Cụ

This is what George said about my mom, whom his children called Cụ, which means great-grandmother.

I’ll start with a thought that I had when I was sitting by Cụ in her last moments. I wondered to myself what a little Cụ, about 7 years old or so in a northern Vietnamese village, would think if someone told her that in her last moments, there’d be a giant, round-eyed Texan crying at her bedside. What a strange world.

While we’re all reflecting on Cụ, let me share a few things I learned while the two of us lived together.  

She was the worst at mowing the lawn. Actually, that’s not true. I don’t really know what her lawn-mowing skills were like because she always refused to mow. Annoying.

Now, her ice cream-eating skills were the stuff of legend. It didn’t matter what time of day or what flavor. This includes the nightmare concoction of pickle chamoy. If you put a bowl of ice cream in front of Cu, she’d eat it. A common conversation would be:

Me-Would you like some more dinner?

Cụ- I’m full.

Me- Would you like a massive bowl of ice cream?

Cu- Có.

There was no need for a security system with Cụ around. She made sure to perform her rounds every 5 minutes looking out of the windows. Her reports were frequent and consisted of telling me there was a package at the door; there was a new car in the driveway; and there were no communists outside. The major problem with the Cụ security system is that it only worked when she was awake. So that means you had about 2-3 hours of protection during the day and a good 10 hours at night.

Like me, she loved stupid comedies. There were many times I would look over and think she’d fallen asleep. Then something ridiculous would happen in the movie, and she’d burst out with a “xạo!” I typically laughed more at her expression than whatever was happening on the screen.  

She was my favorite co-pilot on drives. We had a silent agreement - the fact that neither one of us understood the other wouldn’t keep us from having a conversation. Cụ would say something in Vietnamese with a lot of enthusiasm, and I would reply, with equal enthusiasm, “of course, I checked the tire pressure before we left,” or “I thought you were supposed to get the milk,”  or “I don’t know who the pitcher is for tonight’s game. I don’t watch baseball,” or “The same thing we do every night, Cụ. Try to take over the world.”  Without fail, she would always give me a look that made me suspect that I just might have responded to her correctly. I guess I’ll never know.

I was fortunate to have spent around 4 percent of Cụ’s life with her. On one of our drives together, it was raining, and Cụ must have been impressed by the storm, because she said one of her patented “wows.” I had to agree, but I’m biased because I love rainstorms. I love watching them roll in and always feel calm with the water pouring overhead. Cụ reminds me of a good rainstorm. One thing I learned from talking to her oldest daughter was that Cụ rarely, if at all, ever expressed her feelings - her love for her children - with the actual words, “I love you.” But she did love them. Like rain can reshape mountains and valleys, like it can test the limits of the strongest of our creations, Cụ’s love for her children molded them so that they could survive and thrive in a hard world. And so they have. Now, Cụ told her grandkids and great-grandkids that she loved them. She played with them and hugged them. The rain can be nurturing, too.  

The day that Cụ left us, the sun was out, the temperature had dropped, and the skies were clear. There’s no question it was a beautiful day. I was sitting there wondering if maybe Cụ did that for us. Or maybe that’s how she wanted to make her exit. But as for me, I will always love the rain.