Liberators

They were polite and courteous young people when they first came to the village. They would borrow either a wok or a cleaver from us, but always returned them promptly after they were done. I felt sorry for them—so young, and already thousands of miles from home. Their garbs were torn, dirty and skimpy.

They called us either “big uncle” or “big auntie,” the way kids in most villages did. We had to go to their meetings organized by some village leader everyday, and I really didn’t mind too much, except I moved with difficulties in the snow. In the meetings they told us our poor days were about to end, and that their "common property party" would liberate us from the evil landlords soon.

We had some land, but I didn’t think we were evil because we had to work very hard to put a roof over our heads and food on our table. There was not a single idle hand in the house. Everything we had we earned it with sweat and back-breaking work. But I didn’t say anything under some villagers’ unfriendly glare. I recognized some of the faces that had refused work we offered in the past.

Often someone from their group would pat my round tummy lightly and ask: “Big auntie, when is the baby due?” and nod with a mysterious smile after I replied. I didn’t think much of it. Kids were naturally curious about such things and were probably too shy to ask.

I was “sitting the month”1 in my bedroom with my new born baby when things came crashing down.

First I heard that a lot more of them were coming to the village. The meetings soon turned ugly. People would shout hateful bouts of slogan against landlords.

Then one day they came and dragged my husband and my father-in-law out. My sister-in-law told me what happened next.

They were forced to kneel down on an outdoor platform with cone-shape paper hats put on their heads that read “landlord” on them. The villagers shouted and threw stones at them all day long. Her hollow eyes reflected the horror she saw. She couldn't shed a tear.

After three days of this torture they died. It was cold, they didn’t have any food or sleep during the three days, and they finally succumbed to the stoning. Nobody was allowed to collect their bodies. They wanted to use them as a warning to others. My mother-in-law and I were crying everyday after hearing this. The most heart wrenching thing was we couldn't even bury them properly.

And then the liberators and the village vagabonds came and occupied most part of the house. The remaining women in the family were crammed into two rooms. They confiscated our food as well. We had meager rations from the liberators while they ate to their hearts' content.

I grieved silently in my bedroom. My husband and his father were honest and hard working men. They didn’t deserve this kind of death. What would be the future of me and my babies? What would happen to the family? In less than a year the invisible hand of a demon choked off our livelihood. Our only fault was being the owner of a piece of farm land.
My mother-in-law and I sneaked out one night to where the bodies were. We took a piece of wood plank with us to carry the bodies. They deserved to be buried instead of being exposed like animals. It was difficult for us to move my father-in-law’s body – we both were bound-foot women, but eventually we managed to move him onto the plank. I had to hush my mother-in-law so her sobs wouldn’t alert anyone.

We dug a grave in the field and buried him. It was hard to dig a deep one since the soil was frozen. I couldn't tell if my tears were from grief or the piercing wind.

We went back to move my husband’s body, and that was when I found out he was still alive. His faint breathing was barely detectable. We were elated. We put him on the plank and dragged him home to my room. It was the only safe place because the liberators wouldn’t enter my room during the first month. We slowly nursed him back to health in a few weeks.

They found out what we did, and told me they would deal with me later.

My mother-in-law told us to leave before the month was up. The liberators would no doubt kill my husband as soon as they could. She would be safe, she said, because she was a woman and didn’t really own the land. We made the difficult decision to do what she said. We didn't know if we would ever see her again.

In a snowy evening when most people were sleeping, my husband, me, my elder daughter left quietly. I wrapped my baby close to my bosom and covered both of us with my cotton quilted jacket. We plunged our feet into the deep snow all night long, avoiding the main roads, and caught a train in the next village. We traveled hundreds of miles to the capital city of the province, where we heard was not controlled by the liberators yet. My husband found a job at the pier as a day laborer to support the family.

I still get a headache when it gets cold, because not only I didn’t get the proper rest after the child birth, but also from the work and long march I did in the snow. But it was nothing comparing to the nightmares I have until this day.2



(1. It was believed women needed to rest 30 days after the child birth, and their rooms were considered unclean for a man to enter. 2. After hearing the story from this elderly woman, I too had recurring nightmares for years.)

