GOLD AND GREY

During July in San Francisco there are some evenings when even though it's foggy, the temperature is still pleasant, neither cold nor warm. This usually means that it has been exceptionally hot elsewhere - high temperatures inland pull moist cool air in from the ocean; as it rolls in, it turns grey and opaque.
I enjoy talking a walk with my pipe at such times, and often end up at the far end of a Nob Hill cul-de-sac which catches southern light, where the Bougainvillea blooms.

[Bougainvillea, more familiar to Spanish speakers as 'Trinitaria' because of the shape of the bloom, thrives on sunlight that hits south-facing areas. The flower itself is small and rather modest, what strikes the eye is the three-leafed collar surrounding it, brilliantly crimson or intensely purple.]

A woman lives there, on the ground floor. She is ancient, and I think it must be her building, because she has the garden, and there are trees there that have lived a long time. Some evenings she comes out and putters around, weeding, watering, or sweeping the little brick patio under her trees.
I observe from my perch beyond the fence, but I doubt that she has ever even noticed that someone is spying on her.

I first saw her a few years ago when I was scarfing down some snackiepoos at a Chinatown bakery. She sat at a table all by herself, with a cup of milk-tea and a slice of strawberry cake. She would fork a bite, masticate thoughtfully, pause, take a sip of tea. Then after another pause, fork another piece. It was hypnotic to watch.
She may have experienced that confection more thoroughly than anybody else could have, as if she sought to grasp the innermost being of the pastry.

I was somewhat worried that it was the only thing she would eat that day. She looked frail, crumpled, small. Her clothes did not betray any great resources, and she was old, old, old. There are many elderly women in Chinatown, widows whose husbands had worked hard all their lives, married late, then died barely into retirement age.
You have to wonder how some of those ladies survive - left alone with straightened circumstances and narrowed horizons, in a country whose particularities are still so foreign.

When the waitress came to take the empty plate, she asked "Ah-yee-ah, Pong-chai dim ah?" Auntie, how is kid Pong?
Oh good, the old lady is not alone in this world! There's some young relation named 'Pong', and she herself seems known in this coffee shop.

It was pleasing to hear that Pong-chai was quite well.

The next time I saw her she was slowly walking up hill, several months later. A medium-sized fluffy dog was trotting along behind her on a leash, stopping now and then to sniff the tree trunks. It hurked down to make a deposit, and the old woman waited patiently for it to finish. When I passed, she had bent down with an empty plastic bag and I heard her remark in amazement, "wah, Pong-chai..... kam do ge lah?!" Wow, so much?!?
Ah, so that's Pong-chai.

I too was amazed.
I didn't think he had it in him.
Capacity!


It wasn't until several weeks ago that I found out where she lived. She came out onto the patio before the sun set. The trees that gave it shade bore clusters of small orange-yellow fruit among the thick leaves.
Ripening loquats. Possibly her husband had planted the tree many years ago when they first bought the building.
Slowly, as if dreaming, she swept the bricks. Pong-chai ambled along behind her, giving every evidence of being a remarkably happy dog.

Then she put the broom aside, stepped over to one of the loquat trees and looked up, admiring the fruit. So golden, so softly glowing. Such pretty canary orbs in the green green shade, puffs of fog adding gauze to the scene.
Yes, truly beautiful.

Her face seemed softened despite her age.
That may have been the glow of slanting light, the haze, and the forty foot distance.
Or not.

"Ah Pong-chai, ney lai pui ngoh ah."

Obediently the dog stood up on his hind legs and held up his forpaws for the woman to grasp. The two of them moved gracefully, semi-dancing, over the bricks.
I don't know what antique melody still played in her mind, but surely her dog could hear it too - it stepped patiently, surefootedly, looking up at her the while.
They had obviously often done this before.

How wonderful for them to be such good companions.


I would like them to enjoy the bougainvillea and loquats together, at the back of their alley, for many more years.


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