The Old House on Bay Avenue

THE OLD HOUSE ON BAY AVENUE

THE OLD HOUSE ON BAY AVENUE

I slept in the anteroom because the bed was there and early in the morning while still in bed the freight train would rattle by just across the dirt fields, cycloned by blackberry brambles. When the roar of the engines died, I would gradually hear robins or sparrows chirping and singing. Those days I was 21 and 22 and I didn’t need coffee or strong tea to wake up yet and I would linger in bed relishing the morning deliciously because my strength was still in my brain and my eyes and limbs were good and young though my loins were still virgin and it was to be another 3 years before I have my first sexual experience with an older married woman from Aberdeen.

For now group and ring theory filled my head and no one has licked the Pacific Rim of my cock yet. I had many women and girl friends and I mean just Platonic friends because I made friends easily and I was not a threat to them; I did not demand sex, though a few would really want to initiate me. I was that shy. I remember Reed who taught me how to kiss in my car before I went down to Eugene to attend the University of Oregon and maybe the trouble was that it had started with Eileen. I will talk about that in a little bit. That was my first frost in the telephone booth, but in retrospect, I still love her, because she came back to me twenty years later and made it up to me.

Well, let me continue with the story on Bay Avenue then.

More than anything it was a time of reading. In the summer I worked for Kerns Desoto furniture factory, a mill just a few blocks down in Hoquiam. There was not much to say about that. It was just a summer job and all they demanded was that I didn’t eat in the lunch room because there were a couple of girls worked there in the wood lathes and they liked me or I mean they probably just looked at me and found me a Chinese curio, and so the red necks gave me these mean stares. The tension was so thick that I went outside and leaned about the building with its weeds and wild flowers and all to eat my sandwich and apple by myself. Nobody spoke to me and I didn’t give a shit. I paid my union dues and they needed some robot to sort the wood as it came out of the saw. I discarded the pieces with the worm holes and stacked the good pieces on a pallet eight hours a day. And when I went home I took a short nap with the sawdust still in my lungs and then my brain was so clear that I read Herstein’s Introduction to Abstract Algebra like it was nobody’s business. How I loved that mathematical realm then.

On Saturday mornings I would drive to the Highway Grocery early in the morning and get a bottle of Mogen David blackberry wine and a yellow pad of legal paper and tried to write something. That summer when I was twenty-two I bought a Writer’s Market and daydreamed that someday I will be a writer. But all I need essentially was to drink enough blackberry wine so that I felt mellow enough so that went the emerald light flooded through the bedroom window (I had moved into the back bedroom by then; it was a two-bedroom house), the unnamed tree in the backyard with its foliage and closure silhouetted itself upon the window I was transported to leagues under the sea. The world was dense and its mysteries began to beckon to me. I had also studied philosophy with John Wisdom by this time. But I didn’t know how to write worth beans. But at least in a small town, I was not anomic. I was the son of Bill and Kim Woon, restaurant owners of the Hong Kong Café on Simpson Avenue. Everyone called them Mamason andPapason. But they were neither. They are as Chinese as Chinese can be, for those who know the difference between Chinese and Japanese. I was the Hong Kong Kid, as known to Dixie Wilcox’ parents. Dixie and I were secretly in love, but neither one of us made any attempt to make it happen in the real world. Later when I worked for the Aberdeen Post Office, I could have asked Dixie out for a date, but I was like a sojourner in a temporary land. I never felt I belonged. The freight train was always going by and it never stops and I sometimes fancy that hoboes were on it wishing they could get off and I wished that I was on it – with destination Bangor Maine.

Jose in Our Restaurant Kitchen

Jose in our kitchen

It isn’t kind to call your older brother Jose. It is definitely lack of respect. Yet that was what my mother called my oldest uncle, her brother. Jose had the misfortune of being stuck in Peru for 40 years before my dad sponsored him over. I never forget going to see Mr. Sanderson, the attorney who also arranged for my immigration to the US. I came from China at age 11. I had to memorize a bunch of “facts” about “my village” and which direction my front door faced and who was my closest neighbor in the village and what were the surnames. That was a trick question, for everyone in the same village had the same surname. China is a patriarchal setup. And I was even born the leader of my village of my generation. Tough luck, Gary Locke, you are not it.

