Blonde Genuis

By Sharon Winters

Preface

Sometimes I work as a professional storyteller, and the stories my listeners enjoy the most are the stories I tell about my own life. As the LocSec of New Mexico Mensa, I write a column for our local newsletter and began writing some of these stories in my column. When a lot of Mensans and listeners of my stories asked me to tell more stories, I decided it was time to write an episodic memoir.

This isn’t, however, a memoir of tell-all and these-awful-things-happened-to-me. These are the happenings in my life that made me laugh or things that occurred in my life that show the wonderfulness of the people who have crossed my path. Everyone in this book has added a specialness and value to my life, and I want to share these people with whoever cares to read about them.

The Happiest Day of My Childhood

1951: When I was five-years old my mother married a widower with three children. Marianne was the eldest sister, being six-years older than I was. Tommy was four-years older and Susan only one-year older. I could have done without the brother, who often tried to trip me when I walked by him, and he required Susan and me to buy a stair-walking ticket, which he would punch with a hole-punch each time we went up or down the stairs. Each ticket we purchased cost us 25 cents; good for ten round trips. My mother put a stop to his finance scheme, but she wasn’t able to stop him from creating my lifelong shower curtain phobia.

My phobia started while Tommy, Susan, and I were playing hide-and-go-seek. I walked into the bathroom to hide and closed the door. Tommy lurched out from behind the shower curtain like Frankenstein. I screamed. The game was over and my phobia began. From then on I could never enter an unfamiliar bathroom unless the shower curtain was clear plastic.

There should be a law requiring all shower curtains to be transparent. The other day I was at a friend’s house for a party and wanted to use the bathroom. When I peeked into the bathroom, Oh no! There was a fancy cloth-opaque-shower curtain. An object of terror. I pulled one of my friends into the bathroom and whispered, “Would you please look behind the shower curtain and see if anyone is there?”

She eyed me suspiciously and looked behind the curtain. “No one is there,” she said.

My happiest day has everything to do with my mother’s battle with Tommy and his slovenliness, which is what my mother found most annoying about Tommy. Sports equipment, clothes, books, pennants, Boy Scout stuff, comic books, and the Indian headdress of a chief were thrown around his room. Worst of all, I shared a room with two sisters, and he got a room all to himself; of course . . . who could live with him. Our dormitory like room could have passed a military inspection.

To get Tommy to clean up his room, my mother tried nagging and pleading. She tried prayer. She tried closing the door and ignoring his room. Then, she tried . . . The Broom. Tommy came tearing down the stairs with my mother behind him, brandishing a broom. She took feeble strikes at him, and he laughed at the great fun as he ran out of the house; my mother and her broom after him. When he started running down the street, my mother ran out of breath and gave up the chase. Nine-year old Tommy continued to best her in her efforts to get him to clean up his room. Nevertheless, I continued to silently cheer for my mother.

Walking home from school on this happiest of days, when my house came into view, I could see a flurry of things flying out the second story window--the window to Tommy’s room. As I got closer to my house, a chief’s Indian headdress flew out the window followed by books, trophies, comic books, pendants, shoes, shirts, pants. Santa with a truck load of presents for me could not have given me greater joy, and the mountain of Tommy’s stuff was already high enough for beavers to move in and make a home there.

I brought my school books to my room and then went back outside to watch my mother continue to pitch socks and sports equipment onto the ever growing heap. I sat on the back porch with a gleeful smile waiting for Tommy to come home. Tommy--the boy who gave me a lifelong phobia; the boy who could outrun my mother; the boy who got his own room.

As Tommy walked up the drive he pretended not to see the “Beaver Lodge for Rent” on the lawn. As he walked past me, he brushed my arm with his leg as if he didn’t see me. Me, with the giant smirk on my face. He put his books in the house and came back outside. The rain of possessions had stopped, and Tommy began the long march of bringing his belongings back up to his room.

Wanting to be helpful I said, “You could just sleep out here on the grass.”

Tommy pretended not to hear me, but he finally heard my mother’s message, and he never had a messy room again. My mother’s victory was my victory and the happiest day of my childhood.

