we watched
All in the Family
, for example, bugged him. He would lean across Rachel (he consistently got her to sit in the middle, where the two cushions never quite met and all the springs below had collapsed,by reminding her that in chess as in life, queens always sit between their servants), flash me that look and say, “I’ll bet those guys in China wouldn’t sit like that if they could afford chairs.” He also didn’t like the way I ate pork chops, fish sticks and even corn on the cob with chopsticks. We three kids always ate dinner on this same living-room couch, using fold-up trays so that we could watch television while we ate. Erich would rush to empty his plate, then point to my still-unfinished dinner and say, “If you ate with a fork and knife like a normal person you’d be done by now and we could eat dessert.”
Erich had always been a force to contend with. When he was three he fell into a swimming pool while my father’s back was turned. After another man fished him out, Erich shook himself off, frowned at Dad and said, “Why don’t you take better care of me?” When he was nine he tried to get my mother to quit smoking by stuffing tiny explosive caps into her cigarettes. Now he was twelve and, given that Mom and Dad were apparently letting me slide right off the deep end without a fight, felt saddled with the responsibility of showing me the error of my ways. Incense made the house smell bad, he declared. Only babies and old people walked around in their pajamas during the daytime. Americans drink Lipton’s tea, not some kooky stuff that doesn’t even come in bags, for God’s sake. But his real pet peeve was my meditating. This drove him nuts. “You’re
not
thinking of nothing,” he would seethe while I sat cross-legged at the foot of our bunk bends. “That’s impossible! I’m only in sixth grade and even I know that. You’re thinking of something right now. Faker.”
Erich conceded that the martial arts aspect was OK, but it enraged him that I wouldn’t use it to avenge myself onthe assholes who made fun of me for being short and having a high voice. I tried to explain to him that being a kung fu master meant knowing that it was better to walk away from a fight than to hurt someone, but he didn’t buy that for a minute. “Couldn’t it be,” he asked, his eyes narrowing, “that kung fu masters are just a bunch of
chickens
? If
not fighting
is so great, how come they spend their whole lives learning how to break people’s jaws? Why don’t they just practice letting people beat them up, if being peaceful is so great? God, Mark, that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.” In short, Erich, his booming voice and his common sense posed an unacceptable threat to the unfathomable knowledge of old. I needed privacy.
There weren’t any extra rooms in our house, so I proposed that I move down into my basement temple. I already had all of my books and candles and incense down there; all I needed was a clothes hamper and my half of the bunk bed. Eventually Mom and Dad agreed to this, but they reminded me that I would have to share the basement during the daytime with my mother, who had taken out a loan that year and commissioned a harpsichord maker to build an instrument for her so that she would no longer have to borrow or rent one for her early-music performances. When the instrument was ready it would have to go into the basement.
Unlike pianos, which have sturdy metal frames, harpsichords are made almost entirely of wood. Rapid changes in temperature or humidity can make the soundboards warp or crack, causing expensive or even irreparable damage. The basement was the only room in our house whose temperature and humidity were fairly stable and could be regulated easily; it goes without saying that my jumping spinning back kicks, spear thrusts and swordflourishes would have to be regulated as well. Based on what I had done to the walls and ceiling before the arrival of the
All in the Family
, for example, bugged him. He would lean across Rachel (he consistently got her to sit in the middle, where the two cushions never quite met and all the springs below had collapsed,by reminding her that in chess as in life, queens always sit between their servants), flash me that look and say, “I’ll bet those guys in China wouldn’t sit like that if they could afford chairs.” He also didn’t like the way I ate pork chops, fish sticks and even corn on the cob with chopsticks. We three kids always ate dinner on this same living-room couch, using fold-up trays so that we could watch television while we ate. Erich would rush to empty his plate, then point to my still-unfinished dinner and say, “If you ate with a fork and knife like a normal person you’d be done by now and we could eat dessert.”
Erich had always been a force to contend with. When he was three he fell into a swimming pool while my father’s back was turned. After another man fished him out, Erich shook himself off, frowned at Dad and said, “Why don’t you take better care of me?” When he was nine he tried to get my mother to quit smoking by stuffing tiny explosive caps into her cigarettes. Now he was twelve and, given that Mom and Dad were apparently letting me slide right off the deep end without a fight, felt saddled with the responsibility of showing me the error of my ways. Incense made the house smell bad, he declared. Only babies and old people walked around in their pajamas during the daytime. Americans drink Lipton’s tea, not some kooky stuff that doesn’t even come in bags, for God’s sake. But his real pet peeve was my meditating. This drove him nuts. “You’re
not
thinking of nothing,” he would seethe while I sat cross-legged at the foot of our bunk bends. “That’s impossible! I’m only in sixth grade and even I know that. You’re thinking of something right now. Faker.”
Erich conceded that the martial arts aspect was OK, but it enraged him that I wouldn’t use it to avenge myself onthe assholes who made fun of me for being short and having a high voice. I tried to explain to him that being a kung fu master meant knowing that it was better to walk away from a fight than to hurt someone, but he didn’t buy that for a minute. “Couldn’t it be,” he asked, his eyes narrowing, “that kung fu masters are just a bunch of
chickens
? If
not fighting
is so great, how come they spend their whole lives learning how to break people’s jaws? Why don’t they just practice letting people beat them up, if being peaceful is so great? God, Mark, that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.” In short, Erich, his booming voice and his common sense posed an unacceptable threat to the unfathomable knowledge of old. I needed privacy.
There weren’t any extra rooms in our house, so I proposed that I move down into my basement temple. I already had all of my books and candles and incense down there; all I needed was a clothes hamper and my half of the bunk bed. Eventually Mom and Dad agreed to this, but they reminded me that I would have to share the basement during the daytime with my mother, who had taken out a loan that year and commissioned a harpsichord maker to build an instrument for her so that she would no longer have to borrow or rent one for her early-music performances. When the instrument was ready it would have to go into the basement.
Unlike pianos, which have sturdy metal frames, harpsichords are made almost entirely of wood. Rapid changes in temperature or humidity can make the soundboards warp or crack, causing expensive or even irreparable damage. The basement was the only room in our house whose temperature and humidity were fairly stable and could be regulated easily; it goes without saying that my jumping spinning back kicks, spear thrusts and swordflourishes would have to be regulated as well. Based on what I had done to the walls and ceiling before the arrival of the
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