Alice J. Wisler - Rain Song

For Rachel, Benjamin, and Elizabeth, and in
memory of Daniel, my reason for waving to heaven.

Life is either a daring adventure or nothing.

HELEN KELLER

Contents

AME, AME

FURE, FURE

KA SANGA

JANOME DE

OMUKAE

URESHIINA

A Japanese childrens song
about a mother who comes in the rain
to pick up her child

MOUNT OLIVE, NORTH CAROLINA
1999

When they suggest changing the location of the family reunion, I am first to speak. I clear my throat a few timessomething that irritates me when anyone else does itand then, with my eyes focused on the crystal vase of scarlet roses centered on Ducees kitchen table, I begin. I remind them that weve always had the reunion in North Carolina; why break tradition? Tradition is big in the McCormick family.

I see Ducee nod, which gives me courage to continue. Since there are more family members in this region, I add, making all of us fly to Wyoming would be senseless. Wouldnt it be easier and much more logical for the Wyoming group to fly here? They are younger. I mean, should Ducee really fly at her age? And her heart condition, dont forget that.

Cheyenne, Wyoming, residents Aunt Betty and Uncle Jarvis, who are spending the weekend with Ducee, look uncomfortably across the table at each other. In unison they blurt, Oh, Nicole, of course Ducee shouldnt fly. Then they apologize to Ducee for even making the suggestion.

Oh my, what were we thinking? Aunt Betty reaches her round pink arm across the table toward Ducee, tipping the flower arrangement; Uncle Jarvis grabs the vase just in time. Aunt Betty croons, Oh, Mother, I dont know what came over me.

I gnaw on a thumbnail and stand to wash the dishes. They dont need to be apologetic about their idea; they just dont need to give it any more consideration.

So nothing has changed, and once again, this July, the family reunion will be here in Mount Olive. Well make the usual foodpotato salad, chicken salad, honey-baked ham, corn on the cob dripping with butter, green bean casserole, delicate egg salad sandwiches on white bread, and of course, traditional homemade pineapple chutney. Well spread the checkered tablecloths over the rickety picnic tables in my grandmother Ducees backyard and cover ourselves with insect repellent and eat until the stars flicker out one by one. Great-Uncle Clive will swing the great-grandkids in the tire swing as Maggie, Ducees whitepawed donkey, brays and nibbles at ripe blackberries growing over the edge of the wooden fence.

The Wyoming groupAunt Betty and Uncle Jarvis, Kate, Linda, and their spouses and childrenwill inevitably wonder how we handle the humidity and tell us a few dozen times that the air is less sticky in Cheyenne, until Cousin Aaron drives them in the church van to the coast. Then, after splashing in the salty waves as they watch the sun set over the Atlantic, they will smile and say how lovely the ocean is and what a blessing it is for us in Mount Olive to be so close to this spectacular view. For a moment, they will envy us, their bodies not at all bothered by southern summer stickiness.

Ducee knows, though. She lifts her chin and adjusts her bifocals and I know she knows. Shes thinking that Nicole doesnt care if we have Japanese squid and octopus at the reunion, as long as it means keeping the gathering here in Mount Olive. Just dont make her get on an airplane. Thats what Ducee is thinking as she nods and wipes her pale lips with a pastel linen napkin.

No plane ride for me. Ever.

Last time I was on a plane I threw up three times. I was only two and dont remember it, but Im sure things havent changed. Just the sound of planes racing overhead is enough to pump fear into my veins and churn my stomach.

Great-Aunt Iva says that everyone is entitled to at least one phobia. She adds that if you have any Irish McCormick blood in you, you are most certainly entitled to even a few more.

On a crisp February afternoon, Iva, Ducee, and I sit around the kitchen table with bone china cups of tea. They ask how I am. Weve just made three gallons of pineapple chutney and were still in Mount Olive pickle green aprons. Were pretty wiped out; thats what this chutney-making tradition does to you. Hours and hours of slicing pineapple and adding spices while standing over a simmering pot can really sap your energy. Thats why, after the chutney is sealed in jars, we allow for plenty of time to relax with hot ginger tea.

Ducee adds black tea leaves to freshly ground ginger root and seasons the mixture with lemon juice and sugar. She boils this concoction with distilled water because she is convinced that distilled water creates the best tea. She says its common southern knowledge.

Im fine, I reply. Quickly, I take a long drink. The tea scalds my tongue.

Ducee glances at me, raises an eyebrow, and waits.

She can wait all afternoon; I am not about to tell her anything more. I reach for a grape from the fruit bowl and admire the carnations in the crystal vase.

Youve been in another world, Ducee says. Her greenishblue eyes soften as she studies my face.

I force a smile. Really, Im okay. Sticking my thumb into my mouth, I chew a ragged nail. Nail-biting and fear of flying are my two known weaknesses. The other ones I work at hiding from everyone else.

Iva lights up a Virginia Slims, stretches her long, slender legs, and crosses her ankles. When she does this, its as though she thinks shes the original Ms. Virginia Slims. She says she hopes we can have cucumber sandwiches at the reunion. You know how much I like cucumbers thinly sliced on white bread. She exhales and adds, Peeled, of course. Never did like the skin of a cucumber, not even the ones we grew growing up on our farm.

Ducee shakes her head, causing her gray curls to bounce. Not at all proper. She enunciates each word as I do when teaching. I told you before, Iva. It isnt done.

Iva asks, And why not?

You cant have both egg salad and cucumber sandwiches at the same party. Ducee states this as though its a fact, like the population of Mount Olive, which happens to be 4,427.

Ivas hazel eyes widen behind her silver-rimmed glasses. Says who?

Its common etiquette. All southerners know this. Take pimento cheese, for example. Our southern classic. However, it cannot be eaten with egg salad, either.

Ive never heard any of this before and Ive lived in North Carolina all my life, Iva says, her voice laced with aggravation.

I roll my eyes at Iva. There is no point in my aunt continuing with her desire to have cucumber sandwiches. When Ducee mentions etiquette, its useless to argue. My grandmother thinks she is the queen of etiquette, at least southern etiquette.

Once, as a young girl visiting her during summer vacation, I asked Ducee what the name of her book was. Puzzled, she questioned what I meant.

Your book you wrote, I said. The one about how to wipe your mouth on a cloth napkin and how to kiss cheeks.

Ducee played along. Oh, my book of important Southern Truths. She patted my arm. Yes, thats it, yes. They are written somewhere, Im sure. Emily Post or Mrs. Vanderbilt.

I was nine before I realized Ducee had not written a book on etiquette; she just liked to talk about certain ways one should conduct oneselfher renowned Southern Truths. I do admit I was disappointed and couldnt bear to tell my classmates at my elementary school in Richmond, Virginia, that my grandmother in Mount Olive, North Carolina, had not authored a book, even though, yes, one day in third-grade show-and-tell I proudly shared she had.

As the afternoon sun shifts behind a cloud and darkens the kitchen, Iva takes a slow puff on her cigarette. She exchanges the cucumber-sandwiches topic for her grandson-in-law. I just dont know what Grable is going to do about Dennis. Shes having to live the life of the single parent. Grable is Ivas granddaughter who is thirty-five, four years older than I am.