Perfect Gentleman

“There’s a delivery for you, my dear.” The receptionist chirped happily over the phone. She thanked her and proceeded to the lobby. It was flowers from her boyfriend, she was sure of that. She didn’t know though, that there would be a forest waiting for her.

“Wow! What’s the occasion?” A co-worker couldn’t hide his awe while she performed a careful balancing act back to her desk. It was both glorious and enormous, and she replied with her eye lashes batting purposefully fast: “Just because.”

He laughed. She sat it down and basted in the warmth of the divine light. She was being loved by a perfect man.

He was doing all the right things. Flowers, calls, “love you”s, pulling chairs and holding hands. There was not a single thing wrong with him. He was perfect, and she was on cloud nine. She thought his shiny head and round silhouette symbolized wisdom and success. After all, he prided himself as a true gentleman. She had finally found the man in her prayers.

She should know, of course, that there was the black hole of "too good to be true" lurking nearby, waiting to devour her. This has to work, she told herself instead. Nobody had ever treated her the way he did. He talked about marriage, moving in, and what closet she could use constantly. The visual of a happy life they would share was so vivid she could taste it.

It started subtly and she didn’t catch on. A casual comment about news event or people they knew caused his uncomfortable silence. The hand holding stopped. The “love you” became scarce. The flowers made their appearance less and less frequent. She ignored them – he must be tired from his work.

One day he called hours after the time he promised, with a resigned voice and a change of plan:

“I’ve been busy…I have Timmy tonight so I have to cancel. Do you want to come over after work instead?”

Timmy was his babysitting duty almost constantly. They spent countless dates as a party of three. Family was important, so she didn’t complain. This time though, she didn’t feel like trading a night out with babysitting again, so she said: “I’m actually a little tired. I think I’ll go home tonight. We can do this another time.”

There was that silence again. He stopped calling for several days. She had his recorded greeting when she called. Her world was lost in a haze, and there was not an echo to answer her when she reached out.

When he finally did call, he said:

“I don’t think this is working out. We are not meshing as we should.”

“What do you mean?” Was he breaking up with her? It felt like a bomb exploded somewhere near her. She couldn’t see a thing.

He was not happy she didn’t go along with his change of plan, and that was what he meant by “not meshing as they should.” He didn’t think she would have a different idea from his.

She explained and explained. No, she wasn’t mad at him. She was just tired. She would be happy to be with him and Timmy otherwise. She understood Timmy was family, and family should come first. Finally he agreed to meet. Things slowly went back to normal.

Only it was never quite normal again.

Every little thing made her nervous now. Did she say something wrong? Was he going to break it up again? The warm basting light had become revealing spotlight that shone on everything she did and said. If she inquired what his thought was, he would answer curtly: “Why? Are you wondering in your fucked up mind if I’m going to break up with you?”

The gentleman strangely disappeared. In its place was an unkind and distant shadow that scared her. Somehow she had transformed from a princess to a beggar, and she hadn’t a clue how she got there.

There was really no other way to respond when he called and said this was not working out, for the second time.

“Okay. When should I come by and get my stuff?” She didn’t miss a beat.

A pause, then he hesitantly added: “It’s not you. I could be too sensitive sometimes…”

“Please. Don't give me the ‘it’s not you’ speech. When will you be home?” her heart shivered as she spoke. She hung up the phone and all strength was drained from her. The soft carpet cradled her curled up body, and time halted to a hush around her for a long while.

She got there an hour before he would be home, and left everything he had ever given her inside of the house. She collected the few things of hers, and left before seeing him.

While she pulled away she had a final glance at the house – the home of the perfect gentleman.

Three Days

"Going to the kitchen after three days
Washing hands before making a soup
Not knowing my in-laws' taste
I ask the little sister to try it first"1

Suey got up before dawn and washed her face in a hurry. She had everything she needed for the morning ready last night, and now she just had to change.

Hoi said softly: “You’re up so early?”

It didn’t sound like a real question though. Farming families rose and rested in harmony with the sun. It was more of his way of saying good morning.

She replied: “Go back to sleep. I think I heard mom in the kitchen…” and out she went.

There was a faint light from the brick stove, and she saw the back of her mother-in-law. She turned and saw Suey standing by the door timidly. With a smile she said:

“Up already?”

