The Blue Dragon

Her favorite was the brilliant blue ceramic dragon from China. It sat on the dresser like a sentinel, overseeing the goings on in her room. It had come from an antique store in old town Auburn in the Sierra foothills and cost about $2.

The minute she saw it, the little girl had begun counting her quarters from her allowance to be sure she had enough. Then she cheerfully approached her mother, tugging at her to come look at this new treasure.

Her mother, distracted by a bright copper pillbox hat with sequined netting, was charmed by her daughter’s excitement. For years, the little girl had ignored the frilly girl-things in the stores, the lightly used ‘tween stars’ uniforms, in favor of these Asian artifacts.
She had once begged for a cloth Geisha doll upon a stand that was ridiculously overpriced at $12. Her mother, feeling horrible, on a budget, denied her. Later out of guilt, she had gone back, bought the doll, and placed it prominently on the dresser.
Now, dusting, the mother gently straightened the Geisha’s kimono and adjusted the parasol to a more demure attitude. An old tin pot, filled with flowers made from feathers, sat near a framed photo of her own mother cradling kittens in front of the fireplace.
From what thrift store, on what spending spree, out of what need, had that strange container been paid for with silver from the jar by the door? Next to it was a beautiful, huge conch shell decorated with a carving of a Victorian lady. An old memory rose as a lump in her throat.
They were in Aberdeen Harbor, Hong Kong. It was raining hard off and on, and between downpours, the air was muggy and hot enough to make you feel faint, moving from air conditioned cars and hotels to the overburdened streets. Arab women in long white robes weighed down with jeweled gold clustered under the protection of huge dark-skinned body guards. It was 1973. Her mother, descended from the black Irish, had taught her to walk through the crowds holding a lit cigarette in front of her to shield her from the crowds.
They were walking along gang planks strung between floating junks, while Chinese vendors screamed and gestured their way through hard barters on board. Very few guilo’s dared enter this strange city, but her mother was ferocious in her intent to collect the rarest of seashells for her collection.
Following closely behind her mother, and feeling the omnipotent presence of their 6’4” bodyguard behind her, the girl, 16, noticed an odd-looking dog floating belly-up in the water alongside the boat.
“You know, they don’t bother to teach their daughters to swim…” her mother said over her shoulder, descending a rickety ladder into the belly of a merchant’s ship. The smell of diesel, salt water, rotting flesh and bitter tobacco made the girl faint with nausea.
When they returned, hours later, to the hotel, she had tried to nap but her parents’ voices, arguing forever about money spent that was not yet earned, forced her from her room and down to the lobby. The bartender was happy to bring the girl her usual: Manhattan rocks.

The mother was startled by her daughter’s voice.
“Mom? Are you crying?”
“No, just cleaning up, honey.” Then she hugged her daughter to her like a life jacket, stood, and suggested, “Want to hit the thrift store? I need a hat for Easter.”
Her daughter shrugged. “Sure, mom, if you want.” She moved the blue dragon slightly left of the Geisha and nodded with approval. “Let’s go.”