 

Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho

1960: In 1953 my mother had my little sister, Sandy, and was now raising five kids. In 1960 the movie Psycho came to drive-in theaters in the Chicago area. My mom, being hard up for some family entertainment, decided to take us to see Psycho. Being a frugal mother, she brought her own popcorn and drinks for us. Tommy was home cleaning up his room while Susan, Marianne, and I were in the back seat munching on popcorn, and Sandy was in the front seat sleeping on my mother’s lap. I was getting thirsty, and Mom had the drinks up front.

Just as Janet Leigh began taking a shower at the Bates Motel, I had to have something to drink to choke down the popcorn. I tapped my mother on the shoulder. She screamed so loud she scared me, everyone in our car, and all the cars around us. Then Tony Perkins appeared with the knife. I never got anything to drink, and I believe we went home after that.

For my mother’s seventieth birthday I took her to the National Storytelling Festival in Jonesborough, Tennessee. We met in Kentucky and stayed the night in a motel before we drove to Jonesborough. This motel looked just like the Bates Motel. It could have been the Bates Motel. As we walked into our room my mother zoomed over to the bathroom. “This looks just like the shower.”

I looked into the bathroom. A terrifying white-opaque-shower curtain spread across the tub. “Mom, could you look behind the curtain to see . . .”

My mother held up her hand. “I’m not going to look behind that curtain. You look behind the curtain.”

My mother’s phobia and my phobia met for the first time. We went to the manager’s office. I said, “I want you to check our room for bodies.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Bodies?”

I leaned on his counter. “It’s a long story. By the way, does anyone in your family go by the name of Bates?”

 

Psychology Final

1964: My freshman year at Illinois State University, I declared psychology as my major. Psychology 101 was a first semester requirement for me and, being fond of staying up late and sleeping late, I scheduled all of my classes no earlier than ten o’clock in the morning. Perfect. Except for finals. My psychology exam was at eight o‘clock. The week before the final my professor said, “No one shall be late for this final. If you are late, you better be in the hospital or dead. There are no other excuses.”

I was already in trouble with this professor. It wasn’t that his lectures were boring; it was just that I stayed up too late having a good time, and I would sometimes fall asleep in the lecture hall. One time, however, I fell so soundly asleep I went unconscious, slipped out of my seat and landed on the floor. The professor was not impressed, but everyone else laughed. After that, most of the psychology students from Psychology 101 recognized me on campus, and I made a lot of friends.

The night before the final I set my alarm clock for 6:30AM, which would give me time to fix my hair, dress warmly, and eat breakfast in the dining hall of the dorm. Before going to sleep I looked out my dorm room window and noticed a beautiful new snowfall. I made a mental note to be sure and wear my heavy boots for the walk to the lecture hall. First, however, I would have to find my boots, which were in my closet, and my closet was like the Taklamakan Desert in China. What goes in, doesn’t come out. Too bad I didn’t look for my boots before I went to bed.

I’m not sure what happened, but I woke up and looked at the clock: 7:45AM. I jumped out of my warm bed, ripped curlers out of my hair and looked at myself in the mirror. My night shirt barely came to my knees. I found some penny loafers and put them on. I didn’t have time to comb my hair and curls sprang around my head like Little Orphan Annie. I put on my green coat that also barely came to my knees. Good thing this was the era of the miniskirt. I was in style. Green coat, green and red night shirt. I was color coordinated, too, which was important to my mother.

I searched for a number-two pencil. Good. I found one with a sharp point but no eraser. Oh well. I would have to be careful to not make any mistakes. I looked for my glasses. Where were my glasses? No time for putting in contacts. My glasses were probably keeping my boots company in the Taklamakan Desert. The time: 7:50AM. I would have to walk down the maze of sidewalks like a blind rat. Still alive and not in the hospital, what could I give for an excuse? Would he flunk me for being late for the test?

Wind and two feet of snow greeted me as I stepped onto the sidewalk for the fifteen minute walk to the lecture hall. I felt snowflakes falling on my nose and hair.

Gripping my number-two pencil I finally arrived at the door of Psychology 101. I swung open the door and walked up to the professor’s podium. The professor spoke into the microphone. “Why are you alive?” Everyone in the class snickered. I hoped the professor didn’t recognize me as the student who fell asleep in his class. The professor took an exam and held it out to me. I stepped forward and took the sheets of paper.

