Before going to China on a tour in 1985, I managed to read, write and memorize 100 characters and some tourists’ phrases.
On one of the local tours our guide entered the bus, stood up front and said, “My name is Mr. Wu. You may call me Mr. Wu.” Not Bill, Joe, Lee, but Mr. Wu. It made sense, but a former guide, college age, had introduced himself as Dave, and added that he had a scholarship to go to the U.S.
Guides we met later laughed when we told them and said that the former one never gave his real name. They confirmed that he would soon study in America. I did not tell them that he had repeated one phrase until it annoyed me: “You paid a lot of money to come here, so you should see everything you can.”
Now, years later, I would like to communicate with someone in China because my brown plush toy Rudolph from there — you know, the red-nosed one — will not sing and the red bulb for his nose will not light up.
I wanted Rudolph to stand beside Snoopy, who plays “Jingle Bell Rock” on his trumpet, if I press on his left foot. The store clerk put new batteries in Rudolph, to no avail. He said, “It must be in the mechanism,” and gave me $5 off, after discovering on the phone that no other local store in the chain had any left. At home, I called other stores — negative.
I then called the stores’ public relations head, who explained that the toys were shipped directly from China to the individual stores rather than to a central location, so she had no recourse. Thus Rudolph must stand quietly listening to Snoopy, year ‘round. I do realize that I could pack him away with other Christmas items.
Friends who visit get a kick out of pressing on Snoopy’s foot. They may also listen to the little drummer boy, actually a white bear dressed as a drummer, play his song as his drumsticks move and his left foot taps. A penguin plays “Deck the Halls” and whatever the brown plush moose plays excites him so that he jumps all over the place and would land on the floor if I didn’t guide him with my hand. I do pack these others away for the year.
If all that does not suffice, there’s a snow globe on the mantel with an angel inside, sent to me years ago from a friend on Cranberry Isle, which plays “Hark the Herald Angels Sing.” Two music boxes, bought from a teen at a house sale in Toronto, both play “Lullaby and Good Night.” With visitors I merely mention the latter two and offer them, with no pressure to listen. I realize that not everyone is as excited about music boxes as I am.
If I were pressed to explain my fascination with the little switches on these boxes, I might recall the music box Porter had in the studio to assist taking photos of children. It did get their attention. I believe he built the simple 8-inch-long box in his woodworking shop and put the “works” inside. I have no idea what tune it played. So long ago.
Byrna Porter Weir was born and grew up in Houlton, where her parents, Ina and Porter, were portrait photographers. She now lives in Rochester, N.Y.
