Grandma Tulls Stories
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Product details Reading level: Scholastic 15 October Language: Customers who viewed this item also viewed. Akbar and Birbal Tales of Wit and Wisdom. Grandma's Bag of Stories. Good Night Stories for Rebel Girls. Share your thoughts with other customers. Write a product review. Showing of 4 reviews. Top Reviews Most recent Top Reviews. There was a problem filtering reviews right now. Please try again later. I got an old book which was loose and something is written on its last page. See all 4 reviews.
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Shopbop Designer Fashion Brands. There was a trail of water and saran wrap leading from the freezer to her bedroom though, so we followed it.
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On the bed, all wet and everything, there sat Grandma counting her Buddhist rosary and chanting her diamond sutra. What's weirder still is that she looked real young. I mean around fifty-four now, not ninety-four.
The high cheekbones came back, the rosy lips. When she saw us she smiled and said: I mean the way Mrs. Collier, our neighbor, the English teacher speaks English. Me, I have a slight accent still but Grandma's was really fine. But enough with compliments, we got to party. And Grandma put on this nice brocaded red blouse and black silk pants and sequined velvet shoes and fixed her hair real nice and we drove off downtown.
Boy, you should've seen Nancy's face when we came in. I mean she nearly tripped over herself and had to put her face on the wing of this ice sculpture that looked like a big melting duck to calm herself. Then she walked straight up to us, all haughty like and said, "It's invitation only, how'd y'all get in? Grandma, your English is flawless!
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But Grandma was oblivious to compliments. She went straight to the punch bowl to scoop up some spirits and that's when I noticed that her clubbed foot was cured and she had this elegant grace about her. She drifted, you might say, across the room, her hair floating like gray-black clouds behind her and everyone stared, mesmerized.
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Needless to say Grandma was the big hit of that artsy-fartsy party. She had so many interesting stories to tell. The feminists, it seemed, loved her the most. They crowded around her like hens around a barn yard rooster and made it hard for the rest of us to hear.
But Grandma told her stories all right. She told them how she'd been married early and had eight children while being the matriarch of a middle-class family during the Viet Minh Uprising. She told them about my grandfather, a brilliant man who was well versed in Moliere and Shakespeare and who was an accomplished violinist but who drank himself to death because he was helpless against the colonial powers of the French. She told everyone how single-handedly she had raised her children after his death and they all became doctors and lawyers and pilots and famous composers.
Then she started telling them how the twenty-four-year-old civil war divided her family up and brothers fought brothers over some stupid ideological notions that proved terribly bloody but pointless afterwards. Then she told them about our journey across the Pacific Ocean in this crowded fishing boat where thirst and starvation nearly did us all in until it was her idea to eat some dead and drink their blood so that the rest could survive to catch glimpses of this beautiful America and become Americans.
She started telling them, too, about the fate of Vietnamese women who must marry and see their husbands and sons go to war and never come back. Then she recited poems and told fairy tales with sad endings, fairy tales she herself had learned as a child, the kind she used to tell me and my cousins when we were real young.
Welcome to Grandma Tull's Stories the book where Grandma Tull, that master storyteller, leads you into a twisting labyrinth of stories within stories. Let me take a. Grandma Tull's Stories - Kindle edition by Janet S Fields. Download it once and read it on your Kindle device, PC, phones or tablets. Use features like.
There was also this faithful wife who held her baby waiting for her war-faring husband every night on a cliff and one stormy night, out of pity, the gods turned her and her child into stone. In Grandma's stories, the husbands and fishermen always come home, but they come home always too late and there was nothing the women could do but mourn and grieve.
Grandma's voice was sad and seductive and words came pouring out of her like rain and the whole place turned quiet and Nancy sobbed because she understood. Eric, he stood close to me and put a hand on my shoulder and squeezed slightly and I, leaning against him, cried a little too.
Grandma had done away with the easy plot for tragedy and life after her was not going to be so simple anymore. But enough with compliments, we got to party. Grandma was ninety-four years eight months and six days old when she died. Share your thoughts with other customers. I didn't get to do much when I was young, with my clubbed foot and the wars and everything else. Grandma's voice was sad and seductive and words came pouring out of her like rain and the whole place turned quiet and Nancy sobbed because she understood.
Mine is a story of suffering and sorrow, sorrow and suffering being the way of Vietnamese life. But now I have a second chance and I am not who I was, and yet I have al the memories so wherever I go, I figure, I will keep telling my stories and songs. When they were done Grandma came to me and Nancy and Eric and said good-bye. She said she was not going to wait for my parents to come home for a traditional funeral. She has got a lot of living still to do since Buddha had given her the gift to live twice in one life and this man, some famous novelist from Columbia, was going to take her to places.
He may even help her write a book. So she was going to be the mediteranee to get a tan and to Venice to see the festivals and ride the gondolas and maybe afterward she'd go by Hanoi and see what they'd done to her childhood home and visit some long forgotten ancestral graves and relatives and then who knows where she'll go after that.
She'll send post cards though and don't you wait up. Then before we knew it Grandma was already out of the door with the famous novelist and the elevator music started to come alive and fly away or something, I swear, nobody would have been surprised. Eric and I ran out after Grandma after we got through the hugging frenzy but she was already gone and outside there was only this beautiful city under a velvety night sky, its high rises shining like glass cages with little diamonds and gold coins kept locked inside of them.
Mama and Papa came home two days later. They brought incense sticks and ox hide drums and wooden fish and copper gongs and jasmine wreaths and Oolong tea and paper offerings, all the things that we were supposed to have for a traditional funeral. A monk had even sent a fax of his chanting rate and schedule so we could choose the appropriate time because he was real busy and the relatives started pouring in.
It was hard to explain then what had happened, what we had always expected as the tragic ending of things, human frailty the point of mourning and grief.