Get Up Eight

Quick one today.

I’m tired.

As ever, it’s good to be here

In this place and time

1s and 0s somehow making meaning

We take a beat

Stick a pin in it

To get something down.

March has been a Lion.

A beast, new challenges on the daily.

But the moments, and time, and energy taken to write

even though I haven’t always gone there

Have helped me to process

Breathe.

Move through.

I’ve shared before that I don’t write for others

It’s a gift to my future self

but I’m grateful for company along the way.

---

The beats drift downward, echoing the halls.

They’re way, way upstairs.

I hear the knock, knock of the bamboo poles against the concrete wall. They’ve slid the laundry down from the skinny, long bamboo drying racks, and are in the midst of

sorting,

folding,

passing,

molding.

In a household of four including two sweaty kids, it’s all laundry, all the time.

And I find myself, writing about laundry.

Again.

In these early days of Spring, sometimes laundry is the break.

They play off each other, Rhino’s latest hiphop selections serenading their work. Carried our big speaker upstairs to sally forth the work, dulcet tones of The Weeknd a perfect backdrop for the weekend.

teamwork makes the dream work

I envision an alternate reality where I take the lead, keep control, get it done myself, and enable them to relax the day away. But there’s comfort in taking pressure out of the system. Housework replaces homework.

Their help with domestic chores goes such a long way physically, but mostly emotionally.

They continue the sorting, wandering into and out of rooms, neatly (not so neatly if I’m honest, but I don’t care) placing clothes into drawers and cabinets.

The beat flows underneath, a rhythm to it all

And I’m grateful for the help.

---

Bạn có thể làm được không?

Vâng, tôi có thể làm được!

I can’t help but ask the same question, three times.

By the third time, he’s both a bit annoyed and a bit amused.

Are you sure it’s OK to do this?

Yes, I’m sure I can do this!

He says, this time with a chuckle.

I had messaged Mr. Ha, who had in turn contacted this fellow about a pick up for our old washing machine.

A self-professed laundry nerd, it had been time to enter the 21st century. To experience the joys of a 14-minute quick wash and steam clean capability (I am completely serious).

It’s been a joy after struggling with a too old, too slow beast the past four years.

I can’t believe we didn’t do this sooner

Of course, the purchase of a new machine begs what to do with the old one.

Enter our friend.

He rings the doorbell and I head downstairs. He’s right on time, pulling up to our gate on a red Honda Air Blade motorbike.

I welcome him in and show him the machine.

I peer outside the gate expecting his fellow mover and, naturally, the truck they’ll surely use to get this chunky machine away.

He sizes up the white beast and then wanders back outside, unraveling some meters of a sturdy woven green rope.

Em Hà có đến không?

Will Mr. Ha come?

Không, không.

No, no.

Hm

I’m perplexed.

And remain so as he asks me to help him get the white whale out the door. We tilt it forward and ease it across the threshold

Legs, not back

It’s heavy.

Not so heavy that we can’t lift it, but definitely a workout. I’m not excited about helping get it onto the truck.

As it turns out, we have nothing to worry about.

He directs me to the waiting bike, and we ease, then rest the washer sideways onto the seat.

I run some calculations about what it would feel like for the washer to land on my flip-flopped feet and double my grip, stabilizing the base against my chest.

It’s not until he begins running the green line in and around the edges of this home appliance that I fully understand what is happening.

He uses the molded gaps on the bike’s fender plus footrests on either side to loop the line two times over. Then cautions me to hold firm as he cranks it down, tying a steady, sure knot over the sides of the washer to hold it in place.

On a motorbike.

Because, this is Vietnam. And Vietnamese are resilient, creative, and industrious. Whether it’s stubbornness borne from thousands of years under siege, a pragmatic Confucianist can-do attitude, or a simple community mindset, they are superb at getting things done.

I, now having transitioned from curious to incredulous, cannot help but ask the question again.

