city, where he coveted the heaps of old bricks. The work crew helped him load the truck. I remembered the teeming cities of China, and how the earth regurgitated ancient walls as workers dug foundations for new buildings. Those bricks from the past were neatly stacked, awaiting a present to surround. It appeared to be a continual process everywhere in China, this turning over of the earth that rearranged centuries of time.
On the way home, he was stopped by a policeman who, after following him for some distance observing the swaying of the truck bed, concluded that he was drunk. He satisfied the officer that he had not been drinking and completed the mission. Before dark we had mixed more concrete, dug a deep hole with a pickax, and constructed a septic tank. It was like a brick troll house in the side of the hill topped with a slab of stone for a roof. That night I lay in bed with a sharp pain in my left shoulder, Band-Aids on three fingers, and an Ace bandage around my knee. But I was beginning to think I had married a genius.
Marriage Is Sacred
W HILE STILL IN CHINA , my husband confessed that it took him many hours over three or four days to write a one-page letter to me in English. I finally told him to write in Chinese and I would find someone to help me read it. I could not decipher the five pages of Chinese characters that arrived, except for âI,â âyou,â âsee same moon,â âtogether.â I took the letter to my friend who translated from the tissuey pages of rice paper. I still remember one part:
In my imagination I see your slim figure buffeted by icy gusts of wind, and I want to cross the street and stand next to you. I long to shield you from the cold. But I am across the world, not across the street. We must both be patient. I will come, and I will be with you forever. In the meantime, remember to put on your heavy coat. The greatest wealth is health. We are not so young, after all. Please trust me. Marriage is a sacred thing
.
Here in America, my husband never used such words; it was as if precious things could be endangered by being named. His deep appreciation was expressed spontaneously under cover of darkness, preferably interrupting my sleep. It was sufficient. Yet sometimes I felt abstractly disgruntled and took the opportunity to get peevish about the lack of clichéd romance. I found reasons to indulge in feelings of deprivationâone sore point being the lack of dancing opportunities, another the lack of a symbolic weddingring. I looked at other womenâs smooth, pretty hands with diamond rings on them, and I wanted one.
I am an artist, and my hands are rough, red, and arthritic; they wouldnât look good even if you covered them in rubies and emeralds and glued long designer fingernails on them. I canât wear a ring for ten minutes without getting it clogged with clay, papiermâché, concrete, or bread dough. But for a while I became obsessed with the idea that I had no glittery ring to let everyone know. Know what? That I was not trying to pick them up; that I was married, for Godâs sake; that my husband thought my hands were good enough for an expensive ring? I tried not to examine this list too carefully.
In China, I had a soft gold wedding ring that bent and fell off every time I caught it on my hair or the buttons on Zhong-huaâs shirt cuffs. Upon arriving in America, Zhong-hua had given me a stoic, geometric nickel-colored ring. Its squareness hurt my fingers, so I often took it off and placed it to the side if I needed to work with my hands. One day I thought I heard it on its way up the vacuum pipe while I was cleaning the windowsill. I cut open the bag and dumped everything out, but couldnât find it. Even though I was the careless one, I brought the subject up as if someone else had wronged me and should make it right. I was annoying even myself, but my husband took it in silent amusement. I could hear him thinking,
On the way home, he was stopped by a policeman who, after following him for some distance observing the swaying of the truck bed, concluded that he was drunk. He satisfied the officer that he had not been drinking and completed the mission. Before dark we had mixed more concrete, dug a deep hole with a pickax, and constructed a septic tank. It was like a brick troll house in the side of the hill topped with a slab of stone for a roof. That night I lay in bed with a sharp pain in my left shoulder, Band-Aids on three fingers, and an Ace bandage around my knee. But I was beginning to think I had married a genius.
Marriage Is Sacred
W HILE STILL IN CHINA , my husband confessed that it took him many hours over three or four days to write a one-page letter to me in English. I finally told him to write in Chinese and I would find someone to help me read it. I could not decipher the five pages of Chinese characters that arrived, except for âI,â âyou,â âsee same moon,â âtogether.â I took the letter to my friend who translated from the tissuey pages of rice paper. I still remember one part:
In my imagination I see your slim figure buffeted by icy gusts of wind, and I want to cross the street and stand next to you. I long to shield you from the cold. But I am across the world, not across the street. We must both be patient. I will come, and I will be with you forever. In the meantime, remember to put on your heavy coat. The greatest wealth is health. We are not so young, after all. Please trust me. Marriage is a sacred thing
.
Here in America, my husband never used such words; it was as if precious things could be endangered by being named. His deep appreciation was expressed spontaneously under cover of darkness, preferably interrupting my sleep. It was sufficient. Yet sometimes I felt abstractly disgruntled and took the opportunity to get peevish about the lack of clichéd romance. I found reasons to indulge in feelings of deprivationâone sore point being the lack of dancing opportunities, another the lack of a symbolic weddingring. I looked at other womenâs smooth, pretty hands with diamond rings on them, and I wanted one.
I am an artist, and my hands are rough, red, and arthritic; they wouldnât look good even if you covered them in rubies and emeralds and glued long designer fingernails on them. I canât wear a ring for ten minutes without getting it clogged with clay, papiermâché, concrete, or bread dough. But for a while I became obsessed with the idea that I had no glittery ring to let everyone know. Know what? That I was not trying to pick them up; that I was married, for Godâs sake; that my husband thought my hands were good enough for an expensive ring? I tried not to examine this list too carefully.
In China, I had a soft gold wedding ring that bent and fell off every time I caught it on my hair or the buttons on Zhong-huaâs shirt cuffs. Upon arriving in America, Zhong-hua had given me a stoic, geometric nickel-colored ring. Its squareness hurt my fingers, so I often took it off and placed it to the side if I needed to work with my hands. One day I thought I heard it on its way up the vacuum pipe while I was cleaning the windowsill. I cut open the bag and dumped everything out, but couldnât find it. Even though I was the careless one, I brought the subject up as if someone else had wronged me and should make it right. I was annoying even myself, but my husband took it in silent amusement. I could hear him thinking,
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