Thursday 12 January 2012

A Lost Message Discovered

Chapter 1

October 2006

“Hey Peep! You came home at just the right time.” I greeted while standing near the doorway to our home and pointing at the open sliding side door of the van she was about to walk past.

Inside the van were several cardboard boxes; that rectangular type once used for photocopier paper.

Stopping in her tracks and pointing, and then with more than just a hint of annoyance in her voice, defiantly ordered, “Hey Old Man! Don’t call me Peep.”

“Why not?”

“That’s not my name!”

“And Old Man's not mine… at least not yet.” responding with parental authority as I walked toward the van.

“Wanna bet?” challenging with a laugh.

“How much?”

“Better take a look in two mirrors first.”

“Why two?” foolishly asking over my shoulder while paying more attention to the rather heavy box I was lugging to the doorway.

“In case you want a second opinion.”

I walked into her well-timed barb with both eyes open.

“I need a volunteer to help me unload the van and carry these boxes to the basement… and you just volunteered.” stating with that firmness a parent uses when leaving little choice for further discussion.

“Well I don’t think so.” she disagreed and immediately crossed her arms.

“Well I do think so, so let’s get busy.” this time with more firmness in my tone and then returned to the van for another box.

“You don’t just volunteer people to do things," argumentatively correcting, "You ask them.”

“In that case, consider yourself asked and we’ll take it that you've already volunteered.” and quickly grabbed the smallest box out of the van and pushed it at her.

Reluctantly accepting the box, she persisted, “You missed my point."

“No, but we’re not running a democracy.” I decreed.

“And we’re not running a dictatorship either.” and practically dropped the box at her feet.

“Well today we are!”

I picked up the box, handed it back to her and outlined, “The sooner we get these boxes moved to the basement, the sooner we can do whatever it is we’re going to do.” and abruptly awakening to what I'd mindlessly spouted, probed, “What is it that we’re going to do?”

“We doesn’t mean you.”

“It doesn’t?” feigning surprised shock.

“No.”

“Well I’m glad you got that part right.” I conceded, feeling like I'd narrowly avoided getting suckered into something I really didn't want to be doing right now.

“I’m meeting some of my friends from church and we’re going out for Chinglish food.” she explained.

“What kind of food is that?”

“Chinese and English. Chinglish.” Peep succinctly explained while sounding like she was telling me something I should've already known.

“Chinglish?” because I couldn't recall having heard this one before

“Oh Dad..." and rolling her eyes, admonished, "Don’t be so 鬼佬.”

“Hey! I know what gweilo means.” and then pointed toward the doorway, indicating where that box she was still holding was supposed to go.

“Well you should after all these years.”

“Why?” already knowing the answer but wondering what silliness might follow.

“You know what I mean.” was all she said.

I said no more and soon we had the boxes piled on the basement floor. Later I'd rearrange items already on the storage shelves and somehow magically find room for the new boxes... maybe.

Peep is my daughter, but of course that's not her real name. She was born with a quick sharp wit and an instant answer or comment for just about everything... and I swear it started before she could even talk. Anyway, I started calling her Peep and the name just stuck. 

She lives in two worlds; one Asian and the other Caucasian. I suspect that when convenient she takes full advantage of both worlds but maybe never actually fully belongs to either. At times she can seem more Asian than Caucasian in demeanor, but at other times the reverse is also true.

“What’s inside?” she probed.

“Books.”

“What kind of books?”

“Do you really want to know?”

“Not really.” 

"Then why ask?"

"Because you made me move them."

“Music books mostly.”

“Can I take a look?” now showing a trace of curiosity.

“Sure. Go ahead.”

Peep lifted the cover off the one of the boxes, quickly stepped back and disgustedly remarked, “These smell like they haven’t been opened in years.”

“They haven’t. They’ve been stored in Grandpa’s basement for years.”

“Smells more like decades.”

“Yeah... that too.”

“Why are they here now?”

“Grandpa was going to get rid of them so I went and picked them up.”

