It’s always in the wee hours of the day that I recall times way back when. It’s 6 AM and this old lady has not slept. The house was up for sahur and so I couldn’t go back to sleep. It’s so quiet here, you know? Crickets everywhere. And by 6 AM the birds sing.

I have to tweet about this before it’s gone. It’s a fleeting feeling. I am suddenly transported to 1972, my first year of being married to my late first husband Phillip. Phil and Phil. That joke became so old, I looked younger and younger everytime somebody jested about it.

Anyway, we had two weddings: first the ceremony and the reception in the states, and another more traditional reception back here in Kuningan. This had to be done because both our families had strong traditions.

I came from a mixed Javanese-Dutch family, but my father was a raden so of course tradition was very important for him. He was sad that I didn’t get to marry in the Javanese tradition, but my sister had already done that.

Meanwhile, Phillip came from old money down South. The Develsbournes had owned that ranch for what must have been a hundred years back then. Phillip’s Granddaddy, Phillip I, raised cattle down in Savannah, Georgia. Oh my, I still remember that house. Shellspyre Grove.

They were an odd lot, the Develsbournes, and I had always thought it a peculiar name. They were so strange to me when I first met the clan, especially because I was a foreigner, but living in that house was definitely an ordeal of its own.

It was such a large house. My family home here in Kuningan is big and happened to have been built in a style similar to a southern plantation, but the real deal was something else—Shellspyre Grove was true gothic southern decadence.

It was called a grove because the long driveway to the ranch was laden with groves of longleaf pines that were planted long ago by the Develsbourne ancestors. These trees were very old and big, but they are but memories now.

Other than that, Lord knows who the original Develsbournes were and how they named the antebellum ranch Shellspyre. I was first introduced to Phillip’s widowed Aunt Phyllis, who was a neighbor of my Aunt Lea in Boca Raton, Florida (that’s how I met Phillip).

Phyllis’s husband had been Phillip II, the first son of Granddaddy Phillip I and Grandmama Honora, and was the heir to the Develsbourne fortune. He declined it because he was always at odds with Granddaddy—probably cause he was a staunch Democrat and Granddaddy hated that.

Uncle Phillip had died sometime in the 60s and they had been living there since the 50s probably. Phyllis was already in her sixties when we met, and she was just lovely. A bit ‘kooky’ as my Aunt Lea would say, but lovely. Prone to rambling on.

But there we were, Phillip, Philomena, and Phylis. Aunt Lea would say ‘Three peas in a pod!’ when we would visit Phyllis for mah jong or poker night. Phillip just adored his old auntie and the affection was mutual.

After we got engaged, I was dreading telling my parents because they would surely hate that I’ve caught myself a white man. I could just hear my mother saying; “I did not move a thousand miles away from some farm in Genesee just so you could marry a totok bule.”

I was not prepared for the reaction from Phillip’s family. Not only was I partly Asian, my American half was yankee (my mother’s family came from Batavia, New York). Goodness, I was thinking—what a mess I was in.

Phyllis was sweet about it but knew it would spell trouble with the rest of the clan in one way or another. After our engagement, Phillip drove us to Georgia. I asked Phyllis to come along but she said “I wouldn’t even want to die at that ranch if John Wayne himself had shot me.”

We drove for a long time, I couldn’t even remember for how long. It seemed longer than it should have taken, just like my first drive down the pine grove driveway of Shellspyre. Endless, endless tall, slender giants like horrific strawmen—bebegig, as urang Kuningan would say.

Phillip had written (not called) weeks before, so the family knew this wouldn’t be a surprise. Still, I dreaded so much that visit. I did not know what I was expecting. I really was just a stupid 26 year-old from a foreign land in foreign territory.

We were greeted with servants. Now, coming from Indonesia, it was normal to have servants, but seeing Americans with servants...you’d know they were well off. They were mostly black folks, and I remember a part of me was rather uncomfortable knowing the history of the South.

Phillip hugged one of the older servants, Nan Moses she was called, and she congratulated him on our engagement. She had white hair in a bun, and her skin was a lustrous dark. My first instinct was to almost sungkem, like my father did to his aunt in Jogjakarta.

She seemed so grandmotherly and beloved that I almost instantly revered her. Phillip introduced us and told me she had raised him. I was standing awkwardly over this squat old woman, and much to my surprise, she immediately hugged me.

She was not like Nek Imah, the Sundanese housekeeper my family employed as a cook and housekeeper. I remember Nek Imah as a crass and very cranky person. Nan Moses seemed like she was made of love.

