Long Journey

I wasn't sure if this was the right house when I first walked up the pathway to the house . It looked like an abandoned house with weeds growing everywhere. Yet judging from the shoe rack outside of the front door (such a Chinese way) I gathered it must be the right house. I was also tired from driving two days straight. I tried to find the doorbell. None to be seen. I knocked on the door and a young man showed up. I told him I was going to stay here starting today. He let me in, telling me Judy, the owner,  wasn't there. I unloaded  things on my shoulder in "my room" after he disappeared to his. The big trunk was so heavy that I had to unzip it downstairs, take some stuff out and carry them to upstairs, then dragged the lighter trunk upstairs one step at a time, while hoping the wooden stairs was hardy enough to take the bumping of the trunk on every step. No gentlemanly help needed -- nor was it offered.

I counted five bedrooms upstairs. There might be more downstairs. It didn't take long to unpack, although the plan was to stay here for three months. Just have to do laundry diligently and ignore following the fashion etiquette. I should be fine.

The bed is hard as cement. WiFi password left in my room by an unknown person didn't work.
I text Judy: There's only a box spring on the bed..no mattress! My bony bones can't take it. :)
Judy: It is a mattress. It's the Asian style and it's good for your back. I will find something for you to use on top of it.
Me: The WiFi password doesn't work.
Judy: I will send you a picture of the password.

What is it with Asians and the cement beds? I slept on one after mom moved back to Canada, and my back was so achy that I had to give it to my neighbors (they were going to use it as a box spring, appropriately) and buy a new mattress.

The password picture never came. I bothered the guy once more. Got a glimpse of his bedroom. Huge king sized bed with the only TV in the house. Hmmm. He confirmed there was one digit off.

Off to mom's. She seemed to be better than last time I saw her three weeks ago. The companion, Doreen, wasn't sure at times if she was going to be here much longer, which was what prompted this long trip.

Doreen asked her: Aren't you happy your daughter is here?!
Mom: Nothing...to be...happy...about.

Thanks, mom. Even in your half-lucid way you managed to make people feel great.

I don't take it seriously anymore. She can't help it, and I'm doing this for myself. I don't want her to go through this last leg of her journey by herself -- whether she likes it or not.

That is, for as long as I can take it. Our last experiment didn't go so well.

Laws of Harmony

According to a not-so-pleasant but all-so-true research of late, many of us will face a non-existent retirement when it’s time for the corporate world to kick us in the derrière just when time is near for us to qualify for that pension, and get a “package,” as they so strategically called, that will last you a year or half.


We can forget the Social Security or Medicare. The experts keep telling us they both are going to evaporate by the time we need them. It’s best not to get our hopes up.

We have a few options to consider, excluding the following: 1. Buy a mega lottery winning ticket. Caution--this doesn’t work that well from my personal experiences. 2. Execute a bank robbery. This will provide free room and board in local penitentiary (if we make sure the camera catch our faces clearly) but not much else, and if we don’t plan it well it could backfire in the “getting ourselves killed by the security guard” scenario.

We can move to where the jobs are, work as if the universe is ending tomorrow, save every penny and live in the Scrooge style that Dickens described so well in his book. Most of us don’t find that remotely appealing though. Another problem is we don’t speak the language where the jobs are--being proud Americans and all.

What else can I do, you ask. Let’s see…

Move into a trailer and live off the proceed of your house--if you are blessed with owning a house instead of an upside down mortgage in the first place. Keep your fingers crossed that the market will be more lucrative by that time.

I understand your need to be with family when your health and income are both declining. It’s a viable solution that each day looks more like the only solution for many of us. For the benefit of everyone involved, I think a list of things we should practice now is in order.

1. Showing appreciation is unbecoming, so make sure you don’t do it. Or better yet, let them know it’s not appreciated with every chance you have.

Maybe your kin moved out of his/her big bedroom so that you can enjoy it, and prepared new furniture for your comfort. That was what they were supposed to do anyway.

Say nothing or murmur an inaudible “thanks” when getting breakfast-in-bedroom service as if a knife is placed next to your décolletage and you are saying it against your will.

If he/she thoughtlessly ordered cable TV for you, make sure you throw a temper tantrum because the remote is different and you have to learn the channels anew. How inconvenient it is for you.

2. Show him/her how much you like the home cooked meals by insisting on eating out every other day. Lecture them on how restaurant food is healthy because the customer’s health is indeed the utmost concern of every restaurant owner.

Disregard the excess twenty pounds you are carrying because losing weight is so not in vogue among older people.

Take twenty different supplements daily to counter any claims that you are not eating healthy.

3. While dining out, display your best table etiquette. This includes slurping all things remotely liquid, diving into your food as soon as you are served without regards to others, sticking your fork into other’s plate if the other person is unfortunately served before you, spreading your elbows wide so others won’t get to your food (or get to eat their own food), chewing with half of the food hanging on the side of your mouth, etc.

A little primal insecurity will only do others, especially those you are supposed to nurture, immensely good.