And this time, he bursts forth with a belly laugh and a smile

I’ve got this!

mounts the bike, starts it up

and confidently wheels away.

---

I slide the 4-meter bamboo pole down toward the wall, careful not to add to the already-scarred white paint and plaster. Pick up the freshly-wet long sleeve shirt, and open one of the sleeves, sliding it onto the smooth beige pole.

I repeat the process with a pair of pants, next, underwear, next, Elephant’s long-sleeved sweatshirt.

Sweat beads as I continue the work.

He’s not going to need that for a while

It’s meditation, this work of hanging clothes.

And I’m a laundry monk.

At first blush, I don’t know exactly where this appreciation for all things laundry came from.

But, come to think of it, maybe I do.

I remember keenly watching Mom (shout out to Eileen for your days and days of hard work!) fill our pea-green (Yep, they made pea-green washing machines in the 70s) top-load machine, adjust the dial and pop out the start switch

and then sitting,

waiting.

I would slyly pull open the lid,

to watch the water slowly fill

and fill

and fill

my anticipation building

until

finally,

kerchunk

zzzzrrrr zzrrrrr zzzzrrrrr zzrrrrrrr

The machine kicked into motion. Clothes, soap, and water united. It was party time, and everyone was on the floor.

I would pick a single piece of clothing and follow it from the top of the heap, down into the base, and back again. A journey, my shirt, a thousand miles in a single step.

And I sat, for what seemed like hours, rapt at the motion, the bubbles, the scent while our dirty clothes slowly,

steadily,

miraculously

became clean.

I would marvel at the engineering behind a spin cycle that magically came to a halt when the lid was opened.

How does it work?

Eventually I came to realize it wasn’t magic. There was a tiny square hole and corresponding not-round peg that stopped the process. Engineering brilliance. For safety, natch.

I followed the jet-black drain hose into the concrete floor, endless bubbles creeping out of the ground, a cotton candy cloud overloading the musty furnace room with sweet-smelling Tide goodness.

Order from chaos, clean, from soil. I’ve always liked it.

I walk down to the bottom of the poles, sliding and spreading the last three shirts out to maximize air flow and speed the drying process.

And pause to wonder.

If there’s a primal need being met by it all. To feel that we are agents of change. Of cleanliness.

Or maybe it’s just nice to have fresh clothes.

Either way,

thanks Mom.

---

I’m wondering, today.

Sitting halfway up our rounded stairwell, I realize the platform is wider if I curl into the wall. I extend my legs and stretch a bit. It’s been a lazy day so far, much needed recovery after a stressful 48.

I don’t normally perch here, stuck in purgatory between two ferns, but it just feels right, right now.

Rhino below, prepping to wash dishes and get the kitchen ship shape. Elephant tickling ivories (oh irony) and combining today‘s jam with some plucks on his guitar.

And I sit, between.

My butt hurts

This spot is cozy, allows me to withdraw yet still be

Hear

I take a deep yet raspy breath as this lingering cough lingers on.

Fresh, flavorful constituents line the trị-level hanging wire basket that I spy between the stairs’ guard rail.

Garlic, being garlic, top floor. Onions, huddled together to keep out the wind, level two. And ginger (plus four small round taters), well, they know their place.

We belong down here

My back curves as I peck away and imagine myself eating time, chatting with passing neighbors and friends.

And I can’t help but wonder whether that’s why we call it a stoop.

---

*

*

Editor’s Note: “Darren, if you’d done even a modicum of cursory research you’d know it was from the Dutch for ’step’. But that would ruin the whole flow now wouldn’t it?”

We stumble out of the van and gently nudge the doors closed. Muggy heat confronts us as we mark the transition from mountain air to inland basin heat.

heat is coming

The grand hall beckons, buses rowed in pause as they traverse Sapa and Hanoi. There’s a selection of snacks bookshelved by two 3000 Dong bathrooms where faithful and determined ladies demand 12 cents to pass.

We pay it.

