Sitting at my computer screen in my 6th floor Singapore office, looking out at a darkening sky, I have taken a lunch break from the various tasks at hand. As I munch on a ham and cheese sandwich, with Dijon mustard, I suddenly have a flashback to a typical event in another hemisphere and another lifetime.
The typical event: lunchtime somewhere on a winding mountain road in California’s central Sierra Nevada. It could be between Hume Lake and Lake Sequoia, or between Hartland and Camp San Joaquin. As Dad traveled from one summer campsite to another to take the group photograph we would often-times assemble the sandwiches on the back seat. It took a bit of skill – laying the bread out and smearing the mayonnaise so it didn’t fall on the floor as Dad careened around the corners. Then carefully lay out the meat, followed by cheese slice. We didn’t always have pre-sliced cheese, so it was always good to have a cheese slicer along. Then comes the lettuce, dill pickles and tomato. Slicing the tomato was always tricky in a moving car, because there was always the danger of the wheels hitting a bump and then the knife missing and cutting your finger. Somehow we survived. Mustard was a pretty important ingredient, so we usually tried to have some. All of these ingredients came either from raiding the home refrigerator or purchased from the store at Hume Lake. We didn’t realize then how expensive it was to do the latter.
For some reason, the tangy taste of mustard and ham (or more likely bologna) are connected with one particular memory. It was a particular instance when older brother Paul and I had gone with Dad to his weekly Hume Lake shoot. Very often it would be a full day, beginning with Hume and then Sequoia or Camp San Joaquin and Hartland. This day was different. The afternoon was free. We were really hoping that Dad would take this bonus time after the morning Hume Lake shoot and go down to Cedar Grove in Kings Canyon. I don’t remember how the topic started, but we must have been talking about Kings Canyon. We all loved romping around the mountains, and often-times Dad would take a side excursion if there were time.
On this occasion, however, Dad had told us “No.” That would kind of make sense, since a trip to Cedar Grove would be at least an hour out of the way. Nevertheless, I think that we were pretty disappointed. Looking back, I wonder what kind of quick decisions he had to make. He could have stuck to his guns, gone home early and made an early start on what would be a typically a very long photo processing job the next day. Or he could give in and satisfy the boys. What a job it must been for Dad to juggle his work schedule with the demands of home, wife and five kids. I have one son, and I struggle to find a balance.
What eventually happened on that summer day in the mountains was, I think, typical of the way Dad could resolve tensions. As we stopped at the T-junction at Indian Meadow and Highway 180, my older brother and I must have looked glum. A right turn would take us to Kings Canyon and Cedar Grove. A left turn meant the two-hour drive back home. It would be hot and boring. Then, as Dad started to pull away from the stop sign and enter the highway, he started looking panicky, and he struggled with the steering wheel, hands flailing. “I can’t control it,” he said. “There’s nothing I can do. The car wants to turn right.”
The car turned right. I don’t remember much about what we said or did after that. Dad drove us down at least part way down to Cedar Grove. I don't recall all that we did - we stopped at the overlook, marveled at the raging currents of the Kings River, and we probably sat in the shade of a tree to eat our sandwiches with mustard sauce. And we got home a little later, but with some happy stories to tell. I don't think that Dad always gave in so easily, but he seemed to have sense of what was really important.
Sitting at my desk on the 6
th floor office in Singapore, looking out at a typical, warm, rainy afternoon in Singapore, I consider the hurried pace of an urban life so structured by market economy that everything, even worship and family time, has become a commodity to be produced and sold to the lowest bidder.
Where is the time to savor a good taste or to relax under a shade tree?
With the taste of
Dijon mustard fading from my memory, I wonder what happy stories my son will tell. --georgos
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