wuHbD_O-mXtUGLWjLrVJz85xg/s1600/grandcanyon4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYBvO6DeL8ylyFrZFyyKL_D_GoZxI3wGDV-TZZ2AfTCXpVBipl8RX66CDx5wzeSa3d9vFmr7KTPqmQ2Bjdz2CggeFCfOsxTFjkjBKc2_OvbfB0FHuV-wuHbD_O-mXtUGLWjLrVJz85xg/s400/grandcanyon4.jpg" /></a></div><br />
This place was practically swarmed by tourists. The closer I got to the south entrance the denser the crowd became. It was impossible to find a quiet place with a good view of the Canyon to look and ponder on its meaning. It was just as impossible to take a photo without someone wandering into the frame. <br />
<br />
I sat down on a stone step to rest. An excited young Chinese couple asked me to take a picture of them together. A German man was toting a big camera, directing his wife and two children to pose for his filming. A French father was trying to keep his kids from running out of his sight. The German uttered a frustrated grunt because his family didn't pose exactly the way he wanted, while his wife and children looked strained from trying unsuccessfully to pose the way they were asked to. The fun trip suddenly did not seem so fun anymore just because the father wanted a perfect video of the trip. Daddy really needed to get his priorities straight.<br />
<br />
People kept streaming by in front of me, chattering in several different languages. As the sun rays shifted their angle, the canyon's color tones were changing. In its enormous bowels, shadows of clouds looked like moving islands. I could have left sooner or I could have stayed longer, it didn't really matter. For this place reminded me of eternity, and I left when I left.Thuan Nguyenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16529355768857578084noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4281220787040747964.post-5378015101843721692014-11-28T23:56:00.001-05:002015-09-07T10:52:14.239-04:00Under a Willow TreeUnder a willow tree on a white sand beach, I was sitting on a wooden bench looking out to the blue water of the Gulf of Mexico.<br />
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I was at Fort de Soto Park just outside Saint Petersburg, Florida, waiting for an old friend to show up. After a couple of years in the low hills of Atlanta, I had decided to have a change of scenery, and the bright blue sky merged with the silvery blue sea bordered with fine white sand lined with uncouth grass and bushes and disheveled palm trees was a welcome sight for my eyes.<br />
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I was sitting on a wooden bench in the shade of a pale green willow tree, savoring the quietness of an uncommercial beach. No expensive hotels, no luxurious resorts, no fancy restaurants here. Only the murmuring soft surf and the occasional seagull cries broke the silence. Once in a while a couple of joggers following the trail passed by and nodded me a smile.<br />
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Did the wind that was blowing right into my face come all the way from Mexico? Did the birds that were gracefully gliding their curved wings above my head fly from another land where a different language was spoken? And that dark, hulking cargo ship slowly passing by in the bay, where did it come from and where was it heading to? The atmosphere itself carried a whiff of the exotic here, where a different history sat on the land and Spanish names snugly resided on nearby street signs.<br />
<br />
My old friend just appeared around a bend in the path leading from the beach to a parking lot. He was carrying a plastic shopping bag, which must be our lunch he'd just got from a deli in town. Short, gaunt and smiling, he did not change much since the last time we had met.<br />
<br />
A handshake, then he sat down beside me under the willow tree. How's life treating you, old buddy? How's your daughter doing, is her autism getting any better? And your wife, is the cancer still retreating? Do you still work two jobs to make ends meet?<br />
<br />
The whims of life had thrown us together three decades ago in a classroom which was now just a faded memory, but the long years of continuing friendship gave us a lot to talk about. Friends we hadn't heard from for years; dreams we hadn't thought of for even more years. What we had gained, what we had lost, and what we could still expect from our lives ahead. We left the bench and took a long walk along the beach, breathing in the briny sea air, pressing our toes into the sand, watching people swimming or just relaxing under colorful umbrellas.<br />
<br />
We stopped at a pavilion and bought a shaved ice each, which reminded us of our childhood when shaved ice was about the only treat affordable on our meager and irregular spending money. We leisurely enjoyed the sight and sounds of a public beach on a weekend. Then out of the blue he said:<br />
<br />
- I feel so tired, like a candle burned from both ends. I can't remember the last time I had some time for myself.<br />
<br />
When we parted, we had a tight handshake, and that was all I could offer my best friend.Thuan Nguyenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16529355768857578084noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4281220787040747964.post-29101901459907336192014-11-28T18:54:00.000-05:002014-11-28T19:10:19.983-05:00Key Ring<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrnL2jD0MxBQBlcqQ9fDVp5IMgoK5IeEsQHvkVlQtWI9ib_5S-uzaAUUN3qNo5SPoWFcUUNqXCjWgzZwEKZct3AhWkSqKTXe4psqP8VgLbfq5IchjTSW5BdaJGXbw_5kLB-5gzC48iuA/s1600/keyring.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrnL2jD0MxBQBlcqQ9fDVp5IMgoK5IeEsQHvkVlQtWI9ib_5S-uzaAUUN3qNo5SPoWFcUUNqXCjWgzZwEKZct3AhWkSqKTXe4psqP8VgLbfq5IchjTSW5BdaJGXbw_5kLB-5gzC48iuA/s320/keyring.jpg" /></a></div>I had never realized the meaning of a key ring until I sold my shop a little over two years ago, when only two keys remained on my ring, one to my house, the other to my car.<br />
