Bye, Bye, Cabin Fever

Wow, looking at the clock time, 6:14 PM, 4/13/2011, shown at the lower right-hand corner of this computer, I realized two weeks have past since we last left NJ and headed for CA. This cross-country move was smooth and everything fell into place as planned without glitches. We have settled into an apartment. Most, if not all, of the things that we needed to handle have been taken care of.

My first impression of CA was, as expected, the nice weather. I am spoiled by the the balmy temperature and the sunny sky here, especially after the night falls. My sleep, save for a few nights, has been deep and sound; the temperate night absolutely benefits the sleep and consequently, the health as well. In the last two weeks, I have sensed that this kind of warmer weather suits my “cold” physical constitution just right. And then there is the ample sunshine; I sometimes need to close the window blind to avoid the bright sunshine shone down on my desk, which was unthinkable in the other places that I have lived before. In New jersey, I craved the natural light constantly. In short, there is no comparison between NJ and CA, weather wise. On the other hand, things are expensive here. Groceries (excluding the Chinese veggies and fruits sold in ethnic stores), oil, and almost everything else are more expensive than in NJ. I struggled to open my wallet every time when I stepped into a store…

Just to get a better idea about where we are in, we went to look at some of the open houses in the surrounding area last weekend; for me, driving to various neighborhoods picked from the open house lists is a fast and easy way to become familiar with the relative locations of each city to one another in such a vast, sprawling metropolis. I may go to a few more others later. I can imagine that there will be all sorts of places to explore and a lot of new things to learn in such a diversified community.

So Long, New Jersey!

The day of moving is beckoning. Every which way I turn to in the apartment, there are packing boxes, stacked up or standing alone, sealed or half full. Here and there, scattered everywhere. Looking at them, a glum feeling rises up from within me. Permeating in the air are small yet detectable doses of low spirits that I have been sensing since not long ago when we decided on the move. With the moving day getting closer, the sense only becomes keener — Despite the realization that I can’t possibly place my roots here, I have become somewhat attached to this small space that I have been calling home for the past four years.

Yup, I am soon to leave behind the East Coast where I have spent the past six and half years as a hard-to-get-adjusted transplanter and where the six-months-long winters are full of alternating rains and snows. Happy? Maybe. But then, I am also about to leave behind my younger son, my late mother’s final resting place, and a little bit of familiarity of this area…

To think of that I am soon moving to an area located at the front of receiving the earliest nuclear fallout from the damaged nuclear reactors in Japan, I feel like 飛 蛾 撲 火– a moth flying into the fire. Then again, with a head of salt and pepper hair, I feel fine so long as I don’t lose hair from the radiation. Didn’t they say, gray hair is better than thinning or no hair?

離情總是讓人依依.

So long, New Jersey!

The 100th Anniversary of the Republic

A long forgotten memory was aroused after I received from a friend an article about the custom of foot-binding practiced long time ago in China, along with it were pictures depicting the misshaped bound feet.

Though the practice was outlawed a hundred years ago, it does not seem like that long ago. To think of it, our generation was dangerously close to that time frame. Suffice it to say that we almost could not escape from it; we missed it by one generation or two. Our generation is probably the last one to have been able to witness the vestige of this cruel, painful suffering inflicted upon our antecedents. The younger ones after us can Google the “three-inch golden lotus foot” digital pictures, or see the lotus shoes in the museums.

My maternal grandma had these feet. I recall seeing a daily ritual at young age that went like this: When the bedtime came, she would unwrap the long strip of binding cloth, put them aside and start washing her feet; and then after drying them, gingerly and skillfully wrap another clean piece of long cloth around each of the feet. The process took a long while to finish. As for my late mother, who was born in 1913, at this juncture when the last Chinese imperial dynasty had been barely overthrown and the old custom and practice, albeit banned under the new republic government, were still lingering on, she had the “released” kind or the “semi-bound” feet — they were larger than the ones as shown in the pictures yet still were distorted out of shape and smaller than the natural ones.

