The Row of Canvas Shoes on Silent Night

How the younger generations are willing to spend the time to go visit the older, IF you spent time with the younger generations when they were younger, to instill that strong sense of value of the family in them…translated…

On the elevator side of the wall of my floor, the notices of constructing of a handicapped restroom was posted, and that was when I’d realized, that someone lived at that, apartment.  I’d moved in since a little over two years ago, ,I only saw the posted red strips of paper for the Chinese New Years of children’s handwritings, without hearing of seeing any coming and going from the apartment complex.  As I’d asked the building attendant, that was when I’d learned, that as the two young children are growing, the two-room apartment is no longer big enough for the extended family, and so, the middle generations purchased a residence close by, and hired the foreign nurse’s aide to care for the aging mother, who now lives along with the hired nurse at the residence.

The nuclear family unit is a whole, with the aging mother starting a life of adapting to a stranger in her home, before the onlookers can say a thing, the bigger awe came.  Not long thereafter, every day after work, I saw that the originally clean doorway of the apartment without any obstructions, started piling up with the shoes, sometimes only a pair, but more often, there were, two, three pairs out, with the cute children’s size shoes neatly next to the adults’, showing how well trained the kids were.  I’d bumped into the owners of these shoes a couple of, times, they were chauffeured by their father on his scooter, the little boy standing in the front space, the girl, straddled on the back of the seat, hoppity, hop, they’d, come off the scooter, and, the adult gestured them to head up first.  When we shared the elevator rides, the children were laughing and playing, there’s no feel of them being forced to visit, and as they exited on their floor, they’d smiled to those who were in the elevator, bid us farewell.

like these, signaling that the families had visited…photo from online

I’d imagined, that this may be occasional, but, the variety of shoes, like the flowers, blooming every single day  there.  The parents used their actions to express “filial piety” for their young to observe and model after, and I’d imagined, that as the parents’ generations grow older, their children will, stay around too.  This is what I deemed as most, ideal, and yet, I’d never seen my own parents calling my grandparents to ask them how they are, or inviting the families to a meal gathering actively, they’d stayed, a safe distance from their own, families of, origins.  But, isn’t the connection supposed to be deepened through the repeated interactions of being together?

So, even if I’m not that close to my own parents at all, and I’d not called them up every day after I’d begun living on my, own, I’d still, tried my best to show my concerns for my parents, finding the occasions to ask the families out to gather for a meal.  And, the outings may not be with the active connections with the families, even there were those who were too focused on their cellphones to care of what was happening, and not put their hearts into the interactions with the families, but, the glued together circle, so long as we don’t shake it too hard to breaking, it still appeared, connected, enough.

Last week, I’d invited my older sister to visit our ailing father, in the afternoon, I’d gone with my sister and her family to visit my mother, seeing how happy my mother was, interacting with the grandchildren.  The day was more than ordinary, but as I left, I saw the various shoes lined outside the door, I’d felt, the blessings.

and inside the house…photo from online

Christmas Eve is in a few days, after I’d returned with my husband on our exercises together, there were, a total of seven pairs of shoes outside our neighbor’s doors, a total of close to ten people there, inside that, small, apartment, they were spending the holiday together.  There wasn’t the stilettos that looked elegant, they were all plain, canvas shoes that looked, more than, ordinary.  Looking on these shoes, I know, we will all be wearing them, walking toward a, beautiful, future which we will be, sharing.

And so, this, is how the older generations longed to have their younger generations around them as they grow older, but, you have to know, that these sorts of values would’ve been, imprinted in the younger generations way before the day comes, when our parents are older, and this sort of connection must be established from way, way, way before when your own children are still quite young, because IF you don’t socialize them on the family values of connectedness, if you don’t love your own young right, what makes YOU think, that you will have the shoes big and small, all over the outside of your front doors?  Because, your children have NO obligations to visit you in your elderly years, IF you never took the time to socialize with them, to spend with them when they’re still, babies!

The Chair

How these ordinary home furniture pieces, became a part of the shared histories of a family, how memories attached themselves, translated…

From Before at Every Meal, He & It, Closest to the Corner to Mom, Was, the, Constant, Arrangement…………

Every first and fifteenth of the lunar calendar month, after the ancestors ate the meals that were prepared, then came our, the offspring’s turns who are still, living to gather around, eating the blessed foods.  While the table is at the core of the, kitchen, the members of the families, found their own, specific spot, situated in our own, chairs.

The edges of the table is only a step away from the stove, mom would go to and from, making the meals for us, and the kitchen and dining room was were she’d, spent most of her time in life.  My father always sat on the seat with the back turned to the stove, while I, opposite him.

I’d once observed, as my father with his left hand, mildly trembling, holding the bowl, he would, unconsciously, leaned against the beam on the left with his elbows.  And, I’d asked him why there was this beam dead center in our, dining room a couple of times?  He’d explained, that back then, when it was grandpa who was the head of the house, while he was still working for his own father, the house was a rice mill.  And above the kitchen, there were, the tons of the items stored, and needed the extra support, so the mill won’t, collapse.

illustration from UDN.com

The stories usually, ended right here, later, the rice grinding mill was out of operation, and the harvested rice went to another larger enterprise, our own small business that’s local, found the place inside the small alleys of the districts of town, became a memory of the agricultural, era.

After the mill was put up, grandpa got rid of the machinery one by one, and restarted in finding a brand new way of life with his families here.  My grandfather used to sit right at the spot, with the back turned against the stoves too, that place, closest to the woman who’s closest to the stoves, where the beams were set.  With my father, sitting opposite like I am doing, from grandpa.