<br />
Less keys meant less responsibility, less burden, which up to that point had hung heavily on my mind. Now that all the other keys were gone, it felt like a dense mist had been lifted from myself. I saw more colors, observed more details, paid more attention to my surroundings. I felt healthier. I felt the joy of liberation.<br />
<br />
Yet I knew that this buoyancy would not last long. Sooner or later, I would have to assume other responsibilities and add other keys to my ring. In this world where we live, unless one leads the life of a drifter, keys are a requirement. They mean you have access to something or some place that others don't. They separate and categorize, assert privileges and remind of duties, delight and depress people. In an ideal world there should be no keys. I wonder if there are keys in Heaven.<br />
<br />
At this point, I still have only two keys in my ring, which is true but not entirely true. I now have a badge to wear around my neck, a badge which electronically open doors to the corporate building where I currently work. Not quite out of it, am I?Thuan Nguyenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16529355768857578084noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4281220787040747964.post-19356590318820942892014-11-28T15:23:00.002-05:002014-11-28T15:42:43.144-05:00Sketches from Boyhood<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQPJixchsWupTkxiVeWMjtDgLQh35oOE048ibEAbljqEsjzzbIZ8lI61TU5mZRLpx_vgGTD7O9DmGOKr-4hiC49_cQc7eVEHYzmH_Y3JsVPT2zMMvOtwPYlArHX9u_m0YxmJuhV6_RBQ/s1600/lotus.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQPJixchsWupTkxiVeWMjtDgLQh35oOE048ibEAbljqEsjzzbIZ8lI61TU5mZRLpx_vgGTD7O9DmGOKr-4hiC49_cQc7eVEHYzmH_Y3JsVPT2zMMvOtwPYlArHX9u_m0YxmJuhV6_RBQ/s320/lotus.jpg" /></a></div>I remember when I was a boy walking through green fields of rice laden with the light fragrance of half-forming grains. The narrow borders between patches were lined with tiny wild flowers in yellow and purple. Sometimes my eyes caught little fish swimming in the clear water around the lush rice stalks. Where they came from and what lay ahead of them in life, they did not seem to care, but I would wonder for just a wee moment.<br />
<br />
When the rice got riper, birds would flock to the fields to feast on the golden grains. To us who had toiled and sweated for the wetland to eventually yield its fruit that would give us a living, these birds were like blatant robbers, so we would scream and jeer and scare them away. We would stay until the stars came out in the dark velvety sky and the birds all went back to their nests and the insects began their nocturnal chirping and mosquito bites started to be felt, then we would walk home with peace both in the landscape and in our heart.<br />
<br />
I remember a small river meandering behind our house, the bank on our side low and grassy, while the other side was high and bare almost like a cliff of red earth. I could glimpse mysterious thatched roofs half-hidden among tall green bamboo trees at the top of the high bank, all the more appealing because the kids said people grew sugar canes there, while on our side there were only patches of tobacco plants with their broad furry leaves and tiny pink flowers, which were inedible and did not interest me one bit.<br />
<br />
My brother, who was four years older than I was, drew from that river a lot more than I could ever hope for. He could swim, he could fish, nameless little white fish and sometimes sizable carps which tasted delicious after being deep fried. As for me I would content myself by just sitting there on the grass watching the water flow, its color a cold grey occasionally flashing with a reflection of sunshine whenever and wherever a frolicking fish jumped into the air. Sometimes following the sound of grenade explosions upstream, a procession of floating dead fish, both large and small, materialized before my shocked eyes. Then with a sinking heart I knew unpleasant people existed very close to me, people who did not even need the fish they had killed in such an indiscriminate manner. These incidents always left me morose until I was otherwise distracted.<br />
<br />
There was a brick kiln about a mile from school, where we kids would go for clay for our handicraft projects. We would take clay from discarded malformed bricks when they were still moist, cool to the touch and still malleable. From it we would make cubes and pyramids, elephants and chicken. My hands were by no means those of a sculptor, and the masterpieces I turned out were abstract at best. It was invariably a frustrating experience for me.<br />
<br />
All the same going to that brick kiln was always a pleasure. What would captivate my attention was not the kiln itself, but the numerous ponds full of lotus flowers right next to it. Generous pink petals protectively surrounding yellow cores, broad green leaves floating in emerald water, then more and more of them all over the place until my senses became overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of their colorful radiance.<br />