4. You never make a mistake, so insist on it until the sun goes down, or until the cows come home--whichever occurs the latest. Blame others for what you did or didn’t do. Remind them you are not a lunatic if you run out of excuses.

5. Good conversation skills are imperative in old age. Nothing says harmony more when you scorn, jeer, challenge or argue every time you want to say something. Complain about something they love each day, such as a pet. It works like a charm to draw people in. Close yourself off to others so they will stay in different quarter of the house.

6. Honesty is the best policy, especially when interacting with others. Deny, make up stories from mid air, change facts to serve your purpose. Scold others for getting the "facts" wrong. Do all of these to keep them on their toes. This will show them you still have a sharp mind.

7. Doorknobs and handles are for imbeciles. Slam, shut, and bang all you want, but never use them to close things properly. Loud noise makes jumpy people, and thus makes their hearts so much healthier.

8. Frugality serves everyone good, so save a square or two of the toilet paper after your “session” to show them your good sense. This serves especially well when combined with #2 above, because eating out is a great way to save money.

On second thought, maybe a trailer is a much better way to go for you and your family’s mental health concern. Keep in mind that these are in no way any implication of how my mother behaves, because she is perfect--see #4.

Wired

"I need to get into the crawl space. Where's the entrance?”

The goofy “cable guy” said. I thought he was joking. The serious one was already high on the ladder installing the dish while this one loitered around.

“Um, there isn't one.” I replied.

“What's that?” he pointed at the little "windows" at the base of the house and asked.

“Yeah, it looks like there is a crawl space, but you can't get into it.” I assured him.

He looked at me funny, but I put his suspicion to rest firmly: “I've lived here for thirteen years, and I have never seen an entrance to it.”

He went into the house and opened the storage space under the stairs.

"There's the entrance.” He pointed at the floor.

I looked down and, as if appeared solely by magic, a square-shaped dark seam on the floor mocked me with silent cracks.

It's true. You learn something new everyday.

Thank goodness I was small enough to crawl into the storage and pulled most of the stuff out so he could get down there. Then I cleared out the closet so he could climb into the attic and do his job.

I knew that entrance.

All the stuff had to go back to where they belonged and the dust had to be cleaned. These were not in the “cable guys” job descriptions. It would've saved me a lot of grieve had I known what was in store for me.

I was a little tired but excited after cleaning up all the mess. Time to reveal the surprise to mom.

“Look, ma. Now you have nine channels to watch instead of one. Merry Christmas!” I was so proud of myself. Her only activity--watching TV--would be a lot more interesting from now on.

Or so I thought.

I then tried to teach her how to use the new remote, and that was when things went downhill.

There were four buttons with which she needed to get herself familiarize.

On—you turn the TV on with it.

Off—as the name suggested, you turn the TV off with it.

Up—go up a channel.

Down—go down a channel.

Those, and remembering her channels start at 2050.

Simple enough, right?

She tried it a few times and couldn't get it right. She lost her patience promptly and told me she never watched those channels, she wanted her old channel back and to cancel the cable right away.

When will I ever learn? Why did I try to get her a comparable life here when I knew she was not the appreciative type, and would say anything when angry?

Two days later she wanted me to teach her again on the channels. By that time I lost my patience and good wills. I'm paying for the satellite channels, and somebody was going to watch them. She can stick with her one and only channel upstairs.

Unfortunately, She figured out how to switch back to air channels by watching me, and now watches her one channel on the big screen downstairs.

I think she did it just to aggravate me, which probably gave her certain degree of enjoyment, and she was succeeding.

It's amazing how, with the right amount of incentive, whether positive or negative, a person who couldn't do or learn anything can achieve the impossible.

The Long Way Home

“I see lights. That must be San Francisco!” Mom pointed at the window excitedly.


“Ma, it was seven o’clock when we took off, and that was forty minutes ago.” I replied with a finger pointing at my watch. She knew it would be a two-and-half-hour flight.

She looked at me, then the window, then was quiet for a while.

Twenty minutes later, she saw lights again: “That must be San Francisco.”

This is going to be a very long flight, I thought to myself, and it will be the first and last time I am ever going to fly with her.

It was worse than traveling with a kid. At least you could tell the kid to be quiet.

I was a little tired. The day started early, since I woke up at five and couldn’t sleep anymore. There were still a lot to do before we had to leave.

I made five or six garbage runs. Mom’s friends were going to take everything away after we were gone, but I felt bad leaving too much junk, so I wanted to do the best I could to reduce their work.

It didn’t help with mom telling me, as usual, to take a break. I think she said that to make herself feel better, not knowing or caring who was going to finish all the work.

Then I had to cook for her friends who were kind enough to stop by. I cooked the traditional dumplings which, according to mom, was the thing to eat when leaving for a long journey. Thank goodness for frozen food.

It started to snow amid all the actions. I ran to the patio yelling snow, snow!

I was the only one who was so excited. They were probably all sick of the wintry scene.

We had the first unpleasant surprise when we arrived at the airport. The flight was delayed for two hours.

I didn’t buy their reason--weather. I’m from California, okay? We don’t have bad weather there. Find another excuse for your inefficiency.

