my tribute to Papa

A legacy of a good name

My first memory of my dad was when I was perhaps knee high.

picture credit
@FOTOSEARCH

The image etched in my mind to this day is Papa holding my hand as we walked on a cattle guard crossing leading to our small town's shops. My short arm was held straight up as we walked on that parallel row of round metal rods. My vivid memory was through the eyes of a child who remembered her father in his trademark white shirt and dark long parts, towering besides her; clasping her tiny hand while looking straight ahead.

a cattle guard crossing which I saw recently,
it brought back warm memories of my papa

The last memory I have of my dear Papa was our taxi ride together from one of my sisters' home in a small town to another sister's home in the city. By then, I was already in my early twenties and working; but at that time, living for a little while with a group of church friends.

The taxi dropped me off at where I was staying and that was the final time I saw my father alive, as the taxi continued on its way to my sister's place. It was a Friday.

On Sunday, I received news that Papa had passed away due to heart failure. It was a sudden and devastating loss for me and for all of us. He was 81 years old.

That final ride with him would not have taken place if I had left my sister's house on Thursday as planned. Papa was sitting on a chair on sister's house verandah when he saw me with my overnight bag. He asked, "Are you going back today? Why not with me tomorrow?". On hindsight, my response as most young people would, could have been... "oh no I can't, I have stuff to do..." But I did not, and to this day I am thankful I am not living with the regret of denying my dad's last request which now seems to me rather odd. There is no regret because I simply replied that yes, I will go back with him the next day. That request was unlike his usual self and my non-hesitant response was also unlike the young me.

I have wondered since, did my dad know his health was deteriorating? Was that extra night at my sister's and about forty minutes taxi ride together with me meant a lot for Papa? Was it urgent for him to spend time with his children in nearby places before he went back to the small town where Mom and our family home were and where he had passed away (in the small hospital)? I do not know but I think it was, because his children were important to him. 

Papa became father for the twelfth time when I was born and by then, he was already almost sixty. He was a widower with four children when he married Mom with whom he had eight more children.

Growing up, my siblings and I could not comprehend our dad's paranoia with us being anywhere near the sea or river and going swimming, boating, fishing....he did not allow anyone of us near such, no matter how old we were. I must confess now that we had still gone ahead to do these without either of our parents' permission and knowledge; for we were too young to grasp their pain when Mom's first born and Dad's fifth child drowned at age 8 or so.

It was a part of our family history; we grew up hearing about the tragedy which happened when most of us were not even born yet. All we knew from Mom was, Papa went through a period of what I understand now to be utter sadness and perhaps depression too. He did nothing for a while, maybe for a month; did not shave, hardly moved from his bed, nothing...his little girl had died and he could not come to terms with it. 

We did not understand then but we do now.

Thank God, he did get out of that emotional pit although, when the rest of us came along, I believe he was already scarred and unable to bear the thought of loosing another child to a watery death, and so the restrictions. 

Papa was a good father. He had a stern look but was loving and caring. It was Mom who sometimes gave me a caning when it was required; not him, never him, in spite of his stern face.

One of the things I liked doing for him was to boil water to prepare his warm bath using a large basin in the bathroom. I would then called out to him in simple Chinese that it was ready. Mom and us siblings communicated in Malay with each other but with our dad, we spoke more Chinese Hakka (and mine was barely enough to get by then!)

He and Mom worked hard to bring us up. He was a businessman doing different things at different times; and Mom partnered with him in all these. There were times when both of them were away on outstation business trips and I was looked after by my older siblings. Our house was on open land with a little stream and fruit trees around, so there was much to occupy my days besides school, but I remember missing them much each time.

Papa was also Kapitan Cina (the Chinese Association leader or something like a village head) of our small town for as long as I could remember until the day he passed away. There were always people coming in and out of our family home as I was growing up. People who had disputes (marital or otherwise) or whatever that needed to be settled by him. He had been awarded several medals, notably from the British Empire and especially the Justice of Peace (JP) award which gave him the authority to do that.

One of Papa's strong traits was his punctuality. In fact, he was way better than just being punctual. He was up and ready, fully dressed, at least a couple of hours before anything (!) and just waited until the time of the appointment. To him, it was rude to let others wait. He would rather be the one waiting. A few of his older children are similarly like him in this.