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At twilight, across a meadow of rough, tall grass, the orange and purple afterglow put in sharp relief a smattering of clouds, wispy and eerie, as if coming from a long lost fairyland. I would stop to drink in that sight, that moment of nature revealing its finest magic. The trill of insects, the croaking of frogs, the occasional cry of birds hurrying back to their nests sounded lonely and gave shivers to a young boy still miles from home; yet the awareness of a different world apart from human hustling and toiling, judging and hurting, was quite fascinating and strangely comforting.<br />
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Only now that I realize I was rich to have so much to remember.Thuan Nguyenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16529355768857578084noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4281220787040747964.post-74873338952673256672014-11-27T21:10:00.001-05:002014-11-28T21:08:55.260-05:00Corinna, CorinnaAbout 200 miles south of Atlanta I stopped by a McDonald's for lunch. Normally I frown on fast food, but while on the road one cannot be choosy and convenience seems more important.<br />
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I was tired but lighthearted. My old worrying self had departed for a while now, and things were looking up. There was this gentle but perpetual warmth inside that formed an easy smile on my face. Some people looked at me and smiled back.<br />
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An old, familiar song started playing. "I love Corinna, tell the world I do..." This song came out long before I was even born; but the soft, loving melody still told me of tender love, young and trusting, simple and sincere, undiluted and unabashed. It struck a sensitive chord and triggered a buoyancy in me.<br />
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The road ahead was still long though.Thuan Nguyenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16529355768857578084noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4281220787040747964.post-41741944086170127932014-11-27T21:02:00.001-05:002014-11-27T21:04:09.252-05:00Good to Be BackI am typing these lines in my new home, heart and mind at ease, the peaceful quietness conducive to reminiscence and thoughtfulness. In the past two years so many things happened so quickly that I hardly know where to start.<br />
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Business sold, unnecessarily big house sold, a road trip to the Grand Canyon with detour in Dallas, a new job and the adjustment coming with it, a trip half way around the world to get married, new friends, new family, then the imminent fatherhood which is expected to change my life radically -- did I leave out anything?<br />
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Above all, I feel much closer to God, which means a new and rich spiritual life and the reason I feel rested inside. I am happy now.Thuan Nguyenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16529355768857578084noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4281220787040747964.post-86662634186523389322013-07-27T12:36:00.000-04:002013-08-01T07:47:02.255-04:00Saturday MorningI’m sitting at my desk looking out the window at an overcast morning partially cheered up by the blooming red roses and coral gladiola in my front yard. My thoughts are not too cheerful, though.<br />
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The past few years have been tumultuous for me, and I have emerged a changed man at least in several aspects. One might argue it was good for me, but was it really worth the scars that have been permanently left? This morning I looked in the mirror and saw a tired, puffy face with decidedly unhealthy complexion woefully staring back, and I could almost hear it ask me why oh why I had to refuse to be just like everyone else.<br />
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The fact is that my world has shifted around me and I cannot adapt accordingly. Or rather I will not, or I cannot – I don’t know anymore. How to analyze why I still believe in kindness instead of self-interest, in truth instead of fabrication, in genuineness instead of calculation? How to explain the fondness I sense at the sight of a solitary wild flower, the joy I feel when a long-forgotten melody wafting on a fortuitous wind reaches my ear, or the nostalgic quiver that seizes my heart with a whiff of a distant perfume that whispers to me across the years?<br />
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In a world saturated with and dominated by crass, fake and whimsical values, I have sought solace in friendship but found mostly disappointment, in churches but seen only insecure and inflated egos, in God only to face an incomprehensibly silent stone wall. More than ever I’m feeling like an alien stranded on a grotesque planet.<br />
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Is it ever possible that I find a corner of my own to grow my roses, sing my songs, and be free to be just the way I am? I’m going to look in that mirror again to see if that tired face will regain its vigor anytime soon. Whatever feeble ember that remains inside me now, I'll have to fan it into flame once more.<br />
Thuan Nguyenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16529355768857578084noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4281220787040747964.post-31498137640786000182013-07-04T08:59:00.000-04:002013-07-04T08:59:33.155-04:00Winter SunriseI got up early on a February morning, bundled up, opened my bedroom window and waited for the moment the sun came up.<br />
