Lost in Translation - Part 2

Dear Boo and Bubble,

For the most part, I’m not particularly girly.  You’re more likely to find me on a golf course somewhere or on a tennis court than shopping for shoes.  But, every now and then, I get out of character and indulge myself in the female ritual of the pedicure and manicure.  Regardless of the city or state, the nail salon always offers the same environment – massage chairs with foot tubs, manicure desks, and practitioners of all ages and genders who chatter to each other in what I’ve come to learn is Vietnamese.

The language difference doesn’t normally cause any problem for me.  I can understand simple phrases like “choose color,” “pay now,” and “thank you.”  Anything else can be handled with a bunch of nodding and smiling.  One particular time, however, I found myself completely challenged.

I walked into the salon, signed in and was handed over to a gentleman probably in his thirties.  He was very pleasant.  The pedicure came first and he escorted me over to take a seat in one of the chairs.  He filled the basin with warm water and, once my feet were inserted, asked “Okay?”

That was easy enough.  I replied “Yes, thank you.”

While he worked on my feet, my body writhed up and down like a wave from the roller balls in the massage chair, all the while I’m reading a magazine.  I’ve found this to be a great tactic for conversation avoidance during these situations.  It’s also easily executed during a pedicure because both hands are free.

Not so for a manicure.  He put the little paper flip-flops on my feet and escorted me to the manicure table.  We sat down opposite each other no more than two feet apart, face to face.  He asked me a question – “Rou o squa?”

I stared at him with a stupid smile on my face hoping it would buy me some time to figure out what he’d said.  Nothing came.  He gestured to indicate whether I wanted my nails rounded or square.  “Oh, yes, I see.  Rounded would be fine.”

He began the manicure.  It went like this - he’d say something, I’d smile back blankly, he’d look at me like I was an idiot and then take my hand and put it where it needed to go – into a soap dish, into a heated glove, whatever.  About ten minutes into the deal, he looked at me squarely and said seriously “Wa Ha Pee.”

“Exuse me?”

“Wa Ha Pee.”

This elicited a totally clueless expression from me.

For a third time, he said “Wa Ha Pee” and added the gesture of stretching his right arm backwards out from his shoulder.

Trying desperately to pick up on what I was supposed to do, I mimicked him by reaching my left arm across the table.

With his arm still extended, he once more reiterated “Wa Ha Pee.”

I threw my left arm backwards then from the shoulder as well thinking THAT must be what he wanted.  It was like we were doing some Asian version of the Hokey-Pokey.

Finally, he got up from the table, walked to a sink behind him, turned on the water and ran his hands underneath.  “Wa Ha Pee.”

AAAAAHH!!  “Wash Hands Please.”

I sheepishly lowered my extended arm and came over to the sink, rinsed my hands and returned to the manicure desk for him to finish.  I couldn’t get out of the place fast enough when it was over.
Every time I get my nails done now, I think of this episode and chuckle.  I’m laughing all over again writing about it.  I’m sure my giggles are nothing compared to his, though.  Would love to hear his version of this story.

Lost in Translation

Dear Boo and Bubble,

About two years ago, quietly and without fanfare, I became a citizen of North Carolina. In my opinion, citizenship should demand a process worthy of its significance - some meaningful test or background check of sorts to determine whether a state might actually want to claim you. Nope – the only obstacle standing between you and your new status is a driver's license exam. Don't get me wrong. I respect that it's very important to know the difference between right-turn and left-turn hand signals while driving a tractor down a county road. But, you'd think something a little more substantial might be required.

On an early Wednesday, I made my way to the DMV office in downtown Newland, the county seat. Even though you could pay car taxes or renew tags any day of the week, the license examiner only came to Newland on Wednesdays.

I poked my head in the door of his office where he sat with his back to me totally absorbed in a game of Solitaire on a computer. He was middle-aged, balding and stocky. The shirt of his uniform strained against the thickness of his shoulders and upper arms, as if maybe a size too small for his frame. Saddlebags of paunch hung over his belt while the hem of his pant's leg raised just high enough to expose white tube socks above his spit-shined shoes.

“Kin I hep ya?” he asked. I didn't think he even knew I was there.

“Well, yes,” I answered. “I've come to take the driver's license exam.”

He swiveled his chair to face me, never changing expression.

“Got yur current license and Social Security card wid ya?”

“Yes, sir.” I pulled them out of my wallet and handed them to him.

“Well, jest sit rite ch'er at this machine. The questions'll pop up on dat dar screen. Fill in them ther dots on this here sheet. Pretty simple.....unnerstand?”

He handed me the answer sheet on a clipboard.

“Yes, thank you,” I responded after figuring out what I thought he said.

“When yur ready, let me know. Ya gits twenty minutes to finish.......an if'n ya gits 6 wrong, ya fails.”

I slid into a chair at a wooden desk where a cup filled with #2 pencils sat next to “the machine,” a monitor of sorts. Once settled, it occurred to me that I had not taken a driver's license exam in fifty years. I had studied the North Carolina manual and felt prepared, but a little self-doubt crept into my mind and crescents of perspiration began to form under my arms.

“Okay, let's do this,” I said.

He pushed a button and question #1 appeared on the screen.

Some of the questions were forthright, some tricky. The time flew, but I finished within the allotted minutes. I handed him my answer sheet.

He turned his back to me once again. I watched intently, counting the marks he made hoping he'd stop before getting to 6. 

“Awr-ite. Ya dun good 'nuf.”

I breathed a sigh of relief.

“Now, I jest needs ta ask ya a few questions....sorta tha personal type, ya know.”

“Sure........”

“How tall ur ya?” he started.

“5 feet, 5 inches,” I answered.

“How much ya weigh?” 

“135 pounds.”