He pointed to some empty desks in the back of the room. In order to get to the back I had to exit the door I came in, walk down the hallway, and enter the rear door to the lecture hall. As I took the exam in my hand I said, “Thank you,” and walked to the door to go to the back. To my surprise, when I opened the door, brooms from the janitor’s closet fell on me and clattered to the floor. The class roared with laughter. I stepped sideways a few feet, found the correct door, and made the long walk to the rear door. I didn’t look at anyone as I took a seat. I got an A in psychology 101, and I made a lot more friends.

 

The Pool Hall Hooker

1977: Married and with three children, ages four-, three-, and almost two-years old, I lived in a small Texas cow-town. To keep track of my children, I sewed three different sizes of bells on elastic and then slipped the bells around their ankles. The smallest bells went on the shortest kid, T-Bone, and the largest bells on the tallest, which was Mikie. Heather was my middle child. Three different sounds. Three different kids. I knew where they were, and if the sound of bells was still for too long, someone was in trouble or about to get into trouble.

            When my washer broke down I took my children and their alter egos to the laundromat. Mikie’s alter ego was a stuffed and fuzzy owl, named Buho; Heather had Blankie, and T-Bone had his little pillow with Bambi embroidered on the pillow case. In this dusty and isolated cow-town of 2,162 residents, there were 40,963 head of cattle, 120,012 chickens, one paved road, one shoe store, one pool hall--next to the one laundromat--one small grocery store, and six feed stores.

After loading three washers, two fired-up women came storming into the laundromat. With steam coming out of their noses and ears, one of them said, “I knew that pool hall was gonna be nothin’ but trouble. That hooker has made it her gall darn office.”
            Mikie shouted loud enough to rattle the tin roof. “Mom! What’s a hooker?”
            “Well . . . Mikie, a hooker is a woman who does trick shots at the pool hall, and her best trick shot is called the hook shot.” I was pleased with myself for giving such a clever answer and delighted he believed me.

One minute later I no longer heard the sound of large bells. I left my two remaining children in the care of the two fuming women and ran next door to the town pool hall. Mikie, with his back to me as he held onto Buho’s wing, stood next to the only woman in the pool hall until I entered.

She had languorous legs that met a shorter than short black leather skirt as her feet balanced gracefully on stiletto heels. Her see-through blouse was obviously distracting the other pool players as they stared at her silently . . . waiting for her to make her shot . . . not caring who won or lost. They could have been in a state of meditation . . . a state of Om.

Mikie stood looking up at our resident hooker with admiration as she slowly . . . skillfully . . . leaned into her shot. The sound of balls clicking was the only sound heard before I said, “Mikie! What are you doing?” Was it not obvious to me what he was doing? Why do mothers ask such stupid questions?

As I stormed through the door I realized the men in the pool hall would never have let anything happen to Mikie. The men nodded a greeting to me when I took Mikie’s vacant hand. As I turned to leave with my son, Buho bounced along, and Mikie’s little feet, for brief moments, levitated off the floor. Buho’s free wing flapped like a flag as I hurried to take Mikie away from the den of corruption. “Mikie, you never should have left.”
            Mikie yelled loud enough to rattle the tin roof again. “But Mom, she said I could watch her do tricks.”

The roar of laughter could be heard all over town.

 

Mikie’s Ice Skates

1977: The Texas ranch I lived on was home to my three preschool-aged children, one horse, two black Flat Coated Retrievers, a cat, one rabbit, a dozen chickens, and one husband.

One day all three children needed new shoes. On this same day a raccoon ran through the house, in the back door and out the front, chased by two dogs and three children, while the cat jumped into the ashes in the fireplace and then tracked ashes over the living room carpet. Then, Mikie spilled milk on his last clean shirt and pants and ran around in his underwear until the washer and dryer finished doing their jobs.

In clean, dry clothes, Mikie got the watering hose and watered not only the lawn but his brother and sister, too. I had just handed Heather dry clothes when Mikie came running into the house. “Mom! T-Bone’s eating dog food again.”