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<img src="http://www.jupiterean.com/pictures1/dawn1.jpg" height="376" width="500"><br />
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<img src="http://www.jupiterean.com/pictures1/dawn2.jpg" height="376" width="500">Thuan Nguyenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16529355768857578084noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4281220787040747964.post-11106276712074464772012-01-04T13:02:00.000-05:002012-04-07T13:02:55.285-04:00How's Your Tank Filling Up?I spent a few minutes on New Year's Day to contemplate my days past and days to come while looking at the somber dry grass in my winter front lawn. It occurred to me that inside each of us there must be some sort of a tank which holds the knowledge and experiences we've accumulated over the years, and which governs our current way of living.<br />
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A young person doesn't have much in his tank, so he has to draw guidance from somewhere else, trying different philosophies and viewpoints for size. Like a ship without cargo, he still has to find his own balance.<br />
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With maturity, a man's tank is full enough to have a settling effect on him, but there's still room for acquiring more wisdom. Like a ship with enough freight in its hold, he sails the oceans with joy and confidence; yet with an open attitude he is also likely to gain new ideas and get to see new shores.<br />
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Well, it sounds very nice and all, except that it only works if we accumulate the right kind of material in our tanks. For many people, throughout their life, collect no gold dust but only useless dirt.<br />
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So, how's your tank filling up?Thuan Nguyenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16529355768857578084noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4281220787040747964.post-59091253548808604062012-01-03T18:36:00.000-05:002012-04-07T18:36:22.316-04:00Small Morning HourIt was well past midnight when we pulled into a gas station, which against the surrounding pitch-black nightscape appeared warmly inviting like some sort of home.<br />
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At this small hour there was less light, less noise, less activities. Yet whatever remaining seemed magnified; lights seemed brighter, sound sharper, even the gas smelt stronger.<br />
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In the refreshment area, the aroma of coffee and newly baked donuts felt immensely enticing. A few customers looked up, watching us curiously. I nodded at them, wondering who they were and what circumstances had led them here, away from home at this hour. At a busier time, in a public place like this one, nobody would have paid attention to anybody for sure.<br />
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Now I understand why they say less is more, I thought. With less distraction my senses actually picked up who and what around me with more clarity, making them more interesting. We sat down by a window, coffee in hand. The darkness outside seemed like a big unknown which we would soon venture into.<br />
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Not a bad way to start this new year. All I have to do is to get rid of noises from my life and carry only those things that matter into the uncharted territory of the days to come. A titillating sensation was creeping up my spine, and to the puzzlement of my companion I smiled happily.Thuan Nguyenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16529355768857578084noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4281220787040747964.post-32113904303862853222011-12-26T18:47:00.000-05:002012-04-07T18:48:00.891-04:00December<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiKjEwI2WBu3vcZBnDaJ15nH3JbwV3jB4YRlYWVG13Nz37cSNdsLJiYMXomFGkwbVtzdD-l57swWWLpHcL9x468P1xuf5VDcHewH7EechAryxCCLu6QtCVN-skfEE-e0ddap0av-v0Mg/s1600/forsythia-4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="215" width="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiKjEwI2WBu3vcZBnDaJ15nH3JbwV3jB4YRlYWVG13Nz37cSNdsLJiYMXomFGkwbVtzdD-l57swWWLpHcL9x468P1xuf5VDcHewH7EechAryxCCLu6QtCVN-skfEE-e0ddap0av-v0Mg/s400/forsythia-4.jpg" /></a></div>December came with my birthday and Christmas, both I met with indifference. It was for something else that I really felt.<br />
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The weather has been acting erratically this year. We had a warm spell in mid-December, pleasant enough for me to walk around in shorts and sandals. Then my astonished eyes caught bits of bright yellow standing out in the drab winter landscape, and I realized that a few forsythia shrubs were starting to bloom. Poor things, tricked by the unseasonably warm weather into blooming too soon. In a few days those tender flowers would be exposed to frigid air and prematurely wilt away.<br />
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I thought of the way my friends and I had grown up, not unlike those flowers which opened to life only to be met with cold harshness. We had been children of a country that had just lost a bitter war, and had not been spared the ignominious status of the vanquished. Our fathers had been taken away, our means of subsistence reduced to hardscrabble meagerness, our values and beliefs maliciously derogated. And growing up we had been faced with no prospect for education or jobs, regardless of competency.<br />
