Family; Chinese New Year Day 1

Family is a 3 syllable word, I don't often utter.  As a child, my family, fell apart.

We moved into Popo's house at the end of 1980.  I spent the next 8 years, waiting very impatiently to grow up, and to get out.

In the summer of 1989, I peered from my window seat, down at the Pacific Ocean, the mountains grandly defining California, and felt a immense sense of comfort.  I thought, finally, finally- Home.

My father was so horrified when I made the decision to marry my blind date and relocate back to Singapore, he actually called me in NYC to chastise me.  I held the phone away from my face.  I thought- You don't know, what it is like, to be ravished.

Today we visited him.  His was the 3rd house before lunch.  I allocated 30  minutes.  My brother has two young children.  We offer each other, back up.

Popo is almost 100.  Her memory is at times fragile.  But today, she displayed her grit and cheekiness.  A cousin that lives far away calls, long distance.  Popo pretended she did not know her.  She kept repeating in an old woman's voice- Who are you, who are you, even as she looked at me with a gleeful, girlish, wink.

Malay is the dialect we speak at Popo's.  Makan sini, nanti, adar- Eat here, wait, there is.

At my husband's, they laugh in Hokkien.

I laugh along.  I am that hot and that jet lagged.

My husband explains that Ah Kor means Older Aunt in the appropriate respectful tone.  We sit at Ah Kor's  table, eat kueh lapis, listen to her play the piano.  I love Ah kor's house; a sensitive expression of tropical living.  Her eldest son tells me, Ah Kor's truest love is music.  My Fil, her younger brother adds, but Mama insisted that we all do medicine.

Family is a 3 syllable word, I don't often utter.  As a child, my family fell apart.

Oh but Chinese New Year at Popo's house!  The hong baos, the food, and the annual new clothes!

Time passed. We grew up.  Popo has great grandchildren and has outlived even a son.

Chans, Yeohs, Chews, Kohs, a Wong, another Wong.  Strangers linked by the precarious ties of marriage, by the firmer ties of blood.

And at the heart of it all, Popo, radiant- still here, still here.  

She's Still Here.

Reunion Dinner

I've been traveling since last Friday.

Bruno and I went to see Summie over exeat weekend.  On Saturday, there was a brief, furious hail storm.  At night, she cupped my face and whispered, Mom?  I'm really happy you are here in the UK.

Tuesday I made it on board SQ 319, right in the nick of time.  Eight hours into the journey, the air hostess serving me tells me I am the most polite passenger she's ever served.  Fourteen hours later, I am in Singapore.  The sky is too bright a blue, the heat has ferocity, and of course the taxi driver attempts ripping me off.  Note to self- cashmere tights betray alien status.

Yesterday was New Year's Eve.  A New Year's Eve ritual is The Haircut.  I was thinking, off balance, edgy.  By the time Reunion Dinner was served, the heat from the steamboat reshaped my locks.  Ah, my $160 haircut now looks like a coconut.  Sweet!

Every smart girl knows, that a Chinese daughter-in-law has no worth.  So to survive Reunion Dinner, and Chan Clan Lunch over the last 18 years, I have mastered The Art of Smiling & Nodding, Smiling & Nodding.

But at last night's dinner, I didn't have to exercise my grasp of Smiling & Nodding!  I actually had an enjoyable time!  Perhaps too much time has passed.  I'm more familiar with the Chans, and the Chews.  There is a new baby present.  The sweet, young cousin gifts us with home-made pineapple tarts, Mil is in a good mood, and Angel the Beloved who nearly died last Chinese New Year, celebrates with us.

Off to Reunion Dinner

Across the island, my cousin B has prepared a Peranakan Feast.  Some of the traditional foods Popo unfailingly made during our growing up years, are dextrously re-created by her.

I sit at Mil's table and think of the spread in front of me, so different from the spread at Popo's house. At Popo's house...

Ayam Buah Keluak!

Chap Chai!

Itek Sio!

(* All of the above photographs belong to Cousin B)

Mil makes Claypot Rice, Soup, and delicate dumplings with a Hokkien Name that her mother used to make.

On my fourth bowl of soup, I wished someone had informed me, that when you marry especially a very traditional Chinese man, you truly end up marrying his family as well.

The people at the dinner table yesterday were once strangers.  They eat different foods, like different things.  They speak a Chinese dialect I do not understand.  But as the lo hei is tossed, wine consumed and as we helped each other dish out more soup, more meat, more vegetables, there was a sense of warmth and camaraderie.  Nothing felt forced last night.  And I felt, immensely grateful.

photo credit-  A. Chew

Reunion Dinner

Smitten

*all horse pictures taken by Carol at Wimbledon Village Stables.  Thank you, Carol!

More horse stories...

Remember, Dumpling the Delicious?  His owner had him as she was on break, and then he was sent to the farm to rest last month.

But yesterday, in the burst of winter sunshine and fog, I got to ride him again!  My state of mind?  DELIRIOUS.

The best thing about living in London is the access to the great outdoors,

and this delicious horse.

Smitten.

Monday night I went and saw the best show ever, since moving to London.