While mom still worked to and from.  She’d, placed some foods into a separate dish in smaller containers, then, made the rice into a tower.  I’d known the purpose, I’d taken the trays, and, walked across the tables, with the vegetarian items, passed that chair which my father and grandfather had sat in for many decades, walked upstairs, and, served it to my father, who’d, stayed by the side of the ancestors.

I’d returned downstairs, back to the tables, and, looked at that iron chair that’s now, vacant.  The scars from the erosions, that got welded to work, I’d thought of replacing the chair from before.  And, the patching, breaking down frame, repeatedly, I can’t believe, that the chair was able to, hold my father’s, weight.

In his dying days, my father became, deteriorated away in his mind and body, but, no matter the times, day and night of the day to days, whenever we have the chances, we’d all, shared our meals together as a family.  While my mother, took care of that old chair with so much care, like she’d taken good care of my father too.  The meals from times before, he and it, in that corner that’s, closest to my mother, was, the constant, arrangement.

Suppers ready now, I’d told mom to sit down to eat, and inquired about that chair.

“Just leave it as a memento.”  And we all knew, that my father will, always be, around.

So, this is, the memories, of home, of love, of that giving and offering to the families, taking care of your loved ones, and it didn’t matter if someone in the family is no longer living, there’s still a place for the person at the tables, out of, respect.

When My Father Was at My Age

How we all, learn to be parent, by watching our own parents, by, modeling after them, when we were, younger, and raised by them…off of the Front Page Sections, translated…

We’d all, become, our own, fathers, whether or not we wanted to or not.

Sweeping my father’s graves, I’d, noted his year of birth, and, counted how old I was, when he’s, at my, age.

The answer: fourteen.  I went to school, far from my house then.

The answer is, fourteen.  At the time, school is very far from home, a total hour of bus ride to get there.  I’d pulled the all-nighters to study, couldn’t get up early enough in the morn.  To let me sleep a little longer, my father would drive the longer routes to get me to school, then, to work.  I’d, just made it, before the bell rung at school, while he’d, always, arrived late to, work daily.

the three generations…photo from online

And now, I’m the one, chauffeuring my own son to school.  He’s still not yet overwhelmed by his studies, but he’d, stayed up, all night long, and can’t get up in the mornings.  I’d wanted him to have breakfasts first before he goes, and didn’t want to hurry him.  Hoped that he could, arrive at school safe, so I’d not driven, too fast either.  And in the end, I can only, delay my own work, again, and again, and, again.

Started in the elementary years, I’d started in the public speaking competitions.  Once, the topic was “breaking a superstition”.  And, although my father was a believer of fengshui, he’d, written a righteous script for me.  He sat there, on the marble chair in the living room, fanned the fan, as he’d heard me rehearse my speech.  And the rhythmic up and down of the fan became like a metronome, steadied my heart.

And now, my son is also, speaking in the schools; using five photos, sharing the interesting things he’d experienced in the weekends.  So we’d, gone to the, Youth Park, I took shots of him, then, taught him what to say: “I went to the park yesterday, saw a spaceship………”, and, my son would drift away, and ran off after a line.  And I can only, write everything down on every single, card, then had the instructor, guide him in his speech.  As he got on the podium, I was the one, nervous.

Looking at my father’s tombstone, I’d wanted to ask him: at my age, what was it like, raising, me?  I’d recalled one rainy morn, I’d, stayed in bed a bit longer, he’d, nagged me, and I got so furious I’d run out of the house.  As I got off the bus to transfer on Shinshen S. Road, at the bus stop, I saw his car, parked by the side of the road, with the windshield wipers, uneven, like an arm, wanting to, catch me.  I’d, dodged him, and, flagged down a cab.

My son can’t ram out the door yet, but, as he started getting upset, he was, comparable to me then.  Whether it be in public, or at home, when he’d started, throwing his tantrums, I can’t, use my verbal skills I’d, acquired since I was a child, and the only thing I could do, is open my arms wide, and, embraced him, like those windshield wipers going crazy in the rain on his, windshield then.

The night before the sweeping of the graves, I’d asked my son, dad’s going to see grandpa, do you have something you want to say to grandpa.  He’d never seen my father, naturally, there was, nothing he wanted to say, he’d only asked me, “dad, can you come earlier to pick me up tomorrow?”

I don’t recall expressing my love to my father, until something happened to me.  At a rehearsal for a script in university, I’d, cracked my head, got rushed to the E.R., dad rushed over, I was so scared, I’d told him, “dad, I’m injured”, he’d grabbed my hands, told me, “it’s okay, it happens.”, going into the operating room, I’d begged the surgeon, “I want to see my father again!”

And now, as I’d gone to pick my son up from school, he’d told me, “I’m sorry, I’d wetted myself at nap time!”, his teacher handed me the wet sleeping bag, I’d told him, “it’s okay, it happens!”, I’d, washed his sleeping bag, lain it out under the sun, and, some of the memories I’d shared with my own father, came back out.

Nobody taught me to say it like that.  Maybe, it’s the blood that my father passed, to me, which made me naturally reacted to these things, as I saw my son off to school, as I’d, prepared the stories to tell him, watching him make a mess, as I was, rolling up his, sleeping bag.  To this very day, I’m still, trying to, memorize that speech my father had, written for, me, it’s, just that the subject is no long, busting the superstitions, but how to be, a father.

Being a father, with all of its, sense of achievements, moments I feel, defeated.  At my lows, I’d always, recalled how my father had, interacted with me, when he was, my age, then, tell myself, “it’s okay, it happens!”, then, I’d, stand back up, gone earlier, to wait for my son to get out of, school.

So, it wasn’t until your father had, died, did you remember, all the times, he’d interacted with you, and, you’d, recalled, how he’d, taught you, all those, lessons of life, of how to be a good man, and that, is the legacy you will, pass to your own, son too, and he is going to, remember everything you’d, taught him too.