Parsimonious

When fall comes around, the California foothills behind my parents’ house become a deep golden hue, saturated with all of summer’s heat and fervor. The streets where I used to pedal my bike are littered with dropped foliage in crimson and rust. And my parents’ persimmon tree will start to bow with the growing weight of its orange orbs. That’s when my mother takes up her watch to ward off the squirrels who also take interest in her fruit.

Though the air is crisp, she is still sweating from her 5-mile hike along the foothills, so she’s in an old t-shirt two sizes too big that reads “Franklin High School A.V.I.D. Program,” a gem she unearthed from our donation pile. (“Why is, uh… your mom wearing my old clothes?” inquired my very weirded-out husband the first time she debuted her new threads.) On her feet are thick, white tube socks that crop out conspicuously from her chunky Reeboks, both clearance finds, the former an extra boon because “your father and I can share.” Her short hair is permed into tight ringlets that are more worth her money—“same money, more curl!”—and home-dyed a drugstore-auburn that will soon fade to an unexpected magenta. Her face is in a perpetual scowl—in either disapproval or from myopia because she can’t be bothered to find her glasses.

She is at once formidable and farcical. With broom handle in one hand, the other akimbo, she stands guard under her tree, lunging at and batting away the greedy, fiendish squirrels who have become her nemeses. But she’s also unflagging, and she stands sentinel until the persimmons ripen to a mellow sweetness, their waxy skin glinting in the sun.

When it’s harvest time, my parents reap the mother lode, ascending the ladder to reach the fruit up high, carefully twisting each persimmon off the tree to preserve their green leafy caps, filling buckets and boxes and bins. Bags of fresh persimmons are given to friends and family. The remainder—about half—gets turned into my mother’s famed dried persimmons. And that’s actually when the real work begins.

My mother painstakingly peels each persimmon and then cuts them into thick ring slices—no more than three, maybe four slices per fruit. She lines her Ronco food dehydrator and then every few hours, she must rotate the trays. One zip-top bag of dried persimmons takes at least two weeks to make. Her dried persimmons are arguably the best—thick and chewy, I have never tasted another dried persimmon like it.

I enjoy them so, that a few years ago, I shared them with a friend, who also liked them so much, I gave her the whole bag. When I called to tell my mom, I expected her to be flattered and pleased by the reception, but instead, she was perplexed.

“You gave a whole bag away?” she sputtered. “Do you know how much work that was to make?”

“I know, Mom, but my friend really liked your dried persimmons.”

“Is this a good friend? I think maybe only good friends can have persimmons. Maybe an okay friend not so much. If she’s a very good friend, then maybe you can give some, but not a whole bag!”

I couldn’t believe how miserly she was over dried fruit.

I have long relied on mnemonics to help me remember new words. Ebullient—overflowing with fervor and enthusiasm—is a bull rider with the biggest grin on his face. Strident—having a shrill or harsh sound—is like Trident gum, what you might offer someone who stridently screams in your face. And parsimonious—exceedingly frugal or stingy—was my mother’s attitude towards her prized persimmons. And she was parsimonious to a T.

We switched to another topic and then said goodbye. In the months afterwards, we debated over the persimmons periodically, until we just didn’t any more… though I carried a hard chip on my shoulder towards my mother’s ungenerosity.

The next year, when the air cooled, my mom stood sentinel again. Same t-shirt and tube socks—a pink poodle in our old gym clothes—fending off the same rascally squirrels. When harvest time came, my parents climbed up and down the ladder again. My mother peeled and sliced hundreds more persimmons and stood watch over her trays of puckering jewels. It was the same laborious process of making her bags of dried fruit, but this time her posture was different.

She came to me that year with seven bags of her dried persimmons, a veritable bounty.

“These are for you—and your friends if you like. You’re right; we should share.”

I took a deep breath and narrowed my eyes, feeling the resentment rise in me, and then did the thing a Chinese child must never do.

“No, thanks” I said, coolly. “I don’t want it.” Knowing my mother’s soft spot, I dug in my dagger as deep as I could: I turned down her offering of food.

That night and for many nights after, I laid in bed awake with a gnawing feeling. I had wanted her to know how heinous her previous actions had been. And I had succeeded, hadn’t I? But instead of satisfaction, I was left with an emptiness that only grows from the hoarding of resentment. And then I realized that as parsimonious as she had been about her persimmons, I was now even more parsimonious with my forgiveness, which is arguably way worse.

The next day, I called my mom.

“Okay, Mom, I’ll take a few bags of persimmons.”

I could hear the delight—and relief—in her voice.

“Oh, good! And please share them with your friends.”

I took the bags of persimmons, and I did give them to my friends. I wish I could say I was open-hearted towards my mother, and she was generous always from that point on, but we all take time to grow. We keep trying, though. Forbearance—ample patience—is another word I hold on to. I remember it because it’s like our parents, who aren’t perfect but continually move towards us even when we aren’t perfect either. And who, if you need it, will give you—and your friends—the very persimmons off their drying racks.