Cobbler, simple to make. A comfort food, eliciting a number of sensations from those who experience its unassuming charms. If I'm honest, cobbler is the first food I have any specific memory of. It was my third birthday and it was peach. We were not a cake family, cake was too much work and required ingredients that were hard to get in the U.S. in the early 40's. The War had made many everyday items scarce, we needed them for the troops. A sacrifice we were all willing to make. Pie was also not welcome in our home. My mother thought pie was pretentious, it had to be pretty, taking away from the enjoyment by making itself center of attention. As a child, I didn't understand why my mother felt that way, I was too busy stuffing my face, but in time I would.
As we got older, my mother taught each of my three siblings and me the art of cobbler. A family tradition for as long as she could remember. As the youngest, I was the last to learn, my debut on Thanksgiving 1950, I was 10. It's a bittersweet memory, the last time my whole family would be together. December 1st my brother, and oldest sibling Richard, would be leaving for boot camp. He'd been drafted and would be going to Korea. I didn't even know where that was and understood even less why my brother had to go there. He and my parents spent many nights in quiet conversation, but me and my two sisters were not allowed to participate.
One afternoon, almost a year later, I came home from school to find an Army Chaplain and another uniformed man sitting in our living room. My mother had been crying. Dad looked shaken, but said we needed to wait for my sisters to get home before anything would be explained. Once all together, the other man, an Army officer, told us my brother had died. He said we should be proud he died fighting for freedom. None of us felt proud. We were devastated. To make matters worse, we didn't even get his remains. He and 4 other men took a direct hit from an artillery shell. What little they could find, couldn't be positively identified. We buried an empty casket.
After the funeral, we returned home, trying to deal with the gaping hole in our lives. When we entered the house, my parents stopped short and gasped. On the kitchen table was a picture of my brother surrounded by candles and a cobbler, blackberry, Richard's favorite. Seems my sisters had gotten up in the middle of the night and made it. How they did this without our mother's knowledge is still a mystery to me.
Almost without thinking, we sat as my sisters dished out the cobbler. For a while, we sat in silence eating, tears staining our cheeks.
"I remember his first one." My older sister Clara said. "It was awful. Way too much sugar and nearly burnt to a crisp."
We all chuckled, recalling the less than stellar attempt, then something happened. We started talking, remembering, sharing memories of good times with my brother. We talked for hours, laughing and crying, sharing our pain with each other and somehow, when we were done, we all felt at least a little better. We made an unspoken vow that day, even though Richard was no longer with us, we'd never forget him, never be afraid to speak his name or remember something he did or said. We would never be the same, but we would, in time, deal with it, each in our own way.
Some years later, I started high school. I had become aware of some of the other students talking about a new classmate. She was obviously Asian and speculation abounded as to where she was from. The popular guess was Japan or maybe China, but no one knew. She kept to herself and from what I heard, barely spoke any English. I paid her little mind, we shared no classes together, so it seemed pointless. As the gossip mill churned, a rumor started that her parents were Communists, sent here from China to take over America. I know it sounds far fetched now, but back then we were only a year or so from the end of Senator Joseph McCarthy's Communist witch hunt. There were still WAY too many Americans that continued to believe the crap that man spewed.
After lunch one day, a few weeks later, I heard a commotion in an isolated hallway by the lockers. A group of students were clustered together, surrounding someone. They were obviously angry at whoever they had trapped, taunting them and yelling some, frankly, obscene and hurtful things. I parted the crowd and found they had cornered the Asian student and were calling her all kinds of horrible things. I was livid. She barely interacted with anyone, how could they treat her like this?
"What the Hell is your problem?" I yelled, placing myself between her and the crowd. "What has she done?"
"She's a damned Commie." One of the guys spat.
"Yeah." Several agreed, bobbing their heads.
We argued back and forth for several minutes before I lost my patience with these idiots. "You want her, you gotta go through me." I seethed. I'd had my share of dustups in my school years and was known to be able to hold my own, even with guys larger than myself. I stood my ground, glaring at them. Mobs are dangerous, but individually, people are cowards. Grumbling empty threats, they dispersed, leaving me with a very scared girl cowering in a corner. She was maybe 5 feet tall and if she weighed 90 pounds, I'd be surprised. How anyone could see her as a threat was beyond my understanding.
"Are you OK?" I asked, moving closer to her.
She sank to the floor and started sobbing. "Please...no..."
"Hey, I won't hurt you." I assured, sitting on the floor next to her. "I'm Artie."
"Ma-Ri." She nearly whispered. "My name Ma-Ri. Why they no like me?"
I shrugged. "I wish I knew."
"They call me ca..commie. What...?" She sputtered, trying to find the words.
"What is a commie?" I offered.
She nodded.
"It means Communist, do you know what that is?" I asked.
She shook her head.
"Like China, that Mao guy." I explained.
Her eyes grew wide and she gasped, bringing her hand to her mouth. "No, no, no..."
We sat and talked for some time. Her limited English hampered our talk, but I was able to determine she wasn't Chinese, or Japanese for that matter, but was Korean. Her father was an interpreter for the U.S. Army during the war. He was killed shortly after the armistice by North Korean sympathizers, hence her horror over being called a communist. The Army moved her and her mother here in appreciation of his sacrifice.
She noticed my mood change during the conversation. She lightly touched my hand, looking into my eyes. "You sad."
It wasn't a question, it was a statement. "Yes." I answered, eyes starting to tear. "My brother was killed in the War."
"So sorry." She said, sincerely.
"You lost a lot more than I did." I stated. "Don't be sorry."
She sat thinking. "War was not for brother, was for Korea... he die for..."
"Nothing." I said flatly.
She nodded. She, more than anyone I knew, understood what I felt, she'd lost someone too.
I helped her up from the floor and walked her to her next class. "Gomawoyo... ah, thank you." She smiled.
I nodded then headed for class myself.
After school I saw Ma-Ri again. She was trying to leave, but a couple girls were blocking her, calling her names.
Not this again I thought. The girls saw me approach and stiffened. "Thought I told you to leave her alone." I growled.
"What are you gonna do about it?" They taunted. "Big bad Artie gonna hit a girl?"
"No." I grinned. "But Kate will." Kate is my youngest sister, 2 years older than me and a Senior, she's not exactly girly.
They blanched and left in a hurry.
"Can I walk you home?" I asked her.
She smiled and nodded.
Talking as we walked, I found out she was an only child and her mother worked at the local hospital cleaning rooms and washing linen. They were getting by and grateful to be here, away from the political strife in their home country. Arriving at her home, she smiled, thanked me again and hurried inside.
That night at dinner, my mother noticed I seemed distracted. "What's up Artie?" She asked.
"Why are people so mean?" I responded. I recounted my day and how my fellow students had treated Ma-Ri. "She didn't do anything to them."
"People fear what they don't understand." She answered. "I'm very proud you stood up for her."
"But part of me feels like I should be mad at her too." I stated. "Richard is dead because of them, but I can't blame her. She lost her Dad, because he tried to help us. What kind of jerk would I be if I held that against her?"
