Winter Cucumbers

My father-in-law's living room is dominated these days by a large rolling table with a big opaque projector-like device mounted on it. By putting a book or other reading material underneath the lens and light, and adjusting some dials, he can view a hugely-enlarged image on the screen. One of his eyes is, as he puts it "no good," but the other has had some minor improvement lately, due to some experimental injections -- enough so that, with the aid of this machine, he can read a little bit again. I don't think he's reading much, but anything is better than the nothing of the past six or eight months, especially for this man whose greatest contentment is to be surrounded by his library and a few objects and pictures that stir his memory.

On Tuesday night we took dinner over to him - just some kibbeh, rice, yogurt and small Lebanese cucumbers, some fried peppers and carrots, good green olives marinated with thyme, some large loaves of Arabic bread - and the three of us sat and ate together, en famille, my father-in-law in his favorite armchair, the two of us on the little blue velveteen couch. When we arrived he had been lying half off and half on his bed, watching the early election coverage. His forehead was bleeding where he had been absent-mindedly scratching it; we told him and he waved one hand dismissively and said, "Who cares? No one's going to see. But I'll wash it off if it bothers you."

I was in the kitchen, wearing his apron ("It looks good on you," he said, which means, "I like the idea of a woman in my kitchen, making dinner") as he made his way from the bedroom to his chair, moving very slowly, one hand reaching out for balance and security toward the chairs and tables he's strategically placed along his normal path. "What's this?" I asked, as he looked over the pass-through above the sink, holding onto the edge of the counter. I grinned and gestured toward a small grey plastic rat perched on one of the cups in his dish drainer.

"Oh that!" He laughed heartily. "It's my mouse. I have two of them, and the ones -- you know, the helpers here - who clean up my place like them and make a point of putting them somewhere different each week, to surprise me."

We served dinner and ate. "These are good, did you make them?" he asked about the kibbeh. I shook my head and said no way, and he smiled, knowing how much work they are. "I'm going to make kibbeh again someday," he said, looking up at the ceiling as he took a bite. And a little later, waving a slice of cucumber: "Are these from your garden?"

"That would be pretty hard at this time of year."

He looked puzzled for a minute and then said, "Oh! Yes, of course."  He ate everything on his plate, after saying it was too much, though it took him quite a while. "Do you have work these days?" he asked, as we sat and watched him finish the last few bites.

"Yes, a lot."

"GOOD!! It must be terrible not to have work. I've never been unemployed a day in my life. Really! I can't imagine how hard it must be for people who don't have work. That's what's so difficult about my situation now. Ten years ago - even five years ago - I was still going strong. Now..." he waved the hand again, as if to send his life and troubles off into the darkness behind him. "Nothing! No good! I can't hear, I can't see to read..."

"Look at these books," he said, bending down in his chair and pointing to a group of books on the lower two shelves. "I had every intention of reading all of these. They're by one of the most important historians of Arabic literature, written during the brief 'renaissance' at the beginning of the last century." I leaned over to look; there was a set of impressive-looking books in black bindings with red and gold Arabic lettering on the spines; assorted monographs in manila and dark brown paper covers; some notes in my father-in-law's handwriting. "Too late!" he said, sighing and sitting back in his chair, where he settled comfortably again with an "ahhhh," even though the old, black, imitation-leather chair cushion was falling forward out of the seat.

"Were there ever any poets in the family?" I asked. "Besides you, of course?"

"No," he said, acknowledging the compliment with a mischievous grin. (He has always styled himself as a poet and philosopher, but lately has taken to saying, "I really just fooled everyone into thinking I was intelligent. That was my talent!") He shook his head. "There was my uncle who wrote mysteries, and had to leave Syria and go to Egypt to live because what he wrote didn't set well with the Ottomans. We had a set of all of his books in our library at home - I can still see them there! - and every afternoon when the family went to take their siestas I stole into the library instead, and read. All my time with those books was stolen - I wasn't supposed to read them, and the adults all thought I was asleep, but actually I was in in the library." He shook his head, remembering, and said something in Arabic. Then: "I'm very disappointed about the poem I was writing - I can't finish it, and it looks like I'm not going to. I was very excited about it."

"I know.  So was I!"

"All the notes are in my study, and now when I look at them they seem to have been written by an alien; I can't remember what I was saying."

I looked at him sympathetically, not knowing what to say. "All gone, all gone!" he exclaimed. "But it's all right - c'est la vie."

Comments

[Kaycie]

You must be so fond of him; everything you write about him is affectionate even though it is tinged with a bit of sadness. I remember what it was like when my great grandmother could no longer read. I used to read to her when I would visit, but it just wasn't the same for her. Your observations of him give me a small idea of what it will be like to grow old.

[dale]

(o)

[Mouse]

I love reading about your father-in-law
And I am impressed by anyone who has rodents round the home!

[Lucy]

Wonderful, what a world he still carries with him.

Kibbeh reminded me of the ones we used to sell in the veg. restaurant in Cardiff, years ago, with falafel. They were made by an Iranian man, I think, and so good. I always marvelled at the making of them, how much went into them and how well they held together.

[anasalwa]

beth,
I've always enjoyed reading your entry about your father in law. I know if my father were still alive, we would be talking, discussing and debating about books, politics and dumbass politicians.