A quick but thorough hand wash (crud is going around) and I round towards the counter.

I step up and ask

Do you have phở gà?

Yes

Can I have two

I ask in Vietnamese

ONE

or

TWO?

She replies, holding up two fingers

I confirm that it’s two and she hands me the tiny slip

TICKET

she says and points me toward the counter on the right.

The soup making operation is set up for success.

On the counter, neatly ordained in big, bold orange lettering

PHO NOODLE

Below it, four stacks of 18-20 cream-colored bowls, partnered with a big bowl of fresh limes, red chilies, and silver trays to carry.

Behind the serving counter, three large sky-blue canisters umbilicalled to burners coaxing huge stainless cisterns to boil, boil, toil, and trouble, steam venting forth.

The smiling chef behind the counter works with gentle precision, adding a just right amount of noodles, minced green onions, chicken, and broth.

I take each bowl, add the chilies and squeeze the limes

And make my way back to our table.

You don’t know what you value until you’ve had a chance to experience more of the world.

I often encourage the boys to branch out, to go forth, to see what’s around the corner

Because there is so much more.

Growing up in North America I didn’t realize what I was missing.

Cuisine, clothing, history. It’s all out there, waiting to be discovered.

But what really floored me

Is the way Southeast Asia takes good care of Uranus.

Not really astronomers, or space explorers, no spatial moves

But when it comes to keeping things clean in the nether regions

The simple spray nozzle/spigot, nestled not so subtly beside most toilets

Asks nothing, apart from a little bit of water pressure

And in return, grants a world of cleanliness

bestowing upon us the clean where it’s needed most.

Bum gun, we thank you, from the bottom of our bottoms.

---

“Real isn’t how you are made,” said the Skin Horse

---

Some weeks, we ask questions of ourselves

And the questions cut deep

Rend

Wound

Our insecurities confront us

Expose us

Ask us to

Show them who you are

And sometimes, the question demands

Cowering

And retreat.

---

But

(No, not but)

And

it is in the retreat

From our knees

That we find our footing,

and regain hold.

We lean on the ones who love us.

Who’ve got our back.

Who say

I see you

I know you

And you are strong

And

you know who you are

They are the ones whose voices carry

Above the fray

To find their way into our ears

remind us to get up off the mat

To act,

with love.

And

to show them

who we are.

---

So many cattle

They huddle together amongst the green, seemingly for warmth

But surely that can’t be why, on this muggy spring day.

Community, perhaps. Connection. Kinship.

And as our bus swings by, I respect these Vietnamese bovine bros.

Until I have a moment of…self-consciousness, or maybe simply awareness, or possibly even cowed sheepishness, as I bite into my bánh mì, whose deliciousness owes itself in part to what are certainly distant relatives of the cud-chewing crew and their barn-dwelling buds.

It tastes so good.

They stand.

Eyeing me,

Nonchalant

udderly indifferent.

I want to open the window and ease their tension.

I have no beef with you

I would yell

But something tells me they’d disagree

Mainly because they have more at steak.

---

It’s the perfect combination of sweet and savory.

I nod in the direction of the woman in the red apron and take my place on the square blue plastic chair, knees raised slightly above the height of the stool.

It’s mere seconds between when I sit down to when the plates of food arrive. The first, a jumble of white rice noodles, newly-scissored. The second, greens: lettuce, cilantro, lemon leaves, and mint.

The third is what brings it all together.

A souplike, sweet broth tinted with fish sauce, featuring young underripe papaya, carrot, and, most importantly,

the cha.

Grilled pork is the flavor of the day.

I ease the noodles into the broth, then grab chopsticks full of greens and dunk. Wait a few seconds to let the flavors marry.

They come together in what has to be the greatest lunch around.

Apart from pho, of course.

The dose of reality that arrives with a dose of rice noodles, comes when I pay the bill, and realize I spent $1.85, for the best lunch ever.

And I know I’ll be back.

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