The two dogs, Jubal and Shelly, just stood by while T-Bone stole their dog food. I scooped T-Bone up into my arms as he clutched his small pillow in one hand and a fistful of dog food in the other. “T-Bone,” I said, “if you’re still hungry just tell me you want more food.”

Jubal and Shelly followed me back into the house along with Mikie and Heather. I could feel Jubal and Shelly’s breath on my legs as I stood at the kitchen sink and pried dog food out of T-Bone’s hand.

T-Bone took his hand away in protest. “But Mom, dog food taste good.”

Mikie and Heather got the giggles. Jubal and Shelly begged for people food in exchange for their dog food. Adam, the cat, jumped onto the kitchen table. “Adam, get off the table.” Adam jumped down. At least the cat minded me.

I set T-Bone on a kitchen chair. “I’ll get you something to eat.” An hour before, breakfast was a whole banana, milk and two eggs for each of my children. (T-Bone would grow up to be 6’5” with feet large enough to walk on water. Maybe there was something in the dog food?)

I told Mikie and Heather to wash their hands as I cut up a few apples and took a pound of grapes off their stems. I cleaned off the table Adam had just jumped on and placed everything in a large bowl in the middle of the table. Their little hands lunged into the bowl as if they hadn’t eaten for hours.

“Mom, this grape isn’t any good.” Mikie held the grape high into the air for my inspection.

“Mikie, if it isn’t any good, don’t eat it.” Mikie put his hand under the table and gave the grape to Jubal, who then walked over to the carpeted living room and coughed it up. A grape wasn’t Jubal’s kind of people food. I didn’t want anyone stepping on this grape, so I went over and picked up the rejected grape, which had dog slobber on it. With dog slobber on my hand I tossed the sad looking grape into the trash.

As I washed my hands at the sink with soap and warm water I laughed at myself being so concerned with clean hands when my youngest son had just eaten dog food, and my oldest son just touched Jubal’s mouth when he gave him a grape. I looked over at my three children who had no concern about germs and reminded myself the house now had raccoon germs, as well as dog spit on the carpet, and cat-print ashes I would have to clean up.

My children finished eating, and we were off to the town’s one shoe store . . . until a fight broke out.

“Heather,” Mikie said, “I get to ride shotgun. You sat there last time.”

Heather said, “I didn’t. Mom, Mikie is gonna ride shotgun, and it’s my turn.”

T-Bone said, “I never get to ride shotgun.”

“All right,” I said, “settle this by the count of five or no one gets to ride shotgun. One . . . two . . . three . . .” The two dogs were at the window of our stone house getting nose prints all over the front window. I hoped the cat was not sitting in the fireplace. “Four . . . Okay, that’s enough. Everyone in the back seat right now.”

Mikie yelled, “I’m not sitting in the middle. T-Bone, you’re the shortest. You get in the middle.”

Heather said, “Why should T-Bone sit in the middle?”

T-Bone clutched his pillow. “No, Mikie. No! I’m not sitting in the middle. I don’t want to be a T-Bone sandwich.”

“All right,” I said, “settle this by the count of three.” My patience now as short as my count. “One . . .” I’m tired already. “Two . . .” how can it only be ten o‘clock in the morning? “Mikie, get in the middle.”

Mikie said, “Mom, this is just not fair.”

My hands went to my hips. “Mikie, my job is not to make life fair. Get in the middle, now.”

The ride from our ranch to Main Street finally began, and as my children continued their barrage I said, “Stop all this fighting and yelling right now or I’m going to pull this car over to the side of the road . . . Don’t make me pull this car over.” I pulled the car over and turned around in my seat. “I’m telling all of you right now to stop this fighting and yelling. Until we get home I don’t want to hear a single word from any of you. Not even a peep, hiccup, sneeze or cough. In fact, I don’t even want to hear loud breathing; and another thing, you are all skating on thin ice. Do you understand me?”

Mikie said, “Yes, I understand.”

Heather said, “Yes Mom, but . . .”

I said, “Heather, I just don’t want to hear it right now. T-Bone, do you understand what I just said?”

T-Bone looked at his brother and sister and nodded his head as he clutched his little pillow.

They were quiet for the rest of the way to Main Street, and my three angels marched into the shoe store. They each marched out silently with new shoes, and I held the back door to my car open for them like a chauffeur as each of them crawled into the back seat and clicked their seat belts into place. I was thrilled with this peacefulness.