“You drove all the way to Pierrefonds and back just to pick up some musty old music books?” 

Astonished to discover that her Old Man had been away last night, and also cognizant that he particularly disliked having to drive that stretch of Highway 401 between Oakville and Kingston, her response nonetheless sounded like my sanity was under scrutiny.

“Yeah.” confirming with a shrug that implied a seven hundred mile trip wasn't that big of a deal.

After lifting the lid off another box and feeling a bit nostalgic, I picked up the top book and started flipping through it. Occasionally I stopped and glanced at pages that had once seemed so familiar, so vital, so... but now seemed so far removed from my life.

“What are you going to do with them?”

“Haven’t decided yet." and then in afterthought mused, "Maybe give them away to someone who can use them.” 

“I don’t think so.” responding like I was offering old rags.

“Do you know anyone who’s studying music that might be able to use them?” wondering aloud but not really expecting an answer.

“No, but I could ask around on campus.” she offered.

“Help me to flip through the pages and remove any papers that may have been left inside.”

“Why?”

“I used to stick notes and other stuff inside.”

Decades earlier, impromptu thoughts and ideas were often spur-of-the-moment scribbled onto scraps of paper, tucked away inside textbooks and then promptly forgotten until rediscovered, but now didn't exactly seem like the ideal time for a possibly embarrassing rediscovery.

“They had paper back then?” Peep responded with a hint of sarcasm.

“In the olden days we used birch bark..." detailing facetiously, "but trying to keep it flat enough to write on was awful.”

“Really?” now sounding uncertain about whether or not to believe me.

“What do you think?”

“You might be The Old Man but I don’t think you’re that old… at least not yet... but you're definitely workin' on it okay.”

“Seeing these books again sure brings back a lot of memories.” obviously revealing some degree of nostalgia.

“That’s what old people have lots of.” she quipped.

Distractedly pondering how differently my life might have unfolded had I not turned my back on both music and university, inattentively I queried, “Lots of what?”

“Memories.” she skewered.

Ignoring her barb, I revealed, “I was studying music.”

“I never knew you studied music.” sounding like she was hearing this tidbit of information for the first time.

“I studied only for a year and then quit.” revealing another sliver about my past.

“Is that why we have a piano you never ever play?”

“It’s part of the reason.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why did you quit music?” she pushed, now rather curious.

“Back then I really thought I knew just about everything there was to know about music. Only now after all these years do I realize how pompously ignorant and foolishly naive I was... I'd barely scratched the surface... if that... I didn't really know anything at all.” beginning to self-sermonize after having had decades of hindsight to reflect upon.

“I can tell you didn’t learn much either.” eager to add fuel to the fire.

“How would you know?”

"Easy!" and holding up the book for me to see, she misread the title as, "Fun Dementia of Sound Sinking and Ear Tainting.”

“So?” wondering what her point was.

“Everyone knows you can’t sing.” she jabbed and followed through with a smug laugh.

“Well I guess some traits really are inherited…" and countering sheepishly, "and guess who inherited my song sinking ability?”

“The Titanic?”

“I don’t think so.” responding dismissively before grabbing another book from the open box before me.

Silently staring at the cover while mindlessly recalling snippets from music classes of decades earlier, I  muttered, “John Cage."

"Who?"

"I thought this guy’s music and theories were way out to lunch but I had to read and try to understand this stuff anyway. Well at least some things don’t change. This guy’s nonsense hasn’t improved with age and his music theories are still out to lunch.” rambling nostalgically while somehow feeling like the passing of decades had vindicated my opinion; well in my mind anyway.

“At least he wrote a book... so some people must know about his music.” Peep commented.

“Have you ever heard of John Cage or listened to any of his stuff?” I probed, deliberately avoiding the word music.

“No.”

“Too bad!"

"Why?"

"Because if you did, then you’d find my singing angelic.” I boasted.

“Not a chance.” Peep skewered, "Not ever."

“Well here’s one you can still learn from…" and displaying another book, teased, "The Art of Listening.”