The first time I saw my eldest uncle Jose I was living at Albert Yu’s rooming house. Hank had driven my book to pick up Jose at the airport and then they brought Jose to see me. I am the oldest of all my siblings. The duty to help Jose adjust to American life fell on me. That’s the way it works. My mother had a grimace the whole time we were together with Jose at the Tai Tung Restaurant in Seattle Chinatown. Hank had dropped us off at the café while he went to purchase Chinese restaurant food stuff for our café in Aberdeen, and so he did not have dinner with Jose and my mom and me. My mom arranged that private meeting. Jose had two wives. A legal but an unfaithful one in Hong Kong and a non-legal one and also later proved to be unfaithful and she was in Lima, Peru. Later I was to learn her name to be Carmen.

Jose was a storyteller and a good gossip. He read the Chinese newspaper from cover to cover and had brought with him a set of cookbooks from Peru. He had worked in large chifas that catered to Japanese in Peru. They were good businessmen, but Jose said that they always designed the toilets next to the kitchen of the chifas. Chifas is a Spanish word for “cooking rice.” It is a transliteration. Jose said if he weren’t number one cook he certainly was number two. Later we got to know that Jose is a good storyteller. All his life he missed his fortune or luck by a nanosecond or a micrometer. It is bad to be born in the year of the goat. Seems like everyone is getting the better of you.   (More later…).

Jose in our kitchen (part 2)

Whenever Jose works in the kitchen, he leaves a trail of vegetables and water on the floor. My father always say of Jose, he is not a man of planning or vision, when he dies, he will just drop dead somewhere and others will have to take care of his body. My father is not very charitable. He has known very little of charity his life. Jose goes home to his apartment that we own at two in the morning when we close the restaurant. My dad and I stay to clean up and to have our wee morning meal together. That’s the only time my dad tells me of his oppression and humiliation.

He was interned at Angel Island and he was interrogated there. His immigration would in some sense be deemed criminal, but that is because the criminals were making the laws. Suffices now to say that if he was a criminal, he was in crime for other reasons, not because of the circumstances of his immigration. Because our name was changed to Woon, I am a paper son. But the crime was that my great-grandfather had already come as an indentured servant in the town of Hoquiam in 1880 and his son was in all likelihood murdered. We never found the body or the reason he was missing. So my father had to purchased an immigration paper – somebody else’s and for those who don’t know this story and others, Google “paper son.” And/ or the Chinese Exclusion Act. No, it was not drama. It was how an entire nation was banned from entry to the USA.

My father seldom ate vegetables. His big meal of the day, and the only time he could eat it too, was when we sat together in the wee morn and the freight trains would blow their lonely whistles a few blocks away. His grandfather came when the rails were young and he did laundry and cooked for the loggers. North of Hoquiam, in Humptulips, you can go into the woods and find abandoned rails tracks, when over a century ago, these tracks transported lumber out of the woods. My great-grandmother was in China. They were separated by the Pacific Ocean and by American immigration laws. My great-grandfather had a solitary teapot in the backroom of his laundry shop and  he had a solitary teacup.

My great-grandfather’s name was Locke Li, meaning a man from the Locke villages and possess of great strength. He acted as a labor contractor and the mayor of Hoquiam went with him to his village to conscript 500 men for the logging industry. One of the men that came over from China was Gary Locke’s grandfather.

My father used to say to me in the lonely hours of the café at night, “I used to think that we can be president in one generation, but now I know it takes three generations to grow a president. He didn’t like Gary Locke very much because my father despised Beijing. And Gary Locke went to Beijing to be the US Ambassador. My father and I are peasants. We distrust officials. If you come in to our restaurant through our front door and you are a relative, we then know that you have forgotten the old ways. Relatives and close friends come through the back door. That way, any secret business is unobserved.

(End of part 2, to be continued…)