A year before my mother’s passing, she spoke about her rebellion against the practice in a conversation that I had hoped to know more about her, to explore her other sides unknown to me. She was forced to start foot-binding at very young age, maybe 4 ,5 or before that, I can’t pinpoint. After enduring a period of pain and suffering, she rebelled and succeeded, and so her feet were unbound from then on. Sadly, the deformity had taken shape. My impression of her strong will was reinforced in that conversation and with days gone by, I appreciate more that trait of her. If only I had her strength of will, I would be a much different person now. Because of the deformity, through out her life, she had hard time finding the right shoes that fitted her nicely and comfortably. Lucky for us that we weren’t born earlier, say, ninety years ago?

For comparison, those bound feet pictures in the article were accompanied by some photos of the 8-inch high square toe platform heels that are in vogue now. It’s shocking to see those variants of torturing shoes that modern women are wearing and enjoying very much. It looks like the wearer is tiptoeing her feet in a deep cup when walking. Could the shoes produce a swaying walk that’s self-satisfying? Don’t know, never tried. Attractive? can’t tell. One thing I know, though, is that the swaying walk resulted from the bound feet allegedly was the reason why men were attracted to women with bound feet in ancient China and thus the torturing custom of foot-binding.

Is the history repeating itself?

Twenty Percent

Feb. 20, 2011

There were four of us classmates who got together yesterday. The fifth one who had planned to come from Boston notified us the day before that she couldn’t come; her son’s car was totaled in a car accident. One out and gone with it twenty percent of the fun. Or more, I felt.

The meeting was held at a tearoom that was remodeled from a two story single family house. The house itself isn’t generously spaced. The dishes were delicious and tasteful; yet, throughout the whole event, I felt very uncomfortable, physically, sitting there. Ergonomics hadn’t been taken into consideration in choosing the tables and chairs — the heights weren’t right, they mismatched. I was sure that took lots of fun from our conversations. But then to be honest, I was the only one among us who was complaining about the disproportionate table set. Thinking the reason had to be due to the fact that I am much taller than they are, I couldn’t help eyeballing other patrons’ heights, hoping to get a hint of discomfort from their sitting postures. I then detected a woman my height seated in a rather unusual way; it’s hard to describe it but I was sure the disproportionate table set had been bothering her too. While looking around, we noticed that with a few exceptions the patrons were all ladies, even the birthday party held in the reserved room composed of young girls only. Are women more than men inclined to go to a tearoom? Highly likely.

It was very pleasant to see my classmates; I hadn’t seen them since we got out of college long ago. Nonetheless, I felt we could have loosened up a bit more and used some laughs. It wasn’t as jolly as last time when my other group of classmates met up. The venue, a small enclosed public space as opposed to a home in the the other reunion, could be the culprit; it might have refrained us from talking or laughing louder. Taking it upon myself, I tried injecting a few jokes during the conversations to buoy the spirit. It fell flat. Had that twenty percent come then the story would have been a lot different. As is in some other occasions, I lamented the profound lack of sense of humor in many of my acquaintances. I wonder is it attributed to disposition or to our mother culture? I guess it’s more of the latter.

Having said that, It was a cheerful five-hour gathering and I am extremely happy to renew our friendship. Now equipped with this friendship the road ahead looks more welcoming to me.

College Days? So Long Ago!

Unexpectedly, in the Christmas and holidays season that has just past a month ago, one college classmates rounded up a few dozens of email addresses and sent us a simple greeting. It fell silent for several days. Then all of a sudden, responses cropped up here and there like weeds; they flourished. Some of us started missing-person-hunting, the name list just grew longer. The ensuing reminiscences and nostalgia has soon led to a handful of mini-reunions in Taipei. Surprisingly, it also turned out that there are three other classmates living in my state, mostly in the same area. As a matter of fact, one lives only 15 minutes drive away. So it is only natural that we four need to have a get-together. Another classmate from out of state not too far away will ride bus to join us too. That makes five of us for this gathering on Feb. 19.