My powerful Pontiac Catalina roared back onto Main Street, and Mikie, in a pleasant tone of voice said, “Mom, may I ask you something?”

“Sure Mikie, what is it?” I looked at Mikie in my rearview mirror.

Mikie leaned forward in his seat. This must be a serious question. “How come we didn’t get ice skates at the shoe store?”

I’m puzzled by his question. “Mikie, we live in Texas. Why would I get you ice skates?”

“Because you said we were all skating on thin ice.”

 

A Parenting Tip

1977: When I was a new mother I read many books about raising children, and they were frequently of no help with my oldest son. When Mikie wanted something, and I wasn’t going to let him have it, I would try to reason with him. That didn’t work. He wanted what he wanted, and that was that.

When Mikie was about four-years old, I finally found something that worked with him. We were shopping in a mall, and he wanted a blue truck he saw in a window. “Mom, would you buy me that blue truck?”

“No Mikie, we aren’t buying toys today.”

“Why Mom? Why can’t you buy me that truck? I really want that truck!” Mikie was close to a blow out.

Just then something popped into my weary mother’s mind, and I knew exactly how to stop him from having a temper tantrum. I put my hand on my hip to help me feel powerful and said, “Mikie, you can’t have that truck or any other toy today because I’m a mean mother, and I don’t want you to be happy.” Mikie looked at me with great surprise and was well behaved for the rest of the day.

 

Lucky Duck Juan

1980: After divorcing my husband, I went back to work as a resource teacher at a junior high barrio school in San Antonio, Texas. Juan, a sixth grader from another class, would stop by my classroom after school to talk with me. No matter what I said, he would call me a Lucky Duck, and I never got any sympathy from Juan. This soon became a challenge for me.

After work one evening I fell into a parked truck while riding my bike. The front wheel of my bike slid on gravel, and as my bike wheel went one way, my body went the other way with my fall being broken by a parked pickup. I skinned my knee and forehead, and there was blood on the street and the door of the truck. I probably needed stitches in my knee, but I didn’t want to go to some overcrowded emergency room. I patched myself up and went to work the next day.

This would surely get me some sympathy from Juan. I carefully chose the right expression to demonstrate the great pain and humiliation of my fall, and as I sat at my teacherly desk, I put on my most pitiful face as I heard Juan open my classroom door.

“Ms. Winters! What happened to you?”

Oh good, I thought. I'll finally get some sympathy. "Juan," I said with a trembling voice and a slight sniffle, "I fell into the side of a truck while riding my bike. See my knee?" 

Juan came to my side and stared with great interest. "Wow!" 

I continued with my drama. "And Juan, there was blood all over the street. See my forehead?" Juan stood back. He looked at my forehead and then at my knee again and said, "You’re a Lucky Duck, Ms. Winters." 

I was stunned. "Why, Juan? Why!”

Juan smiled. "You have a bike." 

Martin

1982: In 1982 I married Martin, who later adopted T-Bone.

Another Parenting Tip

1983: There are books that only require the reading of the title to know the message of the book. One such example is: Do What You Love and the Money Will Follow. There’s no need to read that book. My youngest son, T-Bone, will tell you that while good parents raised him, his mother had a shortcoming. I was a lousy disciplinarian.

T-Bone’s dad, Martin, however, could get T-Bone to do whatever he was supposed to do without even raising his voice. Martin would say, “T-Bone, go clean up your room,” and there would quickly be dust behind T-Bone’s heels. To me, that was magical. How did Martin do that?

I set off in search of a book that would tell me the magical secret of disciplining children. Finally, I found the book: Wait Till Your Dad Gets Home.

 

A Real Life Blonde Joke

1989: My daughter, Heather, who is a brunette, needed a dress for prom. Martin, who had more patience with her than I did, took her shopping. They found a store they liked, and Heather found several dresses she wanted to try on. Heather asked to have the dressing room door unlocked. Heather said the guy who unlocked the door was cute.

The cute clerk told Heather to not shut the door when she came out of the dressing room or it would lock again. Heather came out of the dressing room to show Martin the dress and let the door slam shut. Martin asked to have the door unlocked again. Heather tried on more dresses.