“Yes, mom. You’re early.” Suey felt embarrassed that she might give the impression of laziness, but “mom” didn’t seem to be upset. She was also relieved that she had the foresight to put on her darker, plainer clothes made of cotton.

The first thing mom showed her was how to start a fire in the stove. Within minutes her brand new clothes were stained with soot, and her sleeves were used to dab sweat off her forehead. The only comfort was she might have hot water to use the next morning.

She watched and kept the soy milk and rice porridge from being burnt, but the flat bread and pickled side dishes were out of her ability completely. The steamed buns were so complicated to her she just wanted to cry. Her mind was busy making sense of all the steps in preparing those foods, but it was overwhelmingly frustrating that she was on the brink of panic.

Mom seemed to see through her thoughts, and told her: “Don’t worry. You’ll get a handle on it soon enough.”

She didn’t think that day would come, but she didn’t tell mom.

Together they served the breakfast to the men. Some were family – Hoi among them. Some were hired hands. They ate almost all of it before they left for the fields. Harvest was done, but there were wheat to be turned on the flat land waiting to dry, the rice fields needed to be turned upside down before it turned too cold, so the roots would serve as the fertilizer for next year’s planting.

Women in the house would be making mid-day snacks for the men while they worked, then sending it to the fields. There was not a moment to waste. They ate their breakfast after the men left and, after they returned to the kitchen, mom whispered to her:

“Don’t forget to give me your ‘proof’ later.” 2

Her face burned like the fire under the stove. Her husband did the "deed" last night, and she had carefully saved the “proof;” but to think she had to show it to his mother and father was both horrifying and awkward. No matter how gentle Hoi was, he couldn’t save her now. She would have to do this on her own.

“Come. Let me show you how to make noodles as a starter. It’s the simplest task.” Her mom beckoned. She followed her to the corner of the kitchen where the big board was. Hoi’s sister joined them for breakfast, but disappeared to her room afterward. She had the luxury to enjoy life as an unmarried girl, just like Suey before her own wedding.

It felt like a lifetime ago.



(1. An ancient poem describing the mood of a new bride making her first meal. 2. Proof of virginity was required from the bride, or she would be expelled from her husband’s home and deeply shamed.)

Going Home

Suey lifted the flap cautiously to see if the familiar stone road was in sight. Now that she was a married woman, being seen by strangers was not such a taboo anymore. Out of habit, though, she carefully hid her face out of sight. The daily market was over, and people were walking home with fresh produce and meats in their baskets. Just like her, they were going home.

Only she didn't have grocery with her. She turned to see her travel companion, Hoi, her husband of three days. His eyes shined like dark onyx, with a hint of something exciting that made her face warm. She looked away so he wouldn’t find out that she was secretly wanting him. Boldness in a woman was unbecoming.

She had left home on short outings when she was a girl. Her mother had taken her to a temple several times to beg the gods with generous offerings. They failed to perform the miracle her mother had asked them. She remembered first the disappointment, then the bitterness she felt every morning she looked into the mirror.

She had also gone to the temple of the marriage goddess like so many other girls. All the travels were done with her securely tucked away in the covered horse carriage. Other girls from poorer families walked to the temple, but they always had fans or handkerchiefs to cover their faces if any men were around. They prayed feverishly for good husbands, and in exchange they promised to return with more offerings. She remembered how little hopes she had when she prayed. With her cleft lip she was sure the matchmaker would never find a husband for her.

Her bitterness was gone now. Hoi turned out to be better than she had imagined before the wedding. He was kind and a little shy. Although this was only the third day they had been together, she could tell he was not the tyrant she heard from the stories the servants used to tell about their husbands. Sometimes the beatings they described made her wish she could stay at her parent’s house and never marry.

The sound of the horseshoes clacking on the cobblestone told her she was near home. Her heart started beating with happiness. How she had missed her mother and her maids! A part of her wished she had never married, and stayed in the warmth and protection of her parents forever. Her husband extended his hand to help her dismount, and the touch of his hand pulled her back to reality.