In the spirit of celebrating our approaching mini-reunion, I have been thinking of an unforgettable event that I attended in CA last Nov.:

A friend held a hot-pot lunch party at her home for us high school classmates. The scheduled beginning time was 12:00 PM, but we all arrived early. Without any delay, we started the conversation right away and kept chatting through the hearty lunch and the afternoon. And then the sun set and the night fell, and the evening came. We kept on. Hungry? No problem. We took a break and finished up the second round of the hot-pot. Time had slipped through unnoticed. At long last, our eclectic conversation that had seemed to just start a short while ago was interrupted by the husband’s returning home. We soon got up and left for the door. But we continued the talk on outside the front door. Fifteen minutes had passed before we dragged our feet out of the porch. Left? No, it took us another 30 minutes to stride out of the sidewalk. Reluctantly.

The lunch party lasted from 11:45 AM to 8:30 PM. There were five of us then. Hmm, I bet the five of us this time will have a heck of good time too.

No Color of Spring Can Be Contained in the Garden

Two days ago, a friend announced to us classmates that she was sending photos she had shot only a few days ago in lieu of details about how she had been doing. They were all pictures of flowers taken in either her or friend’s yard. I clicked the site where they were placed, an array of flowers in full bloom came into sight, very pleasing and very uplifting. I couldn’t help smiling heartily. Next, I was pondering how to let her know my appreciation.

Telling her “gorgeous” or “beautiful”? Yes, they were wonderful words but plain and ordinary. Unimpressive. A few hours had past and it’s time to fix the dinner. I turned the kitchen faucet on, held vegetables underneath it, and started rinsing them. All the while, I was searching in my head the best descriptions that I could use. I was thinking of the words she used in this brief message, such as, “garden” and “the coloring of the spring.” I thought about her youthful looks and her immense social skills. And, I thought about the masterful capture of the spring in those pictures, which by then had been spread all around to us. Before I finished cutting these vegetables into pieces, a light of idea had struck me and I found the words.

Almost immediately, I turned, gaily, and stepped back to my desk to arrest the thoughts of the moment. I put down, among others:

“No color of spring can be contained in the garden.”
“滿園春色闗不住, 呵呵呵.”

Excluding the last three Chinese characters, the literal translation between the above two phrases is clear and correct. However, while “No color of spring can be contained in the garden” is innocent enough, the widely-known Chinese phrase has a naughty connotation, which my fellow Chinese natives probably can fully understand. As for the three ending characters, “呵呵呵,” they are laughter sounds and were added to further imply the intended pun.

A friend of mine once asked why I loved to write in English, this occurrence explains the reason well enough — I have fun.

They Say a Lot

I found an interesting site through an online article. The site invited readers to post six word stories about themselves. I choose some of the the posts that I liked and followed them with my own comments as below:

Coulda, shoulda went to art school.
Me: Lived; could’ve, would’ve, should’ve. I sigh.

Lots of irony. Still no iron.
Me: No worry, you’ll iron it out.

My life is so redundant(ly) redundant.
Me: Love to make life simply simple.

Size five girl, sometimes feels fat.
Me: Great’s nothing to do with height.

Worked with the famous. Still Happy.
Me: Congratulations, it’s easier said than done.

My life’s too ordinary to record.
Me: Ordinary is fortunate in this economy.

Moving soon, new hellos, old goodbyes.
Me: Congratulations, knowing where to move to.

Monday and tired, sitting in class.
Me: Friday, party time, four days away.

One, two, three, four, five, seven.
Me: No, can’t say in six words.

I’ll need more than six words.
Me: One, two, three, four, five, seven.

Wish I knew which road’s right.
Me: Keep going, you will find out.

Occasionally prolific, rarely profound, wantabe writer.
Me: Should it be wannabe or wantabe?

Just forgot everything I just remembered.
Me: Glad to know there is company.

Took a wrong turn, found myself.
Me: Afraid to turn at this age.

I was born June Six, 1966.
Me: Chinese say, “six six, luck flourishes.” (六六大顺)
— 6th month 6, ’66, doubly so.

Looking forward to going home, tomorrow.
Me: Home is where you find peace.

Haven’t quite figured it out yet.
Me: May have partially figured it out.

I want to travel, four kids…
Me: You’ll have time to catch up.

Democrat. Catholic. Enough said.
Me: Yeah, I think I know ya.

I especially like this one from a precocious youth along with a comment from an understanding mature reader:

14 and I worry about health care.
Comment: I hear ya, 60 and worried also.

And then a telling one from a dispirited guy: “Came home, no wife, start over.”