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Life had moved on, each of us had found our own way according to our own mettle as well as chance circumstances. Nevertheless, we had all shared the same experience as those flowers that had the misfortune to be blooming in mid-December.Thuan Nguyenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16529355768857578084noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4281220787040747964.post-40547230910110028192011-12-16T18:49:00.000-05:002012-04-07T18:50:13.810-04:00Scent of CypressI crush a piece of cypress leaf between my forefinger and thumb, let the pungent smell reach my nose, and my mind is right back when I was a boy of eight. <br />
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My world was small, confined mostly to my family and a few playmates from the neighborhood. Life was easy and fun; a few tears were shed once in a while but they dried as quickly as dewdrops in the sun. Then one day came the scent of cypress.<br />
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I came home from school, first noticed a sharp smell reminiscent of a fresh Christmas tree, then saw piles of cypress leaves on the floor. They were there, I was told, to be made into funeral wreaths. "Whose funeral?" I asked. "Mr L's son from church," came the answer. "He was an army captain, just died in combat. The funeral will be held tomorrow."<br />
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Of course there was a war raging on, but its echoes when reaching my little world became so faint I barely noticed. Even on that day, when death had touched someone I knew, I still could not grasp its significance. All my young mind could register was that acrid smell pervading our living room, rendering it both cold and unfamiliar.<br />
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The next day everyone went to the funeral, including the neighborhood kids. I stayed home alone, forlornly wandering through the empty house. The scent of cypress was still lingering in the air, and I was feeling strangely lonely and sad. In a subtle way, death had finally touched me and marred my innocent world.<br />
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It's been a while now that when I see a cypress tree, I feel compelled to break a leaf for its smell. Just to remind me of my own mortality.Thuan Nguyenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16529355768857578084noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4281220787040747964.post-70509103514947058032011-12-15T19:05:00.000-05:002012-12-26T10:27:10.915-05:00CasinoDuring the time we were housemates, Joe's favorite pastimes were throwing darts, fishing, and horse racing. The order might change from time to time, but it was always in those three that he was enthusiastic and even collected trophies.<br />
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At a time when fishing was on the top of his list, Joe invited me to join him on a fishing trip. I didn't care much for an activity that involved mostly waiting then waiting some more, but to cheer him up I agreed to come. We went to a quiet cove on the New Jersey shore, where the slate water was gently lapping the brownish sand in the afternoon sunlight. A hundred feet inland was a long fence built from wooden slats and metal wire, beyond which tall grass grew abundantly.<br />
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Joe took out his gear and handed me a rod. We cast our lines and waited. A few minutes later, to our excitement Joe got a bite and reeled in. To our disappointment it was only a sand shark, which looked like a shark the size of a catfish. Joe made a face and threw it back into the water.<br />
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The sun was sinking low, our shadows on the sand were stretching longer, and the pleasant cool breeze was now crossing to the chilly side. Still no bite. I had already given up, but Joe was persistent. <br />
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"I'm bored," I said after repeatedly walking up and down the deserted beach.<br />
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"Hey fish!" Joe yelled at the water. "Come and bite, 'cause my buddy's bored!"<br />
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There was a tug at his rod. Joe smiled broadly and reeled in another sand shark. We burst out laughing, then decided to quit. It was probably my presence that had put a jinx on our endeavor today, for Joe always brought home a good catch when he went fishing.<br />
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It was already dark when we arrived in Atlantic City. Since I was new there, we went to the boardwalk for sightseeing. Then for the first time in my life I entered a casino.<br />
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Later on, thinking back I realized that the place was a time trap, not by some extraordinary manipulation of the time fabric, but by shrewd business acumen. It was a world in itself, a strange one where time came to a standstill to anyone who was captured by its wicked seduction. At the time I just walked in innocently, my senses striving to take in all the novel sights and sounds. Joe dragged me from game to game, playing a bit just to show me how, at least such was his intention. For the first time I learned about roulette, blackjack, craps and whatnot. Gradually, Joe's self-appointed job of tutoring me mutated into serious gambling, and I watched him with increasing unease. Several times did I nudge him to leave, and the same answer I got was to give him a few more minutes.<br />