The giant stone lions stood on both sides of the gate guarding the mansion looked happy to see her as well. They walked up the steps to the threshold of the main gate, and she could see her parents walking toward the gate to welcome them – the newlyweds. Her tears flooded out without warning, and she collapsed on the stone ground on her knees. Hoi followed her, kneeling to his in-laws and called out: “Mom, dad.” Her father said in a pleasant tone, “Do get up, my son. Do get up.” If he was emotional to see her, he did not let on. She knew he was behaving the way it was expected of a master of the house.

Her mother pulled her up and put her arms around her. She saw her mother's watery eyes and told herself to stop crying. This was supposed to be a happy occasion. Together they walked through the courtyard and arrived at the main hall. A big round table had been set up in the middle of it, and now the father said to the servants, “Tell the kitchen to start serving lunch.” The housekeeper replied, “Yes, master.” and disappeared. The young guests freshened up in the water basins offered by the servants. Suey looked at her mother. Somehow she seemed so familiar and yet different at the same time. Just like the house - it was her home and now it felt like a strange place. She could tell there were many questions her mother wanted to ask her, but couldn’t. She had so many things to tell her mother, too; but she couldn’t.

She and Hoi were seated at the “top seats” that were customarily reserved for distinguished guests. She felt like a complete stranger in her own home. Her siblings and their spouses were there for the happy family event. Knowing what little she knew about men now, she had a difficult time looking at her brothers and her sister-in-laws. She held hands briefly with her maids - the two who were sent home on her wedding night - and refrained from crying by forcing a tearful smile at them. The maids did the same, and they stood behind her for the rest of the meal.

She had dined in the main hall before, during important family gatherings such as New Year, her parents' birthdays, and several festivals every year. Those occasions were always accompanied by banquets in the main hall. She could only imagine what was going through Hoi’s mind. She was sure he had never seen such a house or being treated in such a manner before, but he behaved respectfully so far.

They dined in pleasantries and laughter, with endless dishes served throughout the meal. She had a chance to be with her mother after the meal, when the men stayed in the main hall to talk, and the women retreated to the back quarter. The smaller children all begged, and received, candies from the new bride, and were now playing in the courtyard.

The first question her mother had was:

“Is he being nice to you?”
“Yes, mom. He seems to be a nice man...” She replied shyly. The other women in the room laughed, and her face turned red.

She couldn’t tell her mother how he was taking advantage of the privacy of the horse carriage, and had been caressing her wrists all that time, sometimes venturing up to her upper arms in the sleeves. She knew she should have stopped him – they were, after all, at a public place; but she couldn't and didn't. How could she tell her mother that her body weakened at his touch, or that she enjoyed his caress and wanted more, or that the “big event” her mother warned her about had not happened yet, but she almost looked forward for it to come?

They both were inexperienced in the newly found pleasure of the flesh, and they both were still exploring each other in small steps. Her mother warned her about the intrusive and painful nature of the big event, but she never told her daughter that a man’s hand could ignite her body with such desire that she was terrified by her own yearning for him.

Her mother saw the blushing on her face, and understood more than Suey's simple answer indicated. She held her hand and said gently, “It will be alright.” Suey's anxiety over the inevitable event was somehow eased a little by her mother's soothing voice.

They left shortly so they could reach her in-laws’ house before it turned too dark. She waved to her parents from behind the opening until they disappeared from her view. Hoi held her hand while she wiped away her tears.

She was going back to her husband’s home. It would be her real home from this day on.



(The old custom dictates the newlyweds go back to the bride’s home on the third day of the wedding.)

Marinade of Contentment

Morning woke me with silence and warmth. The blinds glowed softly, tickling my senses with dim grayish light. I tried to recall dreams from last night, but there wasn't any to be summoned. The slumber was as smooth as the silky sheets around me.

Coco curled up in a furry round ball by my feet. She would not rise unless I asked: "Breakfast?" I hugged my companion - the soft pillow - with a lazy sigh and a contented squeeze. My head on its body and my arms around it, I enjoyed the slow retreat of the morning haze, one warm breath at a time.

Everything was quietly resting. Even the birds were snuggling in their nests tucked away deep in the trees. Faint aroma of dinner and spices still lingered in ribbons of air painted by watercolor brushes. Last night was brought back to mind instantly. We didn't have fancy games on a table glistening with silver and crystal to admire, but we had more than enough tasty morsels for our stomachs to expand with joy.