I remember her saying something to the effect “My little crawfish caught himself a fine fish.” I asked what it meant, and Phillip intercepted by telling me that he used to be called crawfish because he would get red under the sun, like a boiled crustacean.

I told Nan Moses that’s how I see most white Americans, especially down in Florida. She roared with laughter, but then excused herself and invited us in. She asked the younger servants to carry the bags inside.

By the by I understand that the term ‘servant’ can be considered improper now. I’m just using the viewpoint of that time and frankly it’s 7 AM and I can’t find a more proper term apologies

I walked towards the front doors, which were black and massive that stood against the fading white of the house that stood at least 3 stories high. The wooden doors had gargoyle knockers and were intricately carved, and reminded me of those ancient doors at the Keraton in Jogja..

Phillip pulled my arm aside and said ‘Sorry dear, we don’t go in through here’. I was caught by surprise. I was almost mad thinking ‘am I not allowed to use the front door because I’m a foreigner?’ but I relented.

‘Why not?’ I asked. ‘We haven’t used the front door for about 30 years or so. We always enter through the side terrace door.’ Phillip’s answer bewildered me. Had I been a white woman I would have protested, but being Asian, you just know certain things need no explanation.

The door reminded me of the pintu gebyok in my grandfather’s house in Jogja, the one my sister and I was told not to touch or go through whenever we visited (this is for another story). This is what a pintu gebyok looks like if you don’t know.

Anyway, I have to pause here. I’m in dire need of sleep. Will return later! Maaf ya ceritanya pakai Bhs. Inggris btw, soalnya karena ini di US ya tante instingnya pake Bhs. Inggris nanti kalau tante cerita soal rumah mbahku di Jogja, pakai Bhs. Indonesia deh ya. Daag dulu

Hello all. A little revision, Phillip never used the word ‘terrace’, the term used for that time and place was ‘veranda’ or more appropriately, ‘verandah’. It was at the left side of the house, encased in wire mesh panes installed over some older sort of wooden lattice fencing.

The furniture was wicker, as you would expect, painted fading green. I was always fond of peacock rattan chairs, so seeing them at Phillip’s house was what made me buy one (we had one in Kuningan, but it got broken and my mother threw it out).

Anyway, we entered through a dimly lit room covered with antiques that were pushed together. Some were covered with white sheets and the rest were dusty. I imagined somebody in the family must have collected them and ran out of space for them?

We passed the entry room and into the main hall, where the sweeping staircase was. The wallpaper was ornate and looked worn, but I could still see its brilliant shade of green in the fading print. Different chairs dotted the room, and family portraits covered the walls.

I was in awe. The hall was two stories high and the walls were covered with black and white and sepia portraits all in neat, pretty frames. At the top were large paintings of whom I assumed were distant ancestors. Some were oval, some were square.

They really did remind me of colonial homes here in Indonesia, with heigh ceilings and all that. But the house seemed stuffy, yet oddly cool despite it being humid outside. Sometimes it gets too cold, but the windows were all closed along with the curtains and vitrase.

Apa ya Bhs. Inggrisnya vitrase? Lace, transparent curtains beneath the heavy curtains, you know? They looked luxurious but dusty, like they hadn’t been opened for a while.

The servants carried Phillip’s bags into the corridor at the landing of the sweeping staircase and we walked up there. I knew we were not to share rooms since we were only engaged, but I assumed my room would be nearby: no, it was on the third floor.

I thought, “Waduh, apes juga nih gue.” The third floor looked desolate and empty, but the door to my room was just beyond the staircase landing. It was nice enough, all in white albeit faded. Pretty linen and lace.

Phillip stayed in his own room, which had remained unchanged since he was a young boy. There were trophies of him as a champion swimmer and runner and old photos. His college diploma sat atop the trophy shelf, and I had wondered where was the one for his masters degree?

“I keep in the drawer. Mother always made a show of displaying and framing everything I did, and by the time I did my graduate studies I thought I would be too old for that.” Explained Phillip. His mother. I was wondering what she would be like.

And just as the thought of her came to me, a voice arrived at the door. “Phillip honey!” She wasn’t what I imagined. I had pictured a cold, steely magnolia of a mother. Mother Develsbourne was a short and plump woman, dressed in pretty florals.

“Mother, this is Philomena.” Introduced Phillip. His ‘lil old mama’ looked at me from my toes to my forehead. “Well, you certainly ain’t gonna be wearing my wedding dress.” She said, flatly. I thought, ‘well fuck, this woman hates me’.