We did the duty-free shopping. We had coffee. We did the restroom runs. Twice. We had some food. I pushed her wheelchair all over the place. The airline clerk was nowhere to be found, so I decided I didn’t need her. I am my mother’s keeper now.

After we finally sat down in our seats on the plane, but not before we had this near miss roller coaster slide down the tunnel, I heard the flight attendant telling a passenger it was bad weather that caused the long delay.

So much for the great California weather.

Three or four times of proclaiming we were over San Francisco later, mom finally got her wish. We were over the city, only we couldn’t land. There was a thing called air traffic jam and we were in it.

We circled twenty more minutes in the air. Mom complained that the pilot drove too slowly.

To top things off, the traffic on the ground was worse than that in the air. We probably waited half an hour for our ride to drive the two-minute distance from the cell phone area.

It was almost midnight when we reached home. A simple two-hour flight turned into an eleven-hour ordeal.

My little house had never looked nicer, and the licks from my little Yorkie had never felt sweeter before.



(Happy Thanksgiving everyone!)

House of Five Hundred Doors

I know it’s late, but I have some questions that have been bothering me for quite some time, so I figure now is as good as any to ask you a few simple questions.

What‘s that? It’s one o’clock in the morning? Oh, I’m sure you don’t mind. After all, you and your family don’t go to bed that early. Don’t bother to argue. I hear you every night.

First question: why did you spend so much money to install five hundred doors in your unit? Regardless where you originally came from, you have to admit it’s rather peculiar. Every other step one takes in your unit requires a slam of a door. Every night, all night long. It’s obvious nobody in your unit understands how to “close” a door, but only how to shut the door with a bang.

If you don’t know how to properly close a door, I will have to ask you to remove four hundred ninety-nine of them from your unit immediately. You see, there’s only so much door banging one can endure in certain amount of time, and I’m tired of stabbing the ceilings with the mop handle. I will have to fix the ceilings if I damage them, and I won’t like that.

Second question: is everyone in your unit a sumo wrestler? Not only this causes an unpleasant mental image to one’s mind, the echo of your every step ripples through your floors / our ceilings sounds like a kong sounding from afar. And you guys walk a lot. All night, every night. Add this to the banging of the five hundred doors you installed before you moved in, and you have a symphony of beneath-the-penthouse nightmare.

For your own good I suggest you lose weight immediately. If you fall through the ceilings one day from a heart attack, which won’t be far judging from the sound of your steps and the vibration of the walls, I will have to bill you for the repair. I won’t like that either, especially if you’re in a hospital and I‘m risking not having the expenses recovered--if you get my drift.

One more question: is your child half monkey half horse? He/she is obviously very young, judging from the screaming and the little steps he/she takes when running. It may be a lovely sight for you, the parents, to have an undisciplined wild beast racing in the house, screaming while slamming those five hundred doors, but not for your neighbors downstairs. Trust me on this one.

Oh, anoter thing about the kid--going to bed at ten or eleven o’clock is way too late for a child that young. In fact, going to bed at twelve, one, or two o’clock in the morning is way too late for you, too. How you manage to get up in the morning and go to work is beyond me.

I haven’t had a good night sleep in I don’t know how long. My eyes are scratchy dry and my skin is breaking out. The noise coming from above is stressing me to the point that the mop handle feels too weak of a gesture. I’m also getting more wrinkles from lack of sleep and anger. I really don’t like that.

The fact that you live on the top floor may have given you some superiority complex. Here’s a surprise--you still have to be considerate to your neighbors. Paying a little more doesn’t give you the right to forfeit common courtesy. Even a real penthouse dweller like Donald Trump would agree with me. Besides, it’s only a four-story building. You’re not that higher up.

These nuisances may be commonly accepted where you came from. People may not have the right to complain--about anything. It may be the very reason you left that country and sought a better life here. Why else would you uproot your family, travel thousands of miles to a place where nothing is easy and no one is familiar? I get that.

I just have one thing to say to you and all the horn-honking, traffic-cutting mad drivers in this town: don’t make this country a duplicate of that country. There’s a saying (and I’m sure you’re familiar with it) goes something like this: taking off one’s pants to break wind.

It makes your thousand-mile move totally unnecessary if you insist on behaving the old way. You might as well stay where you were in the first place.


(Other than raining one hundred eighty days a year and the few little things mentioned above, it really is a nice little town to live here. No really.)

The Visit - Part 8

(About ten years ago mom went back to her home town and reunited with her remaining family. The temple in the background used to be her elementary school. It has always been a temple.)

I woke up in a quiet house and started bawling. I’m leaving tomorrow and mom will be on her own again. I’m worried sick to think she has to do everything herself in her frail condition. There’s a limit how much friends can help, and mom hates to bother her friends. I can’t move here for a couple of reasons. It’s hard for her to move in with me for a couple of reasons. I felt gutted with no feasible solutions in sight.

We talked about it after mom got up. We both thought the senior home would be the last resort. Moving in with me would be the best way to go. I will go back and get things in order. I may have to sell my house and get a ground level unit to accommodate her mobility issues. I’ll have to think about the financial part of it. I felt a little better.