I asked for nothing this year. A wide screen high definition TV given to me earlier was more than I needed for my simple house and lifestyle. I was blessed in more than one way, and perhaps more than I deserved. I still received presents in spite of it. What more could a heart desire?

We missed one or two of our loved ones, but we were happy most of the small family was together. I was thankful for our health, our safety and a year of relative calmness. Perhaps a few bumps in the road, and perhaps we were scarred slightly, but we overcame and were grateful they weren't worse. We look forward to a brand new year with brand new adventures, hopefully with stronger minds from the roads we navigated through the year before.

The kids were sleeping soundly, recovering from a late night of movies, games and chattering. One was under the attack of a cold, and the other snored through the night. Chicken soup had come to the rescue, or at least to the comfort, of both mother and child. The mother would like to feed her child chicken soup everyday if she could, until the ailment was defeated completely. The child had asked for a second bowl of it. A simple "yummy" was the best reward a mother could receive.

The warmth of the bed, the scattered clan under one roof again, and little abundance in our lives made my grateful heart full of joy. This was my happiest day of the year - the morning after Christmas.


(I hope your Christmas was joyful and warm, whether you were with or without your loved ones. Happy New Year to everyone!)

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Girl at the Bus Stop

He walked slowly to the bus stop and sat down on the bench. The sultry summer heat felt like a thick warm blanket wrapped around him. There was no relief anywhere he looked. The shaved ice he just had while visiting his friend had already turned into sweat, and it was eager to escape from his every pore.

Several young girls gathered at the far end of the bench. Their whispers and giggles told him they were talking about him. It was a reaction he had to get used to, along with double takes and pointing. He was, after all, an outsider to them. The tropical island thousands of miles away from home enticed him from the booklet with beautiful pictures, and convinced him to "study abroad." It was a difficult language to master, but he studied hard in the crash course before departure. They would be in shock if they knew he could manage some basic phrases. The thought of it brought a smile to his face.

He turned to see if the bus was in sight, and he saw her.

She had long straight hair, and a clear face with no makeup. Her youthful features would be soiled by the manmade mask. The arched eyebrows asserted to be lively and challenging. Her small lips rested under a cute nose which perked with curiosity. Her dark eyes held behind a mysterious veil he could not describe. A glance from her seemed to see through his emotions, and ask for more. He had to remind himself to breathe. Her skin was perfect, as if life's worries hadn't found their ways to her yet. Her slender body was wrapped in short-sleeve shirt and a simple short black skirt. Her freshness glowed unintentionally. He hadn't seen the like until now, and a cord somewhere in him was plucked.

She came to him, or rather, to the bus stop, and sat down on the bench, maintaining a safe space between them. He moved his body when she turned to inquire the absent bus, trying to get her attention. Her eyes swept over him for a second, but they did not linger. He was a handsome young man by the standards of where he came from, and girls always paid attention to him. This was frustrating, but he was not to be discouraged.

She sensed his gaze, and hid her eyes under her long eyelashes. She hugged her books closer to her body slightly, as if they could protect her from his relentless eyes. His hair reminded her of the cinnamon bars in her mother's kitchen cabinets. His eyes looked at her, but the transparent irises strangely lacked focus, or a definite color. One could almost see through his head and into the unknown. He was not one of them - he was too foreign. She wished he would stop looking at her. What did he want? She could not fathom.

Before he could think of something to say with his simple vocabulary, the bus arrived. The group of girls swarmed to the door and shoved each other to get on. She watched from a few steps back, but did not join the battle. He quickly walked over and blocked the door with his arm, then turned to look at her. All the other girls turned and looked at her as well. It was clear what he wanted, and it was too much staring for her to endure. She lowered her head and got on the bus, whispering a soft "thank you."

His boldness terrified her. She walked to the last row hoping to avoid him. He followed her and sat down next to her, blocking her way out. She had a moment of panic, but did not let it show. She answered his questions with either a nod or a shake of her head, speaking only a word or two when absolutely necessary. He did his best to start a conversation, but clearly she was not used to talking to a stranger. He could not tell how fast her heart was beating, but gradually he sensed he was not going to have a cooperate companion for conversation, much less anything else.

