A series of essays….
….as seen through my eyes!
By: Jacqueline E Hughes
Sometimes all it takes is a pinched finger to feel you are truly alive!
With tummies satiated after devouring a rather large, pristine white bowl of chicken curried soup awash in stalks of fresh basil, a spritz of citrus, and the clean crunch of a slender sprout, we hug our friends good-bye at Phở Vinh, our favorite Vietnamese restaurant in Orlando. Dan brought me here for my sixtieth birthday and we’ve been returning on a monthly basis ever since, until our move in 2018. Also, we think their beef phở is the best in town.
Today’s story originates from what I saw and imagined in the back parking lot of the building. And, so the story goes…
My life began all handmade and new—not mass produced—with the idea that the young family who owned me would sit together for family meals. The grandpa (known as papa) of this family worked with his hands to make most of the furniture adorning the simple three bedroom ranch-style home while saving the young couple a bit of money and allowing them to choose the style and wood tones of each precious piece.
I emerged with style and grace as a set of six dining room chairs. Two of my pine siblings boasted arms while carrying the title of ‘captain’s chairs.’ I liked being armless because this meant that the two rambunctious children of the household could slide and squirm a little bit more as they sat down at the oval table we pulled ourselves under for the duration of each meal. I’m all about having room and a bit of freedom no matter how old we are.
Well, let me be the first to say that those two kids shined my finish so well throughout the years that when papa passed away and mom and dad, now empty nesters, decided to downsize and move a few states away, I was sold (I prefer to say handpicked) to a college student who planned to provide more seating in her dorm room. She chose to bring another of my siblings along for the wild and crazy ride. What happened to our two ‘captains’ and the two remaining armless pieces in my family, I will never know.
In the beginning, we lived life on the edge with clothes of all varieties thrown randomly and in large quantities on our backs and seats. Nobody actually sat down on us, simply because they couldn’t. One day in late spring a mother of one of the students stopped by and removed the clothes. I felt I could breathe once again. After mom left that evening, I overheard our two girls planning a spring party for the next evening right there in the dorm.
The party was wild with open beer cans tipping over on us, the contents soaking into my tired wood fibers while denim-clad bottoms soaked up their own fair share. As the night wore on and excessive verbiage turned into unrecognizable babble, the overhead fluorescents suddenly clicked off and peace regained its hold on our little world.
By the end of spring semester, our girls abandoned us and rented a furnished apartment just off campus. We had served their purpose and I couldn’t help but wonder what our fate would be. Evidently, the college, being very charitably minded, donated all of the furniture left behind in the dormitories to people in need and I soon found myself alone; my trusty sibling was not by my side on this particular roller coaster ride.
Even though I still felt sturdy enough to take on a sizable human being without difficulties, was I prepared for my new position as ‘chair of all trades’ within a commercial paint shop downtown? At first I allowed customers to sit down and relax in the small waiting room. Then, someone decided to give me a fresh coat of white paint in order to dress me up a bit and make me look new. I had never had paint coating the seasoned pine of my early existence and decided that it really wasn’t so bad after all. Actually, I felt protected by it.
By the time the elongated brown bench arrived to take my place in the waiting room, I was relocated to the business end of the paint shop and that’s when all hell broke loose.
I was misused as a small ladder with the soles of work boots grinding into my seat and the fresh, white paint began to wear off like yesterday’s news. If I could shed actual tears—I would have. My delicate spindles designed to comfort a weary back were being used by the ‘creative’ little daughter of the shop’s owner as the bars of the gorilla habitat at the local zoo. In her mighty attempt to escape between the cage’s bars, she would flex my spindles until they spread apart taking on a new life for themselves.
But, like time itself, things can change in any given moment. And, I had to change right along with it. You see, the little girl’s uncle, her mother’s brother, owned a Vietnamese restaurant and saw me wasting away in his brother-in-law’s paint shop. Since his lobby was rather small, he’d decided that I was a perfect fit, along with one other misplaced chair sporting horizontal slats and painted a deep green, for a place to sit while his customers waited to be seated at a table.
He graciously placed a small, round table between the two of us that sported a clear, cut-glass vase and colorful fresh flowers. I felt very dignified, once again, and proud to be serving others as I did so many years ago in that small, ranch-style house in the city.
The months and then years progressed. The little girl’s uncle, salt and pepper hair thinning, and owner of my little restaurant made some changes of his own and handed down his highly acclaimed eatery to his oldest son. Like his award winning signature dish, beef soup or phở, that is such a staple of Vietnamese restaurants in America, he left on a high note to walk white, sandy beaches and soak-up the glorious heat of the sun.
My slatted friend and I were well maintained throughout the following years and the many displays of fresh flowers between us. One day, we coud feel the cold, slender fingers of change lurking around the corner and braced ourselves for it. The new owner decided to place me in the restaurant’s cozy kitchen for the staff to rest their weary bones when needed. I enjoyed all of the wonderful delights the kitchen had to offer by way of wholesome smells, delightful warmth, and the good people who sat down for a brief respite from working hours on their feet.
It was all done for a very noble cause and the time passed by with convivial laughter surrounding my own weary bones as my paint began chipping away and my spindles became weak and misshapen. I began to forget how gentle papa’s hands were as he shaped me from raw wood and held me together with glue and lots of love.
And then my services were reaching a completely new dimension when my friend, Nhieu, decided he wanted to sit down outside at the rear of the building to smoke his cigarette at break time. Did he forget about me after that first incident? Didn’t he understand that my real home was in the corner of the kitchen? For the first time I truly wished I could somehow communicate with him, but knew that wasn’t how it worked.
For a long, long time I sat like a terracotta warrior propped-up against the chipping stucco, proud and strong as any aging artifact can be. The Florida sunshine and heavy rains seeped into my bones, my very soul, but my crusty exterior refused to cave even when the humidity aged me and did all it could to strip my dignity to shreds.
Then, one summer evening, as I silently wallowed in my dismay, a couple who had just finished eating dinner at the restaurant were getting into their car in my parking lot. I listened for the sound of gravel beneath the tires but it wasn’t happening. The woman removed her Smartphone from her purse and stared at me with devoted interest. I hadn’t a single clue about what her intentions might be.
Centering the phone’s camera right at me, she took several pictures from a vertical perspective and then several focussed horizontally until her curiosity thoroughly intrigued me. Who was she? What was it about me that interested her so much? I wasn’t sure. I knew that I felt excited and, almost, important once again. I’d hoped she found what she was looking to capture and that I didn’t disappoint her.
I think I knew what the answers were by looking into her green eyes and feeling hopeful and vindicated by the possibilities. One day she will write a story about my life and illustrate it with the only pictures she has of me and everything will be set right and my purpose for being will be revealed to those who care.
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CURRIED CHICKEN SOUP |
Copyright © 2024 by Jacqueline E Hughes
All rights reserved
Photo Copyright © 2024 by Jacqueline E Hughes
All rights reserved