When Heather came out the second time, she let the door slam shut. Okay. The clerk heard the slam and unlocked the door for the second time. This time he kept the key in his hand and stood by Martin. Good idea because for the third time, Heather let the dressing room door slam shut. Martin and the clerk looked at each other, and Martin said, “If she were blonde, this would all make sense.”

 

Some Excerpts from the China Journal

1997: Martin’s company transferred us to Shanghai, China, in 1997, and in preparation for our move I studied Chinese at the University of New Mexico in 1996. I learned enough Chinese to get by until I could enroll at Fu Dan University in Shanghai to study Chinese intensively. Before I left, I also bought a journal.

In writing out my journal, I have used some Pinyin, which is the phonetic spelling of Chinese characters using the Latin alphabet. When English words are italicized, this is my translation of what was originally spoken in Chinese. I have done literal translations of Chinese in most places in order to give the reader an idea of the syntactical structure of Mandarin Chinese, and I have used Chinese characters in only a few places.

 

June 24: Martin and I arrived in Shanghai today at 12:30AM local time. The trip from Albuquerque to Shanghai, which began at 7:30AM in Albuquerque, took twenty-nine hours with a seven-hour delay in Japan. Yang, the driver assigned to us by Martin‘s company, picked us up at the airport.

Hundreds of Chinese people bustled everywhere inside and outside the airport. People shouted in Chinese, talked in Chinese, and even walked in a Chinese way. The muggy Shanghai air blasted us as we walked to our driver’s van.

I don’t understand what people are saying and feel deep regret my Chinese is rudimentary. Yang knows three words in English: yes, no, and home.

Here in Shanghai, Martin will be working about sixty hours a week, either at the factory or huddled in his office at our apartment like a watch maker. Besides that he won’t have time to learn to speak Chinese. I will have to be resourceful and figure out how to do whatever needs to be done.

By the time we got to our apartment in Shanghai, it was 2:30AM.Yang helped Martin to bring our luggage to the master bedroom, where there are no closets except for one four-foot wide wardrobe closet against a wall. As I began unpacking my suitcase I said, “Martin, where are you going to put your clothes?”

July 4: I’m in culture shock. What is true for Shanghai isn’t true in the States. What is true in the States isn’t true here. Just buying groceries takes all day. There is The Metro in Shanghai, which is like a Walmart but not. Everything is different here.

Yang took Martin and me to The Metro today. I told Martin to pick out the bread he wanted, and a Chinese man followed Martin to the bread section at The Metro from the front door. (Martin has a thick black beard and mustache, and Chinese people believe that men with thick beards are wise. Han Chinese people, who make up 98% of the population of China, can’t grow beards.)

Martin noticed this Chinese man, took a loaf of bread off the shelf and put the bread into our basket. When the Chinese man picked out the same loaf of bread, Martin put the loaf of bread he just picked out, back onto the shelf. The Chinese man put the loaf of bread back. Martin picked up some rolls. The Chinese man picked up the same rolls. Martin put the rolls back. The Chinese man put the rolls back. Martin picked up another loaf of bread. The Chinese man picked up the same kind of bread, and I said, “Martin . . . come on. This could go on all day.”

July 7: Stella, one of the managers of Supreme Tower, where we live, came up today. “Teach English today?” She brought her own English books, and I corrected the assignment she worked on by herself. She is doing well to learn English on her own.

Before Stella left to go back to work I said, “Chinese people at the company where Martin works say Martin’s beard is fake. Do you think Martin’s beard is fake, too?”

She said, “Oh yes. His beard I think is fake.” I suggested that when Martin comes home tonight, I will call her, and she can come up and see that Martin’s beard is not fake.

Martin came home, and I told him Stella would be coming up to check his beard. He laughed. Stella came up and looked carefully at Martin’s beard. I tugged lightly on Martin’s beard. “See, this is a real beard.”

Stella looked even closer and then tugged hard on his beard. She said, “Whaaaaaa! Very good glue.”

July 11: The apartment management brought up a washer-dryer combination. After Martin and I ate dinner I remembered I washed some towels. I opened the door of the washer-dryer and took out our purple towels, which made ripping sounds as I pulled them away from the dryer’s drum. These former fluffies looked like they had been pressed and dried around an automobile tire.