He didn't flinch.

“Clurs ya eyes...”

I hesitated and then did as I was told....closed my eyes....shut. We sat there – the two of us – for about 30 seconds – me....looking at the inside of my eyelids wondering why in the world he wanted me to do this – him....I have no idea what he was thinking.

Slowly, I opened one eye. He had crossed his beefy arms across his stomach, an amused grin overtaking his face. 

“Whut clurs ya eyes?” he reiterated.

A steady rush of red rose up my neck from embarrassment, the heat from it bringing back another dose of sweats.

“HAZEL......my eyes are hazel!”

When I look at my driver's license now, it surprises me that it doesn't read like this – Height: 5' 5”; Weight: 135; Eyes: Closed.

I know how I tell my version of this story. I'd love to hear his.

Don't You Dare Sneeze

Dear Boo and Bubble,

The other day, Captain and I decided to hike up on the Blue Ridge Parkway and see if we could find any rhododendrons in bloom.  Although our trek yielded only very few of the luscious fuchsia blossoms in their native environment, it reminded me that every year in June the Rhododendron Festival takes place in a small community called Bakersville, NC, nestled at the foot of Roan Mountain, one of the higher southern peaks along the Appalachian trail right at the NC/TN border.  A natural Rhododendron garden covers the top of Roan Mountain and when in full bloom its massive shrubs drenched in vibrant color create an incredible sight, especially against the backdrop of stunning distant vistas visible for miles in all directions. 

You probably don’t know this because the topic has never come up between us, but in 1967 your Meemaw was crowned the S.C. Peach Queen.  As such, I traveled around the state and surrounding area representing the peach industry at various functions.  There was the Watermelon Festival in Pageland, SC, and the Apple Festival in Hendersonville, NC, and the Water Festival in Beaufort, SC – festivals everywhere almost every weekend during the summer and early fall. 

That year, the Rhododendron Festival invited me to come as a guest queen which meant participating in all of the weekend activities and appearing at the competition for Rhododendron queen.   I had never been to Bakersville and, quite honestly, had never seen such a small town.  (Even though it is the county seat for Mitchell County, only 456 people live in Bakersville according to the 2010 census.)  It was the proverbial one-stop-light-Norman-Rockwell sort of place that lay dormant and lazy for 51 weeks out of the year.  But, during the 52^nd, the community hosted a huge festival that attracted tourists from all around in celebration of the native flower.

The opening event was a press photo shoot at the top of the mountain in the Rhododendron Garden.  All of the guest queens and the girls competing for the title of Rhododendron queen donned their evening gowns, crowns and banners and loaded up on a borrowed school bus to ride to the garden.  Base and blush covered every face, mascara weighted all eye lashes, and hairspray lacquered all of the dos of French twists with an upsweep of curls on the top of every head. 

Meemaw was no different.  I had visited the beauty parlor in Greenville just before the trip to have my belligerent naturally curly hair tamed into the fashionable style with several large, languid curls at the crown held in place with hair pins.  I supplemented my eyelashes with fake ones glued delicately on the lids.  In a fuchsia chiffon gown with a diamond broach gathering folds into an empire waist, I boarded the school bus feeling quite confident that I would represent peaches quite well.

As we made our way up Roan Mountain from Bakersville, a fog began to roll in.  It became so thick by the time we reached the Rhododendron garden that I literally could not see anything except a few feet in front of me. The moisture in the air was so heavy and wet that it began to meticulously undo my do.  The relaxed curls on the top of my head began to coil and frizz as the hairspray melted away and the natural state of my coif assumed power.  My fake eyelashes unhinged as the glue gave way – hanging down over my eyes like two black caterpillars.  I was a mess.

Thank heaven they cancelled the photo session.  Nobody could see – for which I was very grateful.

When we returned to Bakersville, I asked the chaperone assigned to the guest queens if there might be a salon in town.  I desperately needed to have my hair redone.  She noted that everything was closed because of the festival, but she would try to get the one stylist in town to open her shop and help me out.  After a quick phone call, I had an appointment for 2:00 PM.

The owner of the salon – let’s say her name was Maude - appeared to be in her 60’s with longish, mousy gray hair styled in a clumsy pageboy.  She wore a smock over a sweater and slacks.  Bedroom shoes adorned her feet.  My instincts quivered, but what could I do?  She had interrupted her day to help me out.

“Thank you so much for coming to meet me,” I said sincerely.

“My pleasure, little lady,” Maude responded.  “Now what is it you want me to do for you?”

“Well, I’d like to have the hair go up in the back into a French twist with curls on the top.  Do you think that’s possible?”

“Of course, darlin’, no problem at all.”

“Oh, and my hair’s really curly, so you’ll need to use hairpins.”

“Got it. Let’s go over here to the sink and let me wash your hair real good first.”

For the next two hours, Maude worked on me.  She managed the French twist without much effort, but then began to take small strands of hair and tediously wind them into a tight coil which she secured with two or three hairpins.  Over and over, she repeated this process working her way from back to front.  By the time she finished, I must have had fifty such meticulous helixes on my head.

“NOW!” she announced with a flourish at the last hairpin, “That’s what I call a hairdo!  Here…..let me give you the mirror so you can see for yourself.”

“Well, Maude, you can say that again,” was all I could muster as she whirled me around in the salon chair so I could check out her handy work.

I thanked her, paid her and left the salon weighing at least ten pounds more than when I had entered due to the hairpins.  Heaven knows, if I had sneezed, I would have killed somebody due to the shrapnel that would have flown out of my hair.

According to a billboard I saw the other day, the Rhododendron Festival is coming up soon.  Bakersville is only a short drive for us.  Maybe I should go over and see if anything’s changed since 1967.  Thank heaven, my hair style has!