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My interest in the games had waned, so I started strolling about. Around the game tables, players and spectators all wore a look of concentration, more intense on some than others. Maybe among them there was even a math genius trying to beat the house, but most looked normal enough. It was at the slot machines that I saw what scared me stiff.<br />
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Rows of people, mostly overweight women, sat facing those one-armed bandits, mindlessly repeating just the two motions of inserting coins and pulling the lever. They looked almost like robots, except that robots did not have that fiendish obsession of greed frozen on their faces, which I watched in shock. That this place could make humans sink even lower than machines was too dark and scary for me to bear, so I made my way back to Joe's table to insist that we should leave. He was a bit annoyed at first, then looked at his watch and his face registered consternation; for unknowingly we had been in the casino for nearly seven hours.<br />
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Joe profusely apologized to me for having lost track of time, but I knew it hadn't been his fault. The consolation was that he had won two hundred dollars. We got back to our home in Philadelphia at three o'clock in the morning; and I knew that no temptation could ever lure me back to a casino again, not after seeing those benumbed, obsessed, pathetic faces at the slot machines.Thuan Nguyenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16529355768857578084noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4281220787040747964.post-24800276256799906482011-12-13T19:12:00.000-05:002012-04-09T21:02:53.704-04:00Early Fall Morning<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLA2VpNc8htDFhOvRtsqnt-x7lNJUlc-ln6xj6fHxKqC0V4EFMU6efYL16_49ViIksygKMPSrSCIwELGNLWgyl2VdzCsiaRR06vISd7CMh3BAh4K_oNIT6Z-pXmv8MnarYj-wGAWOyLA/s1600/Aspen-Leaf-Dew-Drops.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="181" width="271" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLA2VpNc8htDFhOvRtsqnt-x7lNJUlc-ln6xj6fHxKqC0V4EFMU6efYL16_49ViIksygKMPSrSCIwELGNLWgyl2VdzCsiaRR06vISd7CMh3BAh4K_oNIT6Z-pXmv8MnarYj-wGAWOyLA/s400/Aspen-Leaf-Dew-Drops.jpg" /></a></div>One morning in early fall, while dewdrops were still sleeping on leaves and the leaves were just turning to a pale shade of yellow, I was on my way to meet an elderly gentleman and his wife. The previous evening they had called to let me know of their arrival in town and express their wish to see me, with which I had been eager to comply out of my affection for them.<br />
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They were staying with their daughter, who had just moved to the area with her husband and three kids, and who had once been expected to become my wife. Good for her, I thought while driving into an upscale neighborhood with extravagantly big houses.<br />
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The heavy front doors opened immediately when I rang, and I was cordially greeted by the couple who had once treated me like their own son. Amid the enthusiastic catching up, I looked up the stairs and there she came, even more beautiful than I remembered. She smiled the same old sweet smile when I said hello, but there was a hint of reservedness in her manner.<br />
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Over coffee and conversation at the breakfast table in her spacious kitchen, my mind was hovering between reality and memories. I listened to anecdotes about her kids, and I thought of a promise that I had made, which had been to take her traveling with me around the world. Such a trip to this day I still hadn't made, and she certainly wouldn't have wanted me to take her anywhere anymore.<br />
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I hugged her parents on the driveway. She stood by the door, waving hesitantly. I drove away, quietly, in the soft sun of a morning in early fall.Thuan Nguyenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16529355768857578084noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4281220787040747964.post-69509859160447532952011-12-10T20:50:00.000-05:002012-04-07T20:51:19.851-04:00Putting Two and Two TogetherThis morning I realized that I had again forgotten to buy new toothpaste and had to squeeze the tube really tight to get some on the brush. The flat, bent empty tube reminded me of a movie scene where a detective looked at such a tube in a bathroom and concluded that its owner was of parsimonious character. How wrong that detective would be if he drew the same conclusion about me, for all I was guilty of was simple forgetfulness.<br />
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How many times have we jumped to wrong conclusions because we've been too cocksure, causing damages sometimes irreparable? How willing are we to listen to what lies outside our own entrenched way of thinking?<br />
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As for me, whenever I find myself putting two and two together, I have to keep in mind that the result can either be four or twenty-two.Thuan Nguyenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16529355768857578084noreply@blogger.com0