Probably the earliest memory I have of my father was when we were in a shop opposite the market in our small hometown. The shop is part of a terrace of small shophouses facing a rather oblong-shaped market and, behind it is a light brown, narrow river. It is the river that we would occasionally cross by a small boat during one or two special trips in a year: the one I remember was when we were going over to the other side to shop for our clothes for the upcoming festive season.
There was a bus "station" separating the shops and the market. Well, it is not really a "station", as the buses would be lining on the one-way road, giving just enough width for a car to pass through. There were not that many cars passing through that road anyway (to start with, there were not that many cars then!) except for the taxis (a taxi "station" was located on the other side of the market).
There was no purpose-built shelter or signage, passengers would normally be standing at the front of the shops waiting for their buses. In any case, there was no more than two buses at any one time. One would be a faster, yellow bus plying through the then new road between the town and the district capital, and another is a blue bus which goes to the same destination but through an older route, and stops more as it passes through many villages along the route. There was a makeshift fruit stall in the corridor opposite one of the convenient shop that sells sweets, biscuits and drinks among other things. The shop we were in was only several feet away from this place.
That was before 1982. I could not remember the year we were in the shop but I was not in school yet (I was quite fortunate to only start formal school at seven. There was no kindergarten in the village when I was five and six, it was only available one or two years later. By then I was old enough to be in primary school).
Mother was also there I remember. We must have gone there by my father's motorbike. As I don't remember the 2-miles journey and for what it was for, I guess I was sitting in front or in the middle during the journey between our home in the village and the town centre.
I was crying very loudly. I guess it wasn't not me at all! Years later, as I was reading
The Secret Garden, I could only smile and relate to the behaviour (or rather lack of) of the "crippled" young boy who Mary had to deal with as she moved in from India.
There in a glass cabinet was a yellow, shiny huge Volkswagen Beetle. It must have been love in the first sight! It was such a wonderful piece with particular attention to details, the body must have been made from solid steel applied with paint of high quality. I must have thrown quite a bit of tantrum, but I didn't get the car. Not that car. I remember having a red car with a sturdy steel body but it was a lot smaller than the Beetle. That must have been the replacement my parent bought for me, I can only guess.
One other day, father returned home and brought two "butterfly", one for my sister and the other one, for me. It is not a real butterfly but it could really fly! I remember enjoying every seconds playing with it. There was a mechanism I thought it must be through some mechanical means as it didn't use a battery. It was really clever.
Father was a great fan of animals I must say. Once, he reared rabbits. There was a small wooden den to house those white rabbits in front of our house. There was this particular type of leaf that the rabbits eat and father would search for the leaves in one part of the village until he could grow the plant in our own yard.
Before long, we have a big family of rabbits. The wooden den was no longer sufficient to house all of them. It was then decided to move them to bigger place. It was to be on the ground where there is a small
busut with metal wires as fence surrounding it. On the ground, there were holes everywhere. It was only then I knew that rabbits enjoy digging holes on the ground and probably create a cosy room underground. Once in a while there would be missing rabbit as he (or she!) decides to venture to new places in the neigbourhood.
At the back of our house about five minutes walk away, there is a huge man-made pond originally designed to rear fresh water fish. There is a rectangular well next to it for our water supply in a few dry years when the well next to the kitchen dried up and could not pump water for the household. The pond was one of his dreams I think but it didn't take off too well. We still have the pond today except that it is now probably grown with all sorts of wild plants and the water level must have gone down considerably. I remember enjoying a ride in a small wooden
sampan in the pond with my siblings.
One of his more successful ventures is the cocoa plantation on the vast piece of land we have behind our house. He lived to see the fruits of his labour except that the yield wasn't probably the best, but I think it is not too bad considering that cocoa was only introduced then in the country to help farmers in the rural areas. It was a small scale project to make use of the land that we have. I was quite excited when I first knew about having cocoa on our own backyard, thinking of delicious chocolate only to be dissappointed to see cocoa bean does not have the slightest look and smell of chocolate!
A few years earlier, father grew a variety of vegetables. The yield was so good I remember we could put up the vegetables at various shops in the village.
In addition to cocoa, father grew considerable varieties of fruit trees in the piece of land that we have, mostly behind the house but we also have a number by the sides. I am not sure whether the mix of plants we have on the land could have contributed to the yield of any particular fruit tree. The best reward must be the huge yearly produce of one of the fruit,
dokong that exceeds the "demand" of our big family unfortunately this reward comes only after father is no longer around. In a good year, we can also sell the fruit to generate some income. Not that we need that extra income now as much as we need twenty, thirty or forty years ago.
Father didn't watch much tv however he was a fan of world news. During those years, there was only one tv channel offering dedicated programme for world news and that was aired quite late at night. Occassionaly he would also watch American movie. I remember watching movie with him once in a while.
I stayed at home for the first twelve years of my life however there was only six years or less that can bring my memory of him while we lived together. At twelve I left home for boarding school therefore there was less opportunity to get to know each other.
The last time I saw him was on one hot afternoon in 1996, possibly in September as he was sitting on the wooden bench in front of the house. I was leaving after a few months of holiday break. I was waving to him from inside a car as we leave the front yard.
There is one gift I treasured most from my father, and that was for giving me my name, even though it might not be at all intentional. It may sounds strange, but that is probably the best gift of all.