I made mom practice the buttons on the new radio we bought yesterday. She got frustrated by the buttons last night that she lost temper and wanted to return it. I assured her new gadgets nowadays were all alike--they are getting more and more complicated. Besides, this is the only model they have that plays cassettes. The only thing to do is to be patient (a real challenge for mom) and practice.

I encouraged her to do the exercise recommended by the therapist. She said she’d been exercising for forty years and look at her now. She’d rather die, she said. She does the bicycle pedaling everyday for forty-five minutes, but sits in front of the TV for the rest of the day. The stomach exercise is the most important one--it helps her stand steadily and upright, thus reduces her risk of falling. I’ll have to call her twice a day: once in the morning to remind her about the stomach exercise, over which she will no doubt have a fit, and once before bedtime to check on her.

I counted the capsules and tablets she takes everyday. There are fourteen bottles and about forty pills a day. Only one of them was prescribed by her doctor. All the others are either vitamins or supplements with magical powers. I worried about her vitamin A intake, which exceeded daily allowance by about one thousand eight hundred MCG. She told me she’d been taking it for years, and my worries were complete nonsense. I read all the effects of vitamin A overdose to her. She finally agreed to reduce the dosage by half. Maybe the one about hair loss got her attention.

Mom asked me if there were doctors in my area. I said why no, we use voodoo rituals to cure diseases. Surprisingly, she didn’t get mad. I felt bad for being a smart aleck.

The lawyer turned out to be a disappointment. She neglected to tell us a couple of things, and the fee subsequently increased to over one thousand dollars. Mom said forget it unhappily, then she got up and left. We forgot to ask if we owe the lawyer any fees for the tiny amount of work she had done so far. Mom didn’t think we owe her anything.

I’m still torn by the question of where she should live. The best choice for her is to stay here, but that means I have to somehow find work in her area so I will be readily available to her. I hate making decisions.

* * *

The taxi was a little late. Several times mom wanted to go back and call the company. I didn’t remind her with the fact that she didn’t speak a word of English. I stopped her each time and told her I had hours to kill at the airport, so five minutes was nothing.

She stayed at the building entrance as I ran out in the rain to the taxi. We waved briefly and the taxi pulled her out of my sight. I talked to the driver nonstop so I wouldn’t start crying again. I found out his original country, his educational and work background, and his near future plans.

There are choices to be made and none of them is easy. The best one seems to be for mom to stay in her house and for me to go there. That means I have to give up my life as I knew. Am I ready for it? I lost count of the times I cried during this visit. I will likely lose count of the times we fight over little things if we live together.

The minute houses laid out in neat square patches below the clouds. I looked at the picturesque land below and wondered how much sorrow filled how many houses down there. I used to think the view from the airplane windows were magnificently beautiful. I know now there are untold stories, some gut wrenchingly sad, are being played out as I write.

The Visit - Part 7

We decided to attend the sisterhood worship on Tuesday. More than one person at church told me how impatient and stubborn mom was. I was a little embarrassed at mom’s commenting on people’s age and looks. I guess there’s no other meaningful topics for people over eighty to discuss? But when another woman joined mom and they used the words such as “really ugly” "how shameful” “so appalling” and “why do we hire a cripple (for a minister)” I really wanted to scream. We were in a church for God’s sake!

Mom gets very angry if I say anything about it. She didn’t think there’s anything wrong with it regardless how many times I reminded her. I knew she was upset as the “eleven” lines appeared between her brows. The fact that she uses a cane does not stop her from calling others “cripple.” I’m not sure if I should be angry or laughing.

Lunch was served at church after the sisterhood worship. I got a plate of food for mom. She got soup, dessert, water for herself. When it comes to food mom doesn’t share, wait, or care about others. I think it rooted from her childhood when she first went through famine, then had to eat among bombing and running to shelters. If you didn’t eat fast, you didn’t eat. I don’t understand why she couldn’t outgrow it after sixty years of living in peace time. This is also the reason she couldn’t lose weight. She eats way too fast and too much--as if Japanese soldiers were about to march in any minute now.

I thought we should drive by the senior facility to check out the branch of mom’s bank. She flat out refused it when I mentioned it before church--for no obvious reason. A couple of days before she insisted on there was no such thing; that the one branch she banks with was the only branch they had. Equally, for no obvious reason, she decided to go after church, but not before telling me I didn’t know how to read a map when I was checking the route. She had never been able to read a map or tell directions.

It was a good thing that I apologized to most of her friends about her temper and her verbal assaults, and it was a good thing that they all knew about it and seemed to be pretty understanding. It was an extremely good thing that most of her friends were from the church.

We found the bank and went in to see if they had anybody speaks her language. Thank heavens they did. The drawback is the bank is located on a busy street. Driving and parking may be problematic for her.

If mom doesn’t pass the driver’s test in July, she will have to use her transport card. So far she prefers to stay in her own house, which is completely understandable. Senior housing will be option 2. Me calling her everyday will be essential, and not an option anymore.