She stood up after what seemed to him a very short ride, and reluctantly he moved to let her pass. She got off the bus and stole a look back, relieved to be free of his spell. He watched her silky hair flow like the wings of a butterfly when the bus pulled away. With a silent sigh he lost sight of her silhouette.

Another time or another place, the encounter would be much different. Where is she now and how is her life? He sometimes wonders, but the quiet night thousands of miles away provides no answers.
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First Night

She woke up from a deep slumber. The room was still dark, and for a while she didn’t know where she was. She realized with a shock that this was not her room, and was awake completely.

The night before was long, noisy and utterly embarrassing. The boys stayed well beyond midnight with their endless teasing, game playing, and drinking. She was forced to have a sip, and her face turned red immediately upon swallowing the burning liquid. They laughed and let her off the hook. She thought she caught a glance of her husband, who stole a look at her shyly while the boys laughed. He was a nice looking young man. Her face felt warm at her own thought.

She sat up cautiously in bed and peeked at the other end of the bed. He was still sound asleep. The fact that there was a stranger sleeping next to him, although not face-to-face, and he didn't seem to mind was a little odd to her. She was so nervous when he came to bed last night she thought she was going to faint. Her heartbeats calmed down when the only thing he did was to fall asleep as soon as he lied down. Her mother vaguely explained to her what might happen during the first night, which sounded much like a torture to her. She was relieved it did not happen last night.

But then, he must have been exhausted, too. The boys would come back again tonight, to perform another customary "havocking the new room" for the newlyweds. Only heaven knew what they had planned to do. Last night, for one of the tricks, they forced her husband to traverse a handkerchief up one of her sleeves, across her bosom (her face was as red as the persimmons!) and down the other sleeve inside of her garment. The sheer embarrassment of it! No men had ever touched her in her life except her father, and he stopped hugging her when she turned 16. Her husband's touch sent an electric wave to her entire body. The feeling was so foreign and so exciting that she almost wished it would happen again tonight.

Her face felt warmer at this thought.

She told herself she had better get up and get ready. Her mother had told her: always get up before your husband does.

Her maids were sent home last night by her mother-in-law after the banquet, which she did not attend by custom. Her mother-in-law had made it clear: no daughter-in-law of hers would have any servants. They cried when they came to say goodbye. She was in shock and did not have any tears. She grew up with two of the maids her parents sent with her as part of the dowry. They were her only friends outside of family members, since girls from good families were not supposed to go outside or be seen by strangers.

She was left alone in a stranger's house, and she knew her days of being a treasured daughter had officially ended.

She opened the door quietly and walked to the other side of the courtyard where the kitchen was. She tried to get some hot water, but starting a fire in the brick stove proved to be too difficult of a task for her. The ceremonial lectures from her mother did not mention the details of the work normally performed by servants. The courtyard was quiet and dim before dawn, so nobody saw her predicament. She did not have to cook for the first three days, but the honeymoon would end there. Her husband was the first born; therefore his wife would bear much of the housework.

She did not understand why she couldn't keep the maids, as they could lighten the workload for everybody. They would not increase the expense for the family either, as she had her own money. She did not ask, for she was not in a position to make any decisions.

Yet.

She carried some cold water back to the new room. The fine china water bowl and jug were set up by her maids last night. All of a sudden tears appeared in her eyes now she thought of her companions, and felt very lonely standing in this unfamiliar room.

Her husband woke up just when she finished washing her face, getting dressed, and styling her hair into a simple bun – a style indicated her marrital status. She helped him get ready for the day in silence, both felt awkward being alone in the bedroom. Much to her relief, he did not seem to mind her imperfection. He had a gentle tone when he spoke. She took it as a sign of having a kind temperament. She thanked her parents and the goddess of marriage silently.

They would greet the parents with three koutous in the main hall, and the four of them would then go to the family’s shrine to present the bride to the ancestors, with incense and another three koutous, and ask for their blessings - the parents standing in front, she and her husband behind them. She then would become a formal member of the family.

Relatives and neighbors would come and congratulate the newlyweds all day long, followed by their boys proceeding with the second round of teasing at night. It was meant for good omen for the new couple, and they would do this for three nights straight. The more they teased, the better the marriage would be.

