delicate white blossoms. "It's an ume tree," he said, slowly pronouncing it "ooh-may" "Its flowers bloom even during the harshest weather--even in coldest winter."
"Here we go ...," Marty whispered to Samantha, just loud enough for his father to hear. "Viva la revolucion ..." he joked.
"Hey, what's that supposed to mean?" Henry asked, pausing from his labors.
"No offense, Pops, it's just that--"
Samantha interrupted. "Marty told me that tree has a special meaning for you.
That it's a symbol of some kind."
"It is," Henry said, touching a small, five-petaled plum blossom. "Ume flowers are used as decoration during Chinese New Year. It's also the symbol of the ancient city of Nanjing and now the national flower of all of China."
Marty stood up partway and offered a mock salute.
"What's that for?" Samantha asked.
"Tell her, Pops."
Henry kept pruning, attempting to ignore his son's jest. "The flower was also my own father's favorite." He struggled against his pruning shears before finally clipping off a large dead branch. "It's a symbol of perseverance in the face of adversity--a revolutionist symbol."
"Your father was a revolutionary?" Samantha asked.
"Hah!" Henry caught himself laughing at the thought. "No, no--he was a nationalist. Always scared of the communist. But he still believed in one China. The ume tree was special to him that way, understand?"
Samantha smiled and nodded, sipping her tea. "Marty said that tree came from a branch of your father's tree--that you planted it here when he died."
Henry looked at his son, then shook his head and clipped another branch. "His mother tell him this."
Henry felt bad for mentioning Ethel. For bringing up such sadness on what was an otherwise happy day.
"I'm very sorry," Samantha said. "I wish I could have met her."
Henry just smiled solemnly and nodded, while Marty put his arm around his fiancee and kissed her on the temple.
Samantha changed the subject. "Marty tells me you were an incredible engineer, they even let you retire early."
Henry could see Samantha out of the corner of his eye as he tended to the tree; it was like she was checking off an imaginary list. "You're a great cook, you like to garden, and you're the best fisherman he's ever known. He told me about all the times you took him out on Lake Washington for sockeye."
"That so ...," Henry said, looking at his son, wondering why he never said these things to him. Then he thought about the communications gaps, more like chasms really, between him and his own father and knew the answer.
Samantha sipped her iced tea, stirring the ice cubes with her finger. "He says you love jazz music."
Henry looked at her, intrigued. Now we're talking.
"And not just any jazz. The roots of West Coast jazz and swing, like Floyd Standifer and Buddy Catlett--and that you're a big Dave Holden fan, and a really big fan of his father, Oscar Holden, as well."
Henry pruned a small branch and tossed it in a white bucket. "I like her," he said to Marty, loud enough for her to hear it. "You did good."
"I'm glad you approve, Pops. You know, you surprise me."
Henry did his best to communicate without words. To give his son that smile, that knowing look of approval. He was certain Marty picked up every phrase of their wordless communication. After a lifetime of nods, frowns, and stoic smiles, they were both fluent in emotional shorthand. Smiling at each other as Samantha showed off her impressive knowledge of Seattle's rich prewar music history. The more Henry listened, the more he thought about going back to the Panama Hotel next week. About sifting through the basement. All those crates. All those trunks, and boxes, and suitcases. And about how much easier it would be if he had help.
But more than that, Henry hated being compared with his own father. In Marty's eyes, the plum hadn't fallen far from the tree; if anything, it was clinging stubbornly to the branches. That's what I've taught by my
"Here we go ...," Marty whispered to Samantha, just loud enough for his father to hear. "Viva la revolucion ..." he joked.
"Hey, what's that supposed to mean?" Henry asked, pausing from his labors.
"No offense, Pops, it's just that--"
Samantha interrupted. "Marty told me that tree has a special meaning for you.
That it's a symbol of some kind."
"It is," Henry said, touching a small, five-petaled plum blossom. "Ume flowers are used as decoration during Chinese New Year. It's also the symbol of the ancient city of Nanjing and now the national flower of all of China."
Marty stood up partway and offered a mock salute.
"What's that for?" Samantha asked.
"Tell her, Pops."
Henry kept pruning, attempting to ignore his son's jest. "The flower was also my own father's favorite." He struggled against his pruning shears before finally clipping off a large dead branch. "It's a symbol of perseverance in the face of adversity--a revolutionist symbol."
"Your father was a revolutionary?" Samantha asked.
"Hah!" Henry caught himself laughing at the thought. "No, no--he was a nationalist. Always scared of the communist. But he still believed in one China. The ume tree was special to him that way, understand?"
Samantha smiled and nodded, sipping her tea. "Marty said that tree came from a branch of your father's tree--that you planted it here when he died."
Henry looked at his son, then shook his head and clipped another branch. "His mother tell him this."
Henry felt bad for mentioning Ethel. For bringing up such sadness on what was an otherwise happy day.
"I'm very sorry," Samantha said. "I wish I could have met her."
Henry just smiled solemnly and nodded, while Marty put his arm around his fiancee and kissed her on the temple.
Samantha changed the subject. "Marty tells me you were an incredible engineer, they even let you retire early."
Henry could see Samantha out of the corner of his eye as he tended to the tree; it was like she was checking off an imaginary list. "You're a great cook, you like to garden, and you're the best fisherman he's ever known. He told me about all the times you took him out on Lake Washington for sockeye."
"That so ...," Henry said, looking at his son, wondering why he never said these things to him. Then he thought about the communications gaps, more like chasms really, between him and his own father and knew the answer.
Samantha sipped her iced tea, stirring the ice cubes with her finger. "He says you love jazz music."
Henry looked at her, intrigued. Now we're talking.
"And not just any jazz. The roots of West Coast jazz and swing, like Floyd Standifer and Buddy Catlett--and that you're a big Dave Holden fan, and a really big fan of his father, Oscar Holden, as well."
Henry pruned a small branch and tossed it in a white bucket. "I like her," he said to Marty, loud enough for her to hear it. "You did good."
"I'm glad you approve, Pops. You know, you surprise me."
Henry did his best to communicate without words. To give his son that smile, that knowing look of approval. He was certain Marty picked up every phrase of their wordless communication. After a lifetime of nods, frowns, and stoic smiles, they were both fluent in emotional shorthand. Smiling at each other as Samantha showed off her impressive knowledge of Seattle's rich prewar music history. The more Henry listened, the more he thought about going back to the Panama Hotel next week. About sifting through the basement. All those crates. All those trunks, and boxes, and suitcases. And about how much easier it would be if he had help.
But more than that, Henry hated being compared with his own father. In Marty's eyes, the plum hadn't fallen far from the tree; if anything, it was clinging stubbornly to the branches. That's what I've taught by my
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