Here’s the thing: I may have traveled quite a bit but Indonesian was still my first language. Every encounter I had with Americans was always nauseating because sometimes I just don’t follow their humor/their tone of speech. I thought immediately at that moment that she hated me.

I must have looked aghast and Mother Develsbourne quickly laughed warmly. “Oh honey, that was just a quip! It’s so nice to meet the little girl who’s caught my little boy!” She patted me softly on the arm, but we didn’t shake hands or hugged. It was awkward for me.

She introduced herself as Roberta and I met Phillip’s father Ernest a moment later after Roberta called out to him (their room was just down the hall). They were called Bert and Ernie (HA!), and they always laughed. Ernest was just as warm, and we kissed cheeks.

Ernest held my hand in his hands. He looked about fifty, balding, and was about as tall as Phillip. He said “I hope you will enjoy your stay at the guest room. I apologize for the state of the house.” Having been raised by a Javanese father, I knew of this ramah tamah pleasantry.

Humility was something that old time Southerners shared with the Javanese, and I think that helped me understand them better. They were civil and warm, but something was off. Like the Javanese, you’d know they wouldn’t say anything bad in front of you.

Anyway, I’m dragging on, aren’t I? Let’s get to the scary part. The guest room. It was on the third floor and there were only three other rooms: the bathroom, the door to the attic under the roof, and Grandmama Honora’s bedroom.

Grandmama must have been in her 90s back then. She didn’t come out much from her room as she was in a wheelchair, but she would get down through one of those rickety old elevators by the stairs. Looked something like this.

I didn’t know how to feel being just down the hall from an old lady I had never even met. After I unpacked, I laid down to rest for a while waiting for dinnertime. I awoke at about 6 PM, because I heard the elevator whirring down outside. Grandmama must have been coming down.

I dressed neatly for dinner in a calf-length dress that was rather conservative. I wanted to make a good impression on them and I didn’t want to look like I was ‘loose’ (I wasn’t, I only became loose when I was 65 before I had my hip surgery).

I walked down during the twilight of that day. The sun sank over the skinny stained glass windows that circulated the sweeping, curvin staircase. It was so quiet. I only heard the murmurs of people once I was downstairs, when I found the dining room just accross the main hall.

The dining table was oval and Phillip sat next to an empty chair. On the other side was Roberta, then Ernest, then two empty chairs, and an empty space that I assumed was for Grandmama Honora’s wheelchair.

The dining room had faded cream wallpapers, and the lace curtains draped over shuttered windows. I could faintly see the sun setting and finally disappearing over the sliver of gaps of the shutters.

“Come sit, darling.” Beckoned Roberta. Phillip gestured to the seat next to him and I sat down timidly. The lighting was dim except for the glare of the low-hanging Tiffany chandelier above the dining table. Roberta chatted with Ernest in low murmurs.

“You ready to meet Grandmama?” Asked Phillip. I wasn’t sure of what to answer. It’s like they’re making such a big deal out of this. Would she hate me?? I nodded and patted Phillip on his thigh.

Just then Grandmama rolled in on her wheelchair. I couldn’t see her first from the dim light, but her shadow was immense. As she rolled in closer I saw that she was indeed a very immense woman.

The wheelchair she sat in looked custom made, it looked like a big wicker armchair that was suited to her considerable girth. The man who pushed her was a large man, too, and I guess you would have to be to push a woman like her around.

Bert and Ernie looked rather anxious for Grandmama to finally meet me, smiling as they awaited some sort of response. Grandmama was looking at nowhere in particular, her small, beady eyes sunken under a drooping forehead and over sagging but bulky cheeks.

When she arrived at the table, we all immediately rose from our seats. “Grandmama, this is my fiancee, Philomena.” Said Phillip. Nothing. “Mama? Did you hear what Phillip said? This is the girl our Phillip’s gonna marry.” Added Roberta.

She tried to look at me and I looked at her anxiously. Her hair was grey and balding, permed close to her scalp. She wore a flowery black and pink dress that clung to her enormous body. Her big fat fingers sat crookedly on the armrests.

There was dead silence for what seemed like forever. I was nervously looking around. Should we sit down? Will anybody say anything? Nobody did anything. The man who wheeled her in gripped the handles of the wheelchair still, as if to prevent her from spilling over.

Grandmama Honora blinked, and then she looked straight at me, her eyes sharp in a deadly stare. And then it happened: she let out the biggest, smelliest fart I have heard and smelled on God’s green earth, I kid you the fuck not.