Page 12 of The Magic of Ordinary Days

The next day, in late afternoon, Rose and Lorelei showed up on my porch, smiling and looking as if they’d just come from the beauty shop, not from the fields.

Their hair looked freshly curled and styled, their cotton shirts still held creases along the tops of the sleeves, and their denims showed no sign of dirt, no tears or faded patches, either.

Only their dusty, scraped shoes gave away that these girls had just come from working in the dirt.

How did they do it? Obviously they wore gloves to protect their hands, but how were they able to keep their clothing so untouched?

“We skipped off from our overseer,” Rose explained.

“She’s Issei, very strict,” said Lorelei.

I welcomed them in as I recalled the meaning of the name, Issei.

First-generation Japanese emigrated to the U.S.

were called by this name; they retained much of their traditional values and mores.

These two sisters were clearly Nisei or Sansei, second- or third-generation American citizens by birth.

As we later sat on the steps sipping Cokes out of green bottles through paper straws, they told me they had both been enrolled at UCLA before the evacuation notices went up.

Rose said, “When I was only seven, I won first place in the spelling bee at my school. And ever since, I’ve wanted to teach English.” She finished her Coke and set the bottle down on the porch step without making a sound. “The language and the words,” she said, “must be perfect.”

“And perfectly spelled,” Lorelei said, elbowing her sister.

Rose spoke back, but her quiet voice could barely manage to criticize. “At least I’ve set my plans.”

Lorelei played with her hair, flipping it just under her ear. She explained to me, “Back at school, I hadn’t settled on a major yet. Too many things interested me, so I was taking all the required courses first.”

Rose snickered. “She studied the senior boys.”

Lorelei laughed aloud, covered her mouth, and then blushed. “Only the clever ones. Or the dashing ones,” she said. She hung her hands over her feet and sat so that their shadow covered her work shoes.

Later I told them about the history studies I, too, had abandoned. That once I had planned to go on expedition to Egypt, to help decipher the hieroglyphs, to aid in recording the excavation of tomb chambers buried in the sands.

“Ah, King Tut,” Rose said.

At last, a conversation about another part of the world, off this farm.

The discovery of King Tut-ankh-amen’s tomb in 1922 had awakened much of the general population to the wonders of ancient Egypt, but I doubted that its reach had extended to many others in the onion fields.

“And so many other tombs, so many other kings and princesses, as well,” I said.

“I was particularly interested in studying the pharaoh who ruled before King Tut, named Akh-en-aten.”

They looked as if they wanted me to continue.

“Historians think he had a misshapen head and hips because portraits reveal this about him. And he believed in only one god, Aten, and he built a great holy city, Horizon-of-the-Aten, in his honor.”

Rose looked at her hands, then she turned and asked me, “Do you miss it?”

I hadn’t expected such a direct question. “Yes,” I answered her. Then I hugged my knees to my chest. “But in many ways, just listening to the radio news is a study in history. Especially now.”

Rose looked out over the open fields. “I miss all the lively conversations, the sharing of ideas. A classroom of students may read the same piece of poetry or the same passage in a novel, and each person will interpret it differently.”

I turned to face her. “It’s the same,” I said. “Exactly the same way with history, too.”

“Is it?”

“Think about it,” I told her. “Even the facts of history are tainted by personal views. Depending on beliefs, every side in every conflict has been seen as both right and wrong.”

Rose answered softly, “Of course.”

Then it dawned on me. These girls would understand differences in views better than most. After all, they had been moved and confined by a country at war with the country of their ancestors.

They were living among people who assumed our white brains superior to theirs.

The surprise attack on Pearl Harbor and the hardships of the war in the Pacific had come as a shock to those Americans who thought Japan incapable of executing anything intelligent or difficult.

Yet Rose and Lorelei were as American as I was.

What internal struggles must torment them?

“In years to come, all of this present history may be viewed differently,” I said.

“Just as books and poems are continually being reread and reevaluated,” said Rose.

“Literature has had a profound effect on history.”

“For example, Uncle Tom’s Cabin.”

“Exactly.”

Later we walked about the farm, visited the pond, and tossed sticks for Franklin to lazily retrieve. I invited them to come over again, and when I explained I had a truck available to me, one with plentiful gasoline, their faces lit up like tinfoil left out in the sun.

“We could look for butterflies in the thickets,” said Lorelei.

“Or on the open prairie,” added Rose.

I could hardly wait. “Come again and we’ll go driving.”

That night, I found myself moving without effort.

I remembered running on younger legs, the wind whipping between campus buildings, and the feel of new book pages beneath my fingers.

I remembered the classroom discussions that had taken my thoughts down new paths, records played on the radio, and whispered thoughts only girlfriends have the courage to share.

As I was cooking dinner, Ray came up behind me. He looked over my shoulder at the tuna fish casserole I was stirring up in a bowl. Something surely did seem to please him, and I thought it was the food. “Does it look good?” I asked him.

“Sure enough,” he said. “But that’s not why I’m standing here. I wanted to listen better.”

I stopped stirring. Then he told me, “You were singing to yourself.”