My Papa was also a man of integrity, an honest man. It had been said of him; he would not cheat or take advantage of anyone or use his connections for favours. In fact, he had himself been taken advantage of by others. In spite of his position and business, we were not wealthy but thankfully, had enough, although there had been some pretty lean times too. Young as I was then, I had to help out as well when we went through those rough patches... experiences that have been definitely good for me.

I am proud of my dad for being who he was and what he did in his lifetime. There is a street in our home town that was named after him. To me, this is a gesture of recognition of his contributions towards that community. At his funeral, many of the town folks came to our family home to pay their last respects to my father, as well as the Chinese school's children and the then principal with whom he was close to.

If our Mom had left behind for her family, a legacy of love (click link here), our Papa had left for us a legacy of a good name, and that I know is far better than all the money in the world...

"A good name is more desirable than great riches, to be esteemed is better than silver or gold." (Proverbs 22:1)

I am thankful to God to be the daughter of this man I had called Papa and thankful for his legacy. I miss him still. This is my simple tribute and gratitude as a lasting one for posterity.

my tribute to Mama

Mother's Day is a bittersweet time for me. The year I became a mother was the year I lost mine. This particular day is at once, both joyful and poignant. My going on 19 years old son was still in my womb when my mom left us because of sickness.

I miss her so much still. The feeling does not get any less and the memories of her have not faded away even with the passing of years. I wish she had lived long enough for my son to meet and get to know her. Because I know he would have enjoyed the person that she was as much as I had. But God knows the number of our days and hers was a good 78 years.

My mom left behind for her family, a legacy of love. Those were the four words someone had said to me at her funeral and it spoke a lot about who she was as a person. She loved and had been loved, not just by her family but by other people. It was not enough that she had children and grand children of her own, she had also accepted several others who had asked to be her foster children. What an amazing lady my mom was! They must have seen in her something that drew them close.

Her last born, I grew up surrounded by her care and concern (my late dad was also like that towards me). And that did not end with me starting life as a working adult and later, as a married woman and until the last weeks of her life when she knew I was carrying her youngest grandchild.

I was very close to my mother. It was easy to share with her my feelings. Her hugs were warm, with arms opened wide to embrace me with a kiss on my cheek when I got home from work. She would stand at the kitchen door, this tall, large smiling pretty lady with dimples, happy to see me, just as I her; and a hot bowl of whatever she was cooking that day already waiting on the table for me to consume. Oh, mom, I miss you so as I write this!

If I happened to sleep next to her and sometimes, yes on mattresses in the living room because of watching TV together (!); I would feel her warm hands caressing my face as I slept.

Her neigbours were her friends and she was generous with them. Our family home in a small town was surrounded by neigbours of a different race and culture and she was especially good buddy with one beetle nut chewing lady living on a small hill across our home. Mom was often teased by us for using her loud booming voice whenever she wanted to call her friend to join her for food or to take something home.

When Mom moved down to stay with us in the city, it was the same. Neigbours were friends. If I did not see her at home, I knew where to look, especially if I wanted to take her out during the weekend. She was out of the neighbour's house in a jiffy when I came looking for her. We just loved going out together, for dim sum breakfast or even just to the supermarket to window shop and simply just to get a bag of sweets to share together.

That was the kind of mother I had.

She was a really fun person to be with.  A person who did not want to admit to old age or perhaps she just did not feel old. A daring one who thought she could still jump across a drain without falling down and injuring herself. A forever young at heart lady who preferred to be with younger people rather than those her own age. An adventurous one who loved to travel and who at one time, had gone on her own to seek out food at night stalls in Hong Kong without letting the frantic tour guide know. I could go on and on recalling all that I knew of this wonderful lady I am grateful to God to have been able to call my mother, my dear mama. 

She had indeed left a legacy of love for me - to remember and to now show to my son. I love my son the way my mom had loved me. I hope my hugs are as warm and as comforting as hers were, and my caressing of his face and kisses on his forehead, tells of a mother's love. And I want him to know I will be there for him, always, as my mother was for me.

This is my tribute to my mom as I seek to become a good mother to my son.

The word of the Lord that came to me on the night just before Mom went home to Him was from Job chapter 1 verse 21.

"The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away, blessed be the name of the Lord"