A neighbor lives upstairs came check on mom after dinner. She saw mom’s car parked in the same position for days and got worried. She didn’t know I had been driving. Apparently mom’s parking skill is also well known.

The Visit - Part 6

We looked high and low for the house purchase contract and title for the lawyer’s appointment later today. She had a copy in the envelop marked “House purchase papers” but she thought that was the wrong one, so we looked for an hour. Then we were told that that was the paper we needed.

I found a prayer notebook on the bookshelf. Out of curiosity I flipped through it. She wrote down her morning and evening prayers on it. They were for her favorite political party, her health, her temperament, her friends. But among her three children, only my half brother’s name appeared frequently. I didn’t see my name or my sister’s.

I asked her why. She played her senile card and pretended she didn’t know what I was talking about.

I was hurt for an hour or so, then I went into her room where she started writing down things I should do after she passes. I wrote on a piece of paper: “Don’t worry, mom. I will try my best to find my brother and give him whatever you want to give him after you‘re gone. If necessary I will go back to Taiwan to do this. Your daughter.”

She obviously worries a lot about him but doesn’t want to admit it. I figure that’s the least I could do to calm her mind. I’d like to think she still remembers me in her prayers. She just didn’t write it down.

Today is the first day of meal delivery. She called to ask where the food was around 12 o’clock. I told her the window was between 11:00 to 1:00, but she never had any patience and still doesn’t. I was still cooking some spinach when she wolfed down her meal, and asked me to change the delivery to three times a week.

We went and got the doctor to sign the form so she could apply for discount transportation. We also visited the lawyer referred by her friend and the papers will be ready on Wednesday. Another fruitful day.

The Visit - Part 5

It’s the senior’s worship day today (Saturday). I met and greeted a lot of elderly people in church, where everybody knew mom. An elderly gentleman came to chat next to us, who were sitting down. All of a sudden, and to my utter horror, mom reached out and slipped half of her hand into the gentleman’s pant zipper saying, “Hey, you forgot to zip up!” I slapped her hand without thinking and at the same time yelled, “Don’t touch that!”

For a second our roles completely reversed. Not that I ever did what she did when I was a kid.

The gentleman laughed and said not to worry, that he and mom had known each other for a long time. Then he zipped up in front of us. I thought to myself yeah, I’m sure you’ll be happy if anyone wants to touch your “you know what.“ For some reason his hand on mom’s shoulder, while moving and rubbing it, irritated me immensely.

I thought about it some more and I think I know why.

Chinese do not touch. The older ones, that is. Mom barely hugged me when she first saw me in two years. Actually, it was more like she endured my hug to her. He was an old man, so he should know better than that. This was borderline molestation!

Mom made arrangement to meet with a realtor friend at a McDonald after church. I showed my stubborn side by refusing to eat there. We got into our separate cars and went to a different place to eat. I’ll have the word “idiot” tattooed on my forehead before I put any junk food in my body when I’m in a town with fine Chinese cuisine everywhere. Did I mention mom was stubborn, too?

The realtor friend answered some questions we had about mom’s property. I think we need to meet a lawyer on Monday. He will arrange that. Friendship here is often hinged on mutual business interests. He had sold a townhouse to mom during her relocation fever. It’s kind of like the clownfish and the sea anemone.

Highlight of the day: mom commented on how her sixty-eight-year old friend looked younger than me. She must be a very special friend.

The Visit - Part 4

The bather is coming today (Friday). Mom asked me to first cancel it, then to change the time yesterday. I asked for the phone number but she didn’t have it. The bather will call before coming over, which is of course too late to change anything. She couldn’t give me a reason why she wanted to change it though. She decided to bathe herself, so I helped.

We left for the Red Cross before the bather called. I hope she didn’t get worried and call mom’s emergency contact, whoever that may be.

Before we left, we decided to have an argument first. Her “nice temper” made a guest appearance.

“Where’s the 2008 tax return paper?” She asked.
“It’s on the coffee table.” I picked it up and handed her the envelop.
“It’s important paper. I need to give this to Michelle to do my tax this year.”
“Mom, it’s the 2008 tax. It’s already done.”
“How could it be done? I haven’t given her the paper yet.”
“You need to give her 2009 paper to do the tax, not 2008.”
“Nonsense! This is 2010. We do the tax for 2009, so we need the paper from 2008.”
“What? Nooo….” I was baffled by her logic. Did they change the tax rules when I wasn’t paying attention?
“What do you mean no? That’s how it’s done every year!” She was irritated. Her brows were arched high and her look said “you’re an idiot” to me.
“No, you get the 2009…”
“Don’t tell me no!” She refused to listen and raised her voice.
“Mom! This is 2010, you need the income statements from 2009 to do the tax.”

We went through this chronological intrigue several times. Each time she got angrier and louder. Finally she said, “But how can I do the tax? I don’t have the papers!” As if that was the point of our “discussion.”

“That’s why we went to the social services yesterday--to request the duplicates.” How could she not remember? We did this less than 24 hours ago.

She looked at me and, for a second, I thought she was going to argue again, but somehow she decided otherwise. I went inside to change. When I was walking away I heard her murmuring to herself “2009, 2008...?”

