Four older women around the table yell at one another, happily, in Cantonese. One of them holds her hands up in front of her. Her wrists are entirely obscured by beads.
In 16 years I have grown used to being the sole mute person at the table. The role holds an odd, serene comfort.
Becky’s father Bill leans over to me, translates. “She says the amber gives her energy. It gives her energy for housework.” He laughs a little at his sister. He is an engineer and a skeptic, but he appreciates a bit of folklore.
I once suggested to Becky that I learn Cantonese. “Why bother?” she asked. “Just to talk to my family? They speak English.” “Well, “ I replied, “I could eavesdrop on conversations on the 30 Stockton bus.” But probably not. Cantonese is an outsider’s name, one word applied to probably two dozen mutually unintelligible dialects. If my seatmate’s parents grew up twenty miles from Bill’s home town, her language would be as far from his as Scanian is from mine.
Bill’s sister Marian takes off one of her bracelets, places it on the table. “The energy goes around,” she says in English. She gestures in a circle, traces the circumference of the bracelet.
Becky speaks up. “Mom, show Chris your bracelet.” Joan brightens and hands it to me. The bracelet is fine, with three colors of amber, from pale to dark brown like grades of maple syrup. Amber is the only gemstone that is always warm to the touch. “You can see the leaves in there,” says Joan. I hold the bracelet up to the light. Flecks of bark and leaf and random Cenozoic dirt sparkle there. It is beautiful.
Twenty years ago Elissa idly wished to own an amber necklace someday. A week later I wandered into the anthropology museum at UC Berkeley: there, in the gift shop, was a string of Baltic amber beads. At a hundred bucks, it cost a week’s pay. I intended it as a Christmas gift but couldn’t stand to wait, and gave it to her in November. She spent some minutes struck speechless.
Marian is animated. “When I wear these, I can vacuum all day.” Across the room a man chases fish in the big tank. They are a foot long and silver-gray. They do their best to elude the cook, slipping around behind the net and flattening themselves against the tank wall. One fails and goes limply off to the cutting board.
Posted by: Chris Clarke
Categories:
Family
Paleontology
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