The night might require all her strength to endure, but comparing to what was waiting for her in the future, it was just a dress rehearsal.
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Dowry

The day started very early. She bathed with fruits and herbs soaked in hot water to rid any evil spirits. She then put on brand new undershirt and skirt, and waited for her aunt to come and comb her hair. She would comb her hair with the jade comb four times, each stroke with a different symbol and blessing for her future.

First combing: From beginning until end
Second combing: Harmony to old age
Third combing: Sons and grandsons all over the place
Forth combing: Good wealth and long-lasting marriage

After that, her maid would style her hair to a fashion that would accommodate the headdress later.

She was marrying down to a family with a lower status. She never met her future husband. Parents of both families arranged everything with the help of a matchmaker. She had spent the past six months preparing her dowry once the proposal was accepted by her father. She made all the bedroom linens with embroidered dragon and phoenix on them. She made all the clothes she and her future husband could possibly wear for the next ten years. It was a lot of work, but it wasn’t hard. She knew needlework since a very young age. She also had to learn how to cook. Not that she needed to – her two maids were going with her. But she learned it as a basic skill any brides should know.

And everyday, her mother would give her advice and lessons on how to be a good wife, and an obdient daughter-in-law. She could sense the sadness in her mother grew stronger as the wedding day drew closer.

It was time to leave. She had the red gown and the red headdress on a while ago. Now the maid put a red veil over her headdress to cover her face. It would be removed by her husband when they were alone in their “new room” later. The procession of the dowry started a while ago. It was required by the custom, and it was copious because of her lineage. Her father was the descendant of Confucius, the most respected scholar in history. Her husband’s family was related to the Mencius clan, the second most respected scholar in history, by marriage. In a way it was a perfect match, and she should feel grateful that she was being married off. After all, she was considered a girl with a serious flaw.

Her mother whispered some last minute advice before she boarded the red sedan. She cried silently under the veil, for the future was foggy and scary. She wouldn’t be able to see her parents often. She would be alone in a stranger’s house. Her mother was crying as well. How was the husband going to treat her? Were her in-laws going to like her? She was out of her protective arms now.

It seemed that the whole village came out to see the procession. This was not a common marriage between two ordinary families. Both families, especially the bride’s side, held high esteem and were well regarded in the village. They were educated people who used to hold government official positions. The wealth might have been declining in the past hundred years or so, but the status was still there.

The dowry carriers formed a line as long as a mile following the musicians. Men on horses guarded the procession on both sides. The linens she made occupied about ten trunks, each carried by two hired hands. Silk cloths occupied another ten, some were brocade and some were plain. There were clothing materials for the whole future family for the next ten years or more. Jade and marble vases, bowls, and ornaments for the house stored in several trunks. There was a trunk full of coins in gold, silver and copper for her to use, so she didn’t have to ask her husband or her in-laws for money. Everything she needed for her future married life was provided by her family; including the satin pieces used to clean herself after daily bath chamber routine.

All these were unheard of and unseen by the villagers before. They watched in awe and appreciation. It was a rare glimpse into a prominent family. The bride sat silently in the sedan. Occasionally a word or two would escape the music and the crowd, and reach her ears. She wondered if the villagers knew about her, and if they had guessed the real meaning behind the bountiful dowry that came with her.

What would they think if they knew? What would her husband think when he saw her? She wished many times that she could forfeit beauty in exchange of flawlessness – she was otherwise a pretty girl. She knew she was different, and she knew she was damaged in the worst sense for a girl.

Her parents knew it as well, so they did not bind her feet. They anticipated that she would have to marry into a lesser family – if she could be married off - and would probably have to do physical work. Girls from rich families all had their feet bound since tender age. They never had to work, and would always be married to other wealthy families. In fact, they couldn’t even walk without being helped.

The abundance of the dowry had a secondary, not so obvious meaning. They were apologizing for her parents. They were saying to her in-laws: “Thank you for taking our daughter. She is flawed and unworthy, and is lucky that you accepted her to your family.” Her future husband’s family had some land, but also was some kind of merchant. It was considered a lower profession than a scholastic pursuit. It probably took the matchmaker some time to find a family that would accept her.