Red Cross told us we needed a doctor’s referral to rent a walker. Naturally we didn’t have it. I did get a list where we could purchase one and we decided to get one instead. We found the store and their walkers looked very nice--if “nice” is a proper word to describe walkers. She told the salesman it was too expensive and we left empty handed. I apologized to the salesman, but I couldn’t fault her for being price weary. Truth is, I’m the same way--I see it as a virtue. We went to a discount store and came home with a cheaper walker. I put it together and she tried it out in the house. She seemed happy with it, but it felt sturdy and that was most important.

We looked through her piles of pictures. To some I said yew! I don’t like that person. She lectured me on how we shouldn’t hate, because Christians aren’t supposed to hate. This came from a person who stopped talking to her own brother when he was alive, or to his family who are alive, or to her own two other kids?

Right now I’m tempted to get a job and move here so she doesn’t have to leave her house, or live among strangers. I also know this is the overwhelming emotion I’m experiencing. Getting along will be a challenge in the long run. I probably won’t be able to find work here for quite some time. And just like her, I like my town very much.

On the other hand, how many years does she have left? I may never have a second chance, and the thought of it brings on a feeling that begs for a new word for “awful.”

The Visit - Part 3

We set out to get her missing papers needed for this year’s tax return straighten out by paying a visit to the local social services. I suspect she had received, and misplaced, these papers, but I wasn’t going to argue with her. It would be a lot easier to request duplicates. I got the directions from the internet because she had no clue where it was. We got there and she said she had been there before to get her passport. I said why didn’t you tell me this, she said she didn’t know it was a government’s building.…

We put in the request and went home, but not before making a detour to the Red Cross to rent a walker--she was not supposed to use a cane according to the health consultant. They were closed. Upon finding out they only worked half a day each day, I wondered out loud if I should get a job there.

We tried again to look for the missing 2008 tax returns. She said she put them away with specific care. I think it must be the Murphy’s law. She found a stack of letters from me, dating from my school years. I read in amazement how detailed I wrote her about my life, most of them I have forgotten or would rather forget. It appeared that I have always been a wordy kid on paper. Is that why I have a blog?

There was one in which I complained about how she hurt my feelings with her careless and constant criticism. This was last year when I figured I was finally old enough to tell her how I felt. I regretted sending it right afterwards. Here came the chance for redemption--I threw it away while she wasn‘t looking.

I had just thrown her letters to me out while getting the room ready for her. In my defense, her letters were all very short and non emotional. I saw how she didn’t express positive feelings, verbally or otherwise, was inline with her upbringing. Sometimes I wished she had a different upbringing.

I spotted a big envelop with “08 tax” on it and opened it. Viola! Instead of the regular envelop she has been using for tax papers, she used a different one for this particular year for no particular reason. Mystery solved. I called the health consultant and gave her the information.

The meals delivery services called me back. I set her up for lunch delivery starting next Monday. I think I will get the phone shopping service for her as well. She will get a phone call once a week to get her grocery list, and someone will buy and deliver the grocery to her.

It was a fruitful day. Now we need to make a decision on the facility. Not surprisingly, she’s having second thought.

(I'm visiting my mom to take care of things needed at this time. As a result I have limited time to read or comment on my beloved blogs. All should resume to normal in another week.)

The Visit - Part 2

The next day I called and left a message with the meal delivery service to get things started. She had driven up to a sidewalk once, so it would be in everybody’s interest if she doesn’t drive at all, or as little as possible. Right now she had to go out and eat everyday. She couldn’t stand or lift her arms too long after the fall. Her arms that once could’ve smacked me from here to China are no longer able to lift more than five pounds.

Nobody called back. A friend of hers insisted on treating us lunch. I was surprised to find the quality of food served there was much better than that in my town. Maybe I should move here and find a job here instead. Her friends told me how stubborn and independent mom was. I thanked them repeatedly for taking care of her in my absence. I don’t have such friends. Not that many anyway.

We took care of business at her bank on the third day so if anything happens to her…I avoid thinking any further.

Someone she knew at the bank suggested a senior facility for us to check out. This friend even went so far as to summon her friend, Mr. M, to go with us after work, as his father is a resident there and as luck would have it, Mr. M was going to visit him today. We were excited. Mom liked this town very much and was reluctant to move in with me, who lives nine hundred miles away with no grocery stores in walking distance.

She used guilt trip once to tell me she ‘had no choice but to move here’ to imply it was my fault that she now lived so far away, at which time I had to remind her that she decided to move here to be close to her brother’s family (with whom she no longer talks to) and I actually asked her not to move.

We had lunch and made a visit to the health consultant, who was a very nice and extremely helpful lady. She cleared up a lot of questions for us--namely me, and was glad to hear the bathe assistance was helpful to mom. All we need now is to find her 2008 tax return papers and inform her which facility mom likes the best. She will put mom on the waiting list as soon as she has those information.

Mom’s navigational skills led us to a different city instead of home. I tried to turn back but ended on a different highway instead. We visited my uncle’s grave since we were in the neighborhood, albeit completely accidental. She wasn’t going to take me here when I asked earlier, so I was glad we got lost.