“Very funny.” but she didn't sound amused.
 
Peep grabbed up another volume and prodded, “What about this? Any Little House on the Prairies days story behind this one?”

“Strange." ignoring her barb, "I don’t even remember that book."

"Why not?"

"Maybe it’s a course textbook I was supposed to read but never did.” and resumed flipping through the pages of the book I was already busy with.

“Hey!" and following seconds later like she'd discovered treasure, "There’s something written here on the inside back cover.”

“I suppose it’s possible.” concurring with indifference but unable to recall the book let alone anything that may have been written inside.

“This looks really interesting.” sounding even more intrigued. 

A moment or two later she closed the book, shot me a puzzled look and then questioned, “Who's PB?”

“Who?”

“PB." she repeated, "It’s signed PB.”

“Let me see that!” wondering if I'd heard that correctly.

Peep proffered the book. Holding it in my hands, I stared at the front cover but truly couldn't recall anything about the book. Finally opening the front cover, I started flipping through pages hoping to jog my memory. Nothing inside seemed remotely familiar.

“Inside back cover.” she reminded.

I flipped over to the inside back cover to find out what had attracted her attention.

“Oh my goodness!” stunned upon recognizing the handwriting, “I've never seen this before!”


My dear,

This book is yours now… keep and read through and see if you like it. The word music is deeply absorbent in my heart and in my feeling. My dear, you bring music to my soul as you bring me to paradise where all flowers are blooming, where you can never feel the coldest of winter; just loving hearts. My dear, I am glad to be brought by your music to far certain paradise sometimes. It would be nice.

My dear, I did not read this book yet – let you read and tell me later which ideas are interesting for you. I hope I can read fluently someday like you (read and understand like my Vietnamese).

Maybe I will write a long letter in this two pages… so I just stop here before it will be. I will write letter for you. I bought this book long time ago but I forget about it… can you believe it? Sometimes I don’t remember well. My dear, enjoy yourself.

Tell me what pictures are nice in here.

Love,

PB


“Who's PB?” Peep prodded again but this time with a hint of concern in her voice.

“Why now? Why this now after all these years?” muttering in puzzlement, wondering how and why this message had remained undiscovered for almost thirty years.

Sure, through the years I'd read those quaint, occasionally bizarre stories in newspapers about the post office finding and delivering a lost letter decades late, but this missing message I'd had in my possession all these years and never knew.

“Tell me!" she demanded, "Who is she?”

“No one you'd know.” looking up from the words written inside the back of the book.

“You mean there was someone else before Mom?”

“Yes.”

“Really?” sounding like she'd just heard the impossible.

“Does it surprise you?”

“Why haven’t I heard about this before?” she challenged.

“What on earth for?”

“My future here was at stake back then!”

“I really don’t think so.”

“Does Mom know about PB?”

“Yes..." I confirmed, "but we don’t talk about it.”

“Everything in this family's always a big secret.” opining with annoyance.

“Here!" holding the book out to Peep, "Put this back in the box.”

“Are you sure?”

“What can a few paragraphs out of the past possibly change today?” answering purely rhetorically.

She accepted the book, read the message again and then pointed out, "There’s no date here.”

“It was thirty years ago.”

“You still remember?”

“How can I forget?”

“You said it was thirty years ago.” sounding like something that occurred three decades ago should be equated with ancient medieval history.
 
"When you get to my age you'll discover that not everything needs to be stored on a hard drive."
 
She cast me her cheeky grin and inquired, "Does that mean you're head's getting soft?" 

"Why do I bother?"

"Because I'm you're favourite daughter."
 
"What if you're not?"
 
"Daaaaaad!" whining loud enough to drown out a cicada, "I'm your only daughter."

"Those days were a part of my life. I can’t simply erase parts of my past like they never happened.” I explained.

“My future really was at stake back then !”

“Oh nonsense!”

“Is there a once upon a time story here?” now sounding a tad curious.

“I thought you were in a rush to meet your friends.” I reminded.

“They can wait.”


The Oddblock Station Agent

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