Martin retreated to his office in our apartment after dinner, and so, I walked into his office with one of the towels. “I washed towels today with the new washer-dryer.”

Martin looked at the purple work-of-art. “What is that?”

“That’s a bath towel. I think I should tell management we need a different washer-dryer.”

Martin is so easy going that nothing short of a hurricane, flood, or tornado will upset him. Martin looked up at me. “Oh well. You can manage.” He went back to his work.

I left his office and put the sculptured towel in his bathroom. The towel hooked nicely around the towel bar as the top half of the stiff circle of the towel reached out into the bathroom like a claw. I would use a fluffy towel for my shower that was stored in my closet. I smiled as I thought of Martin walking into his bathroom to take his shower.

July 12: Stella came up today and said they will be bringing up a separate dryer for me to use.

August 19: A typhoon is coming through Shanghai this evening. The cable-television is out. Living on the twenty-second floor, Martin and I can feel the force of this typhoon. This evening a young woman came to our apartment with a tall stack of white towels. She rolled up each towel and put them at the bottom of all of our windows, which go from the floor to the ceiling. Rain is running under the windows, but not enough to soak any of the towels; at least, not yet.

August 20: Rain is still coming down. Yang took me to run errands today, even in this typhoon weather. Walking to his van, the gusty wind almost took my umbrella. I said to Yang, “Hai pa,” afraid.

As Yang drove, rain pounded on the roof of the van. Wind whistled over the windows. When Yang drove over the bridge of the Huang river, a strong wind pushed the van sideways. Yang said, “Typhoon!” He seemed to be having fun and his expression made me laugh. Yang threw his hand towards the wind. “Typhoon no problem for Yang. Good driver.”

I patted Yang on the shoulder. “Yang, good driver. Yang, good swimmer, too?”

I made my purchases, and as Yang helped me to bring my packages back to the van, I caught a glimpse of myself in a shop window. The wind and rain made my blonde hair stand out in frizzy curls. Seated in the back seat of the van, Yang turned around to look at me. I said, “Wo shi wo po!” I’m a witch! I gave him my best witch cackle.

Yang let out a hearty laugh. “Wo ye shi wo po!” I’m a witch, too! Then he gave me his best witch cackle.

“Yang, that’s very good!” and it was, too.

March 7: Jin, our new driver, took me to a tourist section of Shanghai on Hua Bao Road. One of my favorite places to go is the basement of a two story building where there is a flea market. The street level floor is a large jewelry store.

There in this dusty musty basement I saw a six-inch-high statue of a man standing with his hand on the head of a tiger. The vendor saw me admiring the statue. “You like?” he said in accented English.

I decided to skip the game of pretending I didn’t speak Chinese and to engage him in conversation. “This statue. What is meaning?” I figured the statue pointed to a mythical Chinese story.

“If I tell you story, you buy?” Standing behind his high counter, he smiled at me, happy to be speaking Chinese with a foreigner.

I moved up next to the counter facing him and rested my forearm on his counter. I smiled, “If I like story, I will like statue.”

He leaned on his counter with both elbows as if to settle in for a long conversation with a friend. A few Chinese people started to gather around us, amused I spoke fluent Chinese and had blonde hair. The vendor looked at my eyes. “Beautiful eyes. Green eyes. Your mother is a goddess, right?” Some of the people in the gathering crowd wanted to see my eyes but the vendor waved them off so they wouldn’t bother me.

“Thank you for the compliment. No, no. My mother is not a goddess. Please tell me the story of this statue.”

He momentarily closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “The man in the statue loved the most beautiful girl in the village. Actually, this girl, Song, was probably the most beautiful girl to have ever been born. Of course, all of the young men in the village would like to marry her, but none of them dared to ask for her in marriage, except for one young man, Qian.

“When Qian was of marrying age, he went to his father and begged him to arrange a marriage for him with Song. His father told him, ‘Qian, you don’t have what it takes to be married to Song. Let her be.’

“Qian told his father if he could not have Song as his wife, he would marry no one, and he would die of a broken heart. What could a father do but go to Song’s father and see what could be arranged?