Her grave site was in the same cemetery. A Wang’s family on her right. I found out they were her friends and they bought the lots together. I said some silent monologue to my uncle. The ground was covered with pale pink petals from a nearby cherry tree, and more were flying in the wind, teasing in my hair. Going home was much better this time--this is the only out-of-town route she knows how to travel and find her way home.

The sun was still out at five o’clock but the wind was cutting like cold blades. We waited on the sidewalk for her friend to pick us up to the senior facility. I kept moving so the cold wouldn’t get me. She sat on the stone wall as standing was too much for her. The doctor said she might have Parkinson’s disease, but she doesn’t shake. Her brother, the one we visited earlier, died from the same illness. It doesn’t look good for me.

The facility was a hit. It was clean, spacious, and overlooked a river. About thirty percent of their residents were from her country, so it’s possible she could make friends if she controls her temper. She said she had nice temper. I said no you don’t, and immediately wished I hadn‘t said so. Too late. She got mad and yelled at me.

I looked through the pamphlets for seniors needing assistance after dinner and the tears came out without warning. I cleaned myself up and went back to the pamphlets of walkers, wheelchairs, resource lists and happy pictures of seniors with smiling family members. The tears came out again. A few more times of this and I gave up. I couldn’t read a word through pools of water.

The Visit - Part 1

She sat on the short stone wall by the sidewalk, head bowed and back slumped forward. I waved at her and told the driver to stop. She slowly got up and walked over. With the help of a cane, she approached the cab and raised her cane at the driver.

I panicked for a moment. The deep creases between her brows made her look irritated, and I wasn’t sure if they were from habits or an indication of her mood. Was she going to smash the window with her cane? Was she mad at me for not picking up the phone this morning?

I didn’t have to answer the phone to know the instructions from her:

It’s time to get up! Don’t miss the plane! for the first call and It’s time to leave. The plane isn‘t going to wait for you! for the second call. Apparently I’m still three years old to her.

“Left, left!” she said/yelled.
The driver said, “Should I go up more?” He was intimidated by the cane, too.

I said no and got out of the cab. She strolled over to the side where I was sitting and practically yelled, “This is not the entrance! Tell him to go up more!”

I hugged her and said it’s okay--I traveled light. She calmed down a little, but she wasn’t excited to see me as I had imagined. I got teary eyed on the plane for nothing.

She shrunk a lot. The cane was new to me, and it was hard for me to see. Not that long ago--or so it felt--she was taller and stronger than I was. She wore high heels that I had trouble walking in. Now her head was barely up to my chin, her back perpetually hunched over, and she looked as if she might fall anytime even with a cane. High heels belonged to the dreams of yesteryear. Her body felt small in my arms although she still weighed more than me.

Age had her beat and there was evidence from her head to her toe.

I haven’t been to this house before. She moved about half a dozen times in ten years, twice within the same complex. She had trouble making decision, and it changed easily once it had been made. She packed and unpacked everything herself, and the sore muscles didn’t stop her from doing it again in a year or two. I got tired just from hearing these words: I’m moving--here’s the new address.

I was given a tour in the small house and her complaint of having to throw away tons of stuff. I have a small house, so she had to make the sacrifice if we were going to live together. Besides, they were mostly junk anyway. But I won’t tell her that.

I couldn’t sleep the first night. There were a lot to do, but that wasn’t why I lost sleep.

Little Runaway

The rain stopped falling for three years. The land cracked open like dying fish, waiting in vain with its mouth open. The unforgiving sun soon turned the land into baked broken clay.

Then massive grasshopper clouds landed on the remaining crops, shielding the sun in the sky as they made their descent, and consumed whatever was left on the ground. In a matter of minutes all crops were gone. The farmers stared at their now bare rice paddies, too hungry to cry.

As if that wasn’t enough, a three-month rainfall followed the drought. The ground was saturated with water it felt like sponge when you poked at it. Whatever managed to come out when the rain first started, now died in flooded paddies.

We were a half-merchant, half-farmer family. We had a little food left, but we had to be very careful. The front gate was secured with heavy wooden bolts before each meal. The hungry farmers would rob, or even kill, if they knew we had food left.

“Food” was a loose term to use. We had to mix tree barks with a little rice to make gruel. We ate it slowly. The taste was strange on our tongues, and we waited for the unpleasant consequences. Some would have stomach aches, and others, diarrhea.

My father traveled all over the place as a merchant. He finally told us we should move to another province, where there was no drought or flooded fields. We packed our belongings in as much luggage as our hands could carry, and boarded the train.

The train station was a chaotic mess. People swarmed the place with their families and luggage, shoveling and pushing each other. Japanese soldiers were beating them with their rifles, trying to instill some order. We managed to get on the train and, with all the chaos around us, lost the sight of my father promptly.

Older boys had been sent to another province to study before all this happened. My mother, my younger brother and I stayed at a local resident’s home after searching for my father to no avail. I was playing with a hand-made ball in the courtyard when I heard the conversation. The ball rolled to the base of the wall and rested under an open window. I froze when I realized what was going on.

