Chinese Proverbs

I couldn’t sleep last night, with excitement, with terror. I haven’t felt like this since I was six and going to school for the first time. There was a Jenny Hopkins in my class. Dreadful little thing, she was. Funny how memory works. Sometimes I can’t remember my own children’s names, but Jenny Hopkins will never be forgotten. In some religions, I’ve been told, that means she will live forever in the afterlife. I hope she doesn’t. You must think me terribly petty, but she really was the most bratty little nuisance you could imagine. Oh, I hope there won’t be a Jenny Hopkins this time around. 

Last time I went to school was forty years ago. Well, forty-seven, but forty just sounds better, don’t you think? I never finished a term. I’m not particularly bright, I’m afraid. My mother used to always tell me that. Shaking her head, emphasis on the first syllable. “Oh, Ma-ry.” She said it like that when I proudly announced my intention of going to college. Oh, Ma-ry. Only the really clever girls go for higher education, don’t you know? But I did, and I met Hans there. He was studying to become an engineer and he had eyes like cloudy apple juice. You know, the kind with pulp. Funny word, pulp. Not appetizing at all, I’d say. I think you call the colour of Hans’ eyes “hazel” these days, but you can never be certain. I prefer apple juice, anyway. “You’re the apple of my eye”, I’d tell him, and dissolve in girlish giggles. He didn’t quite get the joke, but I thought myself awfully funny.

Once he proposed, I dropped out. It wasn’t uncommon back then, most of the girls were only there for their M.R.S. degrees anyway. Maybe I shouldn’t say that, my granddaughter Gina always tells me off when I do. But it was true. How was a woman supposed to handle a household as well as an education? I hope I don’t sound old-fashioned, but back then you had to choose. I love my Ginny, but she forgets. 

Hans, bless his soul, died three years ago. He was buried in April, and I remember hearing birds sing for the first time that year. A tad inappropriate perhaps, but I thought it was beautiful. Hans had a long life, a happy life. He was a kind man and he deserved birds singing for him. It was quite worse for me, being left behind. I went home after the funeral, followed by Gina. A lovely girl, she is. She sat with me for hours, made me tea and only let it brew a little bit too long. My baby Gina, I thought. Her hands were so small and chubby, once. She gripped my skirt, left jam stains. She scraped her knee and sat on my lap, eating graham crackers until she ran out of tears. When did our roles reverse? Suddenly she was the adult and I was the sobbing child. That alone made me tear up more. In a way, wasn’t that child gone too? I put my wrinkly hand over hers - how soft and smooth it was - and said “I love you, Ginny”. She blinked. “I love you too, Nana.” But Gina had to go home, and there I sat, all cried out, and thought “Well. What now?”

To begin with, I learned to crochet. It seemed like a fitting hobby for an old grandma. I still can’t quite believe how old I am. Every day, a new wrinkle. You’d think I’ll run out of skin at some point. An unexpected ache as I stand, or walk, or sit. Growing old is littered with surprises. Anyway, crocheting. I was quite good at it, but nowadays my hands won’t do as I tell them. I am a firm believer in quitting while you are ahead. And besides, you can only have so many lace doilies in one house. I started going to those tai chi classes in the park. A lot of my girlfriends went and said it was great for stiff limbs. Oh, it was awful. I have never been the most gracious creature, and I felt so silly. And they all looked so serious, it made me want to laugh. I finished the class and never went again.

Nowadays, all I do is read. I am a voracious reader, you see. That’s how I know fancy words, like “voracious”. With Hans around, it seemed I never had time to read. Now I have too much. I like the really old classics, like the Iliad. It has such a pleasant rhythm to it. “Sing, goddess, the anger of Achilles”. What a clever man that Homer was. But most of all, I enjoy thrillers, the bloodier the better. My daughter Elise, Gina’s mother, crinkled her nose when she saw my books. “Really, mom, that can’t be good for your blood pressure.” Always such a busy-body, that girl. 

I’ll let you in on a secret: I’ve begun to write, as well. I’ve always kept a diary, every day since I was just a girl. Quite smart of me, considering how my memory isn’t how it used to be. But now, with all my time, I’ve tried my hand at fiction. I only meant it for my own eyes, but Gina rustled through my papers one day. I walked into the room with a tray, cookies and tea on it, and she didn’t even look up. “Now, Ginny, wherever did you find that?” I said, putting the tray down and hastily reaching for the paper. She held it out of reach. “Nana, did you write this?” I told her, yes, I did. My cheeks were positively burning with embarrassment. “It’s just an old lady’s ramblings, dear.” “This is really good, Nana.” “Oh, tish. Sweetheart, let’s put that away and have tea, yes?” 

She had tea and didn’t speak more of my writing. But the next time she visited, she left a pamphlet for me. She hid it in a cabinet, I only found it once I’d washed our cups and went to put them back in. It advertised a college course in creative writing.

At first, I only laughed at Gina and her fancies. And then I had a think. I lay awake in my very soft bed, staring at the ceiling. College. Surely that was nothing for me, I’m a fossil! But what could just looking hurt? So I got out of bed and started my computer. Gina installed it for me, and I do know how to Google things. I found the school and the course, and as I read, something warm began to glow in my belly. At four AM that night, I filled out my application and sent it. Two weeks later, I got my acceptance letter.

I have filled a rucksack with papers and pens, in several colours. In just a few, short hours I’m going to be a student again. Something inside me says that it’s a pity it came so late, but I don’t want to hear it. There’s a proverb, I think it’s Chinese, and it goes: “The best time to plant a tree is twenty years ago. The second best time is today”. Well, I think it’s time I planted my tree.