It really wasn’t anybody’s fault, and there was nothing could be done. She was born with a mild form of cleft lip.

She crossed the threshold, helped by her maids, and walked into a smaller, simpler courtyard than the one of her parents, and began her unknown future as a wife.



(My grandmother’s wedding)

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.)

From Me to You!

Sarah is a young and aspiring writer who's still going to college. I'm honored to know that she thought my writing is worthy of passing on the "From Me to You" award. She may be young, but her writing shows great style and stands out among her peer. Thank you, Sarah!

I found the Coffee Shop in August, and timidly started joining the conversation. Much to my relief, I found people in the shop friendly, fun and encouraging. I was instantly hooked. I only had a handful of posts back then and they were pretty immature, but one person was kind enough to not only read them, but also took the time to comment. His comments to a person who didn't know what she was doing were the lifeline a blogger needed. So I carried on. I tried to write better. I didn't want to disappoint my "reader." The fact that I had one reader was enough to keep me going.

His name was Mr. Bob. By now you all know that he's always kind and tolerant and humorous. I visited his blog many times because I wanted to find out what kind of writer he was, and each time I ran away as soon as I got there. What in the world is he talking about? What kind of language is that? It looked like English, but I didn't understand a word of it.

I finally got used to his style and language, and it's a good thing I did. His stories are so funny you will find yourself ROFL, like the bloggers would say. I thought he was just a happy-go-lucky guy, until one day I read this post and was left speechless. Anybody who went through that kind of trauma and didn't resolve to traversing on a self-destructive path is a hero. To be kind and warm and encouraging to others after such trauma is divine. He survived the demon in more than one form. So I want to dedicate this award to him as the honorary recipient.

His self description is:

I enjoy everbody, and love every comment left here, they are truly treasured. I am not computer geeky, learned, or proficent, so please forgive me, if you find something here that doesn't make sense to you. if you want I am always open to your ideas and suggestions. If you have arrived at this site it probably was not by accident.

thanks for stopping by, and just keep on laffin. plainolebob

He started the Hot Dawg Friday, where each Friday he gives out the award to five people--a lot of them new bloggers. It takes a lot of work to get that done. I know because I have trouble just doing it once in a while. That's just Bob--always encouraging others to carry on.

Bob, you are such an inspiration to so many people. I am honored to have known you. You don't need to pass it on, write a thank you post, or anything the like. I just wanted to tell you how much you are appreciated.


It's a great pleasure to pass this award to these delightful writers. There are more great blogs out there than I have space to mention them here. You know who you are. You all have beautiful awards to bear witness. But to continue in Mr. Bob's style, I would like to acknowledge these fairly new blogs. Please pay them a visit. I guarantee you won’t be disappointed.

http://buttsandashes.blogspot.com/

Dealing with elder care, death, and family members in such a humorous way you will laugh your troubles away. Her blog description is simple: Loving Someone From End To End. And that's what she did.

http://lesleymopolitics.blogspot.com/

You may not agree with her political stand, but her writing is witty and to the point. To quote her own words:
I'm a liberal Christian Texas Democrat. A living, walking oxymoron. With plenty of reasons to rant.

http://ubergrumpy.blogspot.com/

An Englishman’s sarcasm written in fine forms. He always has beautiful picture to go with the story if you're not big on reading.

http://wwwaphorismscom.blogspot.com/

One single post can generate 114 comments. Need I say more? He has a good amount of followers, but I have yet to see this kind of response on other blogs. His one-setence aphorisms make you look at things in life from a completely different angle.

http://burbsbuckandbuntlineinn.blogspot.com/

Ms. Burb’s energy in the coffee shop can blow your derriere off your chair, and laugh all the way down. Her blog is all about murder and such. You might not want to read it before bedtime. There is a disclaimer at the bottom of her blog that states in the spirit of Ms. Burb:
The half-cocked views of the Authors of B3 may not necessarily be the views of those Authors when they're sober...so don't hold anything against us, okay?!!

There is also a catch of seven things you have to share. I will not bore you with a repeat. If you are curious here's the link:

http://thegoodgirls.blogspot.com/2009/10/seven-things.html

Congratulations to all!
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