“It’s so hard to carry on for you--a lone woman with two kids. What are you going to do with a long journey ahead of you?” The landlady said.

“Well, one step at a time I guess.” My mother replied.

“I don’t have girls of my own and can really use some help. Why don’t you leave your daughter here? I promise she will be better off staying here with us.”

“…” My mother didn’t say yes or no, but I could see that she was giving it a mull over - much to my horror.

I ran back to our room and packed everything I had in a cloth wrappage. I slipped out of the house with my little baggage and ran to where the train track was. I remembered which side we got off the train, so in my young mind I determined that if I continued in the direction where the train was heading, I would get to the destination. What that destination would be I hadn't a clue.

Somehow my mother found out that I had run away. She carried my brother and our stuff and started chasing after me, calling my name over and over. I ran faster as soon as I heard her so she wouldn’t catch up - she might trick me into going back and staying with that landlady.

I looked into each and every alley by the train station when I got there, wishing I would see my father in one of those alleys. I was so young that I didn't realize how low the odds were. Wouldn’t you know it? I glanced upon a person when passing one alley, and backed up to see a familiar silhouette. I met the eyes of the person who was also backing up to see me. It was my father!

I ran over to his side and saw that his eyes were all blood shot and swollen. He had been looking for us for days, and thought he had lost us forever. The stress of the trauma probably raised his blood pressure to sky high. By this time my mother had caught up with us. The first thing I told my father was: “Mom was going to sell me off!”

They had a huge fight in the hotel later. My father, unlike his wife, was always partial to us girls, and the idea of selling me to a total stranger, even though it was a harsh time and I didn't really hear the word "sell" or "buy", was beyond his comprehension. He was a very gentle man and I had never seen him losing his temper. My mother usually had her say and he never argued with her much. That was the first time I remembered him raising his voice to anyone.

And that was how we migrated to another province. I never went back to the old house until forty years later.



(My mother’s experience with the drought, famine and runaway when she was a little girl. The tree they consumed, after a little research I did, was elm tree.)

Tip of the Bayonet

"I was flipping the persimmons when I heard the sound of gun shots."

"Gun shots?" Obviously she survived the event, since she was sitting right in front of me. Nevertheless, my eyes couldn't help but enlarge a bit.

"Yes. You know we dried those persimmons, among other things, after the harvest so they would keep throughout the winter." People used to dry fruits, vegetables, and meats to survive the long and cold winter in a country where there was no such convenience as markets in the neighborhood.

I could see it in my minds eye - a little girl squatting by a sea of persimmons being dried in the square atrium surrounded by rooms, turning them one by one. Her cheeks were red from the sun, and her shiny dark hair was braided into two queues hanging down both sides of her face. A piece of red yarn tied them up at the ends.

"I knew it was the Japanese soldiers because grownups had been warning us to run and hide as soon as we heard the gun shots.

So I took off running as fast as I could. I didn't know where to go, and my parents were no where to be seen. I guess they were working. Everyone had to work all the time back in those days. There were no idle hands in anybody's household. I wasn't flipping those persimmons for fun either.

The only grownup I knew who was in the house at the time was a sick aunt. She rested in her room all day long from an illness that I couldn't name. I ran into her room and cried out, 'The Japanese are coming!'

She said, 'Quick! Hide under the bed and be very quiet. Don't make any noise.' I rolled under the bed and squeezed myself against the wall with all my might. I heard the running footsteps coming into the room. I heard someone yelling at my aunt in a language I didn't understand, and my aunt answering in a pleading voice, 'They are not here. The men all fled. There are no men here.' I'm sure she must be gesturing while she pleaded.

Just to make sure she wasn't lying, a soldier swept under the bed with his rifle. I could see a faint shimmer on the tip of the gun - it was a blade. I stayed very still and quiet while watching the blade moving from side to side. The blade passed in front of me a couple of times and missed me by an inch. The soldier finally decided there was nobody under the bed.

There was some more yelling, and then the soldiers left the room. Neither one of us said or did anything for quite a while. Finally my aunt said quietly, 'I think it's okay to come out now.' I crawled out from under the bed and slipped off to find my parents. I don't remember if I thanked her or not, since I was still quite frightened by the experience.

I went back to the old house forty years after I fled the country and, to my astonishment, the aunt who hid me was still living there! I gave her my belated gratitude and asked her if she remembered what had happened that scary day long time ago. She did, but she remembered the event a little differently from me. She said I hid in her bed under the comforter right next to her, and not under the bed. I was a little confused when I heard that."

I was finally able to breathe after she finished the story. She had a shiny reflection in her eyes, and a smile on her lips. I think the aunt's memory was probably failing her. I think if she was hiding in bed next to her aunt, she probably wouldn’t have seen the rifle or the blade.

I thank God the room was dark enough that the soldier didn't see the little girl under the bed. I thank God that she was small enough that the blade missed her. I thank my great aunt for her quick wit - whether she hid her under the bed or under the comforter - that spared my mother from the possibly horrific fate. They both were very lucky.