And I laughed out loud on this one: “I like big butts, can’t lie.” .

Oscar Can’t Stand It

I am at the desk, waving uncontrollably to the beat of the song, “Saviour,” by La Roux. Actually, I am supposed to be taking a break from the solo dance to the tune of La Roux’s songs. But, I just can not stop moving and shaking both my upper body and my legs. God knows if only I could move my seat, I would shake it too. Dancing solo has become a daily routine for me. I see this as a great workout; a jazzercise with the benefits of loss of weight and muscle toning, minus the fees. I also see this a great way to kill time.

Unlike Oscar, I am wired to pop music; the more I can rock, the better. Back in college, I used to watch Tom Jones’ TV show, “This Is Tom Jones.” When watching, I would dance the whole duration of it. In a conversation sometime last year, I was told that tomboys were drawn to his songs. That sounded quite true.

The daily dancing routine started only four months ago, about the time when Oscar coaxed me out of a future singing contest with my high school alumnae; he succeeded by letting me listening to my own voice. To his surprise, I then channeled my energy to another act — dancing, which I am afraid was not much to his liking, either. At first, Lady Gaga’s music permeated the room day in, day out. Once I started paying attention to her, I noticed her name translation in Taiwan was “女神卡卡,” which I can’t help reading as “女神咖咖.” It comes so naturally as I tend to blend the English and Chinese sounds together. How does that sound? It tickles me.

Nowadays, I stick mostly to La Roux’s music. When I first saw her in the video, I wondered why he dressed like a girl. After knowing her true identity, I have come to like her appearance. And, you can count me as one of her fans now.

OK, it’s time to turn to the YoutTube site again. No kidding, YouTube is where I listen to. Hey, what can you expect from a low-tech person?

An Advice From a Father

I was forwarded a brief article just yesterday. It had been written by a famed Hong Kongese TV and radio show host, 梁继璋 (Michael Leung), and was addressed to his children. I found it genuine and touching. Among the nine pointers, I was most deeply affected by the last one and as such I can’t wait to share it:

“親人只有一次的緣份，無論這輩子我和你會相處多久，也請好好珍惜共聚的時光，下輩子，無論愛與不愛，都不會再見.”

“Parents and offspring, being meant as it is, cross paths only once in lifetime. No matter how long we will spend time together in this lifetime, please cherish the time we spent together. We will not see each other in the next life, whether the love exists or not.”

Powerful and sobering words — They carried a sense of glumness that was strongly influenced by the notion of “destiny” inherent in the Chinese culture.

The words now start filling my thoughts. Emotions well up. I need to take a break away from the desk. I step out and slowly, I follow the walkway in the apartment complex, looking for a fresh air of inspiration.

Still, I cannot get them out of my head.

Pork Chop, Apple and Serial Killer. Part II.

I am thrust forward to the six grade —

I was standing at the corner by the classroom door; I had seen my mother climb the stairs and now she was walking down the passageway toward me. She took out the stuff from a bag and gingerly unwrapped the layered cloth, inside was a lunch pail, warm to touch. The meal had been freshly made at home and she carried it through five minutes walk to the school. She did this every day.

Back to the seat, I saw the girl, pale and thin, a seat ahead of me put a red delicious apple on her desk. A quotidian sight at lunch time. Oh, how I wished I could have one every day too! I then wished I myself could bring my lunch to the school, just like others. I kept these wishes to myself.

One day the girl confided me that because of her weak constitution, her daily supplement, in addition to the apple, also included ginseng.

It dawns on me now that I have been feeding my own family the same way my mother fed me; I believe in drawing nutrients from freshly made food. Hey, apple girl, where are you?

Another story that I learned only a few years ago pops up in my head. The story occurred at the time (at age four or five, maybe?) when Matt was beginning to self-learn the meaning of more complicated words:

At breakfast, whenever he saw the milk and cereal, he would stay alert and swallowed them slowly down his throat, hoping to lessen the feel of the chills being simultaneously sent down his spine. He was pretty sure there was a serial killer lurching somewhere in the background and could come out to get him any minute while he was eating the milk and cereal. After all, that’s what “cereal killer” meant.

Hmm … He kept that frightening thought to himself.