“Qian’s father knocked on the door where Song lived and asked to speak to Song’s father, who invited him into their home and offered him tea. After some polite conversation, Qian’s father said, ‘My son has this idea he would like to marry your beautiful daughter. He tells me he will have no one else for a wife, and if he does not marry your daughter, he will die of a broken heart.’

“Song’s father shook his head, ‘I am sorry to hear your son is so determined as I am afraid there is no young man who has what it takes to be with her. Song will only bring your son heartache.’

“After much discussion, Song’s father relented and allowed the marriage to take place. Song was indeed most beautiful with long black hair, green eyes, a beautiful shape, and a graceful walk. The villagers said she could heal someone with her smile, . . . if she chose to smile.

“The day of the wedding arrived and Song became Qian’s wife. Qian took his bride to a little house on the edge of the village. As the sky darkened, Qian lay down in their bed and said, ‘Song, come to bed now.’ Song remained sitting in a chair; unmoved; unsmiling. Qian thought perhaps he would have better luck tomorrow night.

“The following evening Qian lay down in their bed and said, ‘Song, come to bed, now.’ Song got up from her chair. She warmed water on the kitchen fire and filled a large wooden bath bowl. Her dress dropped from her shoulders. She stepped into the large bowl, and as she stood there, she poured water over her hair as Qian watched from their wedding bed. Qian thought perhaps he would have better luck tomorrow night.

“The following evening Qian lay down in their bed and said, ‘Please Song, come to bed with your husband.’ Song got up from her chair and opened the front door. She walked over to the bed, grabbed Qian by the collar of his night shirt with one hand and grabbed his shoes with the other. She threw the shoes and Qian out the door. The door slammed shut.

“Qian walked to his parent’s house and knocked on the door. Qian’s father greeted his son at the door, and Qian told his father what had happened. ‘Father, I don’t know what to do!’

“Qian’s father gave his son some tea and with a weary sigh said, ‘My son, you don’t have what it takes to be with her, but perhaps there is one thing you can do. When it is daylight, go see the wise Buddhist monk who lives at the foot of Tiger Mountain. Perhaps he can advise you.’

“The next day Qian left to ask for advice from the wise monk. After walking for several hours, a wooden shack came into view. Qian walked up to the door and knocked many times. No answer. Qian opened the door and looked inside. The monk sat in front of his fire, meditating and levitating a few inches off the floor with a prayer mala in his hands. Qian sat across from the monk and waited for the monk to open his eyes.

“The monk’s body leveled to the floor. ‘What do you want, Qian?’

“‘I have come for your advice. I have taken a wife, and she hates me.’

“‘Oh yes, the beautiful Song with the green eyes. She does not hate you. You don’t have what it takes to be with her.’

“Qian’s body slumped. ‘I know this now, but what can I do?’

“The monk put his finger to his nose. ‘You must go up Tiger Mountain and find the she-tiger who rules the mountain. You must bring back one of her whiskers without harming her.’

“Qian’s eyes showed fear. ‘But the she-tiger has eaten many villagers!’

“The monk shrugged his shoulders. He picked up his prayer mala and began to chant.

“For many days, Qian searched for the she-tiger until finally he saw her in the distance as she pounced on her prey and tore it to bits. Qian followed her wherever she went until one day he was only a foot away from her. His heart beat so hard he could hear the sound of his heart in his ears.

“The she-tiger sniffed him. Qian put out his hand and touched her head. How soft she was. Qian, while fearing for his life, knelt down on the ground, and the she-tiger shoved her head into his chest and pushed him over. She lay down next to him and took a nap. Qian petted her tummy while she slept and whispered sweet words in her ear. Her paws were as large as platters, and her nails, which she stretched out in her sleep, were as long as chopsticks.

“From then on, Qian stayed by the she-tiger’s side while she took her nap. He would stroke her fur and whisper in her ear how much he admired her, how beautiful she was, and . . . how much he loved her. Then one day Qian reminded himself he needed one of the she-tiger’s whiskers, and it was time for Qian to return to his life. On this day, as the she-tiger was sleeping Qian whispered in her ear, ‘My beautiful she-tiger, may I cut off one of your whiskers?’ . . .

 

Blonde Genuis © by Sharon Winters