The creators of South Park, Trey Parker and Matt Stone, together with Robert Lopez, wrote this musical, The Book of Mormon.  I keep thinking these guys have re-written musical theatre and brought it to the 21st century.  I've seen War Horse- which is sad, the puppetry stunning, the lead actor never speaks.  I've seen Wicked (Act 2 rambles, you leave the theatre thinking, toss, toss).  The Book of Mormon is in its own league.  It's such a tightly produced and directed show; utterly well choreographed with the most intelligent use of cliched movement phrases, and a committed cast of performers.

I laughed from the very beginning all the way to the end.  I cheered, I bobbed in my seat.  I laughed some more.

Sometimes as a performer you go to a show and enviously wished you could be on stage with the cast. The Book of Mormon was that sort of a show for me.  The humour is merciless.  Even God is not spared.  Nothing is left to chance, everything has purpose.  And although superficially much of the script may appear blasphemous, politically incorrect, perhaps, vulgar, the genius was that it is in fact, from where I sat, a show that celebrated human frailty and why we believe, what we believe.

I can't take my mother to watch The Book of Mormon.  Nor will I recommend it to the more sensitive of Christian friends and family.  But if like me, you are the seed that fell on thorns, go watch.  Tickets sell out, fast.

A Sad Day

*  All photographs of Buzz belong to TJ & YL, as posted on respective Facebook pages.

My inbox is filled with heartache and sorrow.

Equus Anonymous tells me, Buzz has died today.

Everyone loves, Buzz.  Buzz is the most gentle, kindest and forgiving of all creatures great and small.  Whip him, kick him, yank on his reins?  Buzz never ever throws a tantrum back, never begrudges, and always holds his end of things, keeping all safe.

I think YL and TJ love him most.

 Between them, they have doted on his care with carrots, apples, injections, massages, hugs and kisses a plenty.

 Last year they went to Malaysia, looking at a potential retirement home for him.

I've only ridden Buzz once.  Word is that he was the free gift thrown in when a fancy French horse was purchased.

In the end, I think Buzz brought in quite a fair share of income because you could put anyone on Buzz, knowing that the rider would emerge after  the 45- minute session, alive and in one piece.  Had a nasty fall?  Lost your verve?  No problem.  Buzz was the solution to re-introducing what it felt like to be back in the saddle again.  The girls always referred to him as the bomb-proof horse, and that riding him was like being carried by a couch.

I've never heard of anyone falling off Buzz, or being thrown off because Buzz bolted, or spooked, or bucked.  If a rider had the misfortune of falling off him, news of his/her silliness and lack of grace, would possibly spread like an untamed fire.  Because Buzz can do no wrong.

I am shocked by his sudden death.  He died today while being ridden.  I'm guilty of assuming that one day he would be retired by the girls, spend his last years, chilling, and not having to work so hard.

His death saddens me tremendously, because Buzz reminds me too much of my dog, Angel.  That same dependable, relaxed, gentle attitude.  The eyes that lock yours with the sweetest understanding.  Break into my flat?  Angel will welcome you with licks and kisses, if he can even be bothered to first stir from bed.

When death of such a loved being is sudden, it brings immense grief and perhaps some regret.  Across oceans and time, we hold each other and try to comfort ourselves thinking, finally, Buzz is free.

So the year of the horse has begun with the death of a loved horse.   The end of an era, TJ says, and I agree.  I want to scoop all whom I love and hold you close.  Love you while I can, for as long as I can.

Year of the Horse

The last thing he did for me, was hang the painting up.  Each time I glance across the room, I can now almost conjure him, standing on the ladder, hammer and nail in hand, his voice saying, Wherever you think is best, Baby.

We had a wonderful holiday season.  On new year's eve, I went riding in Richmond Park, encountering wind, rain, deers, deers, deers.  My thigh cramped.  I walked funny into the new year.

photo credit- Royal Parks

Chinese people like celebrating with good food, friends and family. 

So it was back to my favorite London restaurant for new year's eve, with K.  K then invited us over for New Year's Lunch.  She stunned me so with her fusion cooking (vegetable curry, beef goulash, wakame salad, rice), that for dinner on January 1, I was inspired to go the extra mile with udon and an improvised gado gado (Malay/Indonesian Salad).

On his last night, I stayed awake listening to his breath rise and fall.  In the morning, I present a calm, smiling face as my daughter is home.  But by noon, at Heathrow, my face is curled, crumpled.  I am a mess.

It's the year of the horse, and I am married to a man born, a horse.

I know a few things about horses.

photo credit-  Mel Tan

The horse knows you better than you know yourself, even when meeting for the very first time.  

The horse is a being of few words.  What he has to say is expressed in action and sometimes missed in the most subtle of gestures.

Once you meet a horse, it is almost impossible to fathom living without one, never mind escalating costs, public transportation, and bad weather.

photo credit- The Straits Times

The riddle that has been bothering me-  why was it so much easier to do long-distance before marriage, when the marriage was young?  Why do I find it so much harder these days when the marriage reminds me of a tree?

 A dancer (even in retirement), born in the year of a dog, in love with the horse, does not allow herself to slide into inactivity and too much sadness.

So on the 3rd day of the new year, right after he left, I reassembled the Sturdi Bag, and reintroduced it to Bruno Chan.

On the 4th day, I researched pet import laws in Germany, France, the UK and Singapore.

On the 5th day, I zipped Bruno up in the Sturdi Bag and reintroduced last year's Boot Camp with a hike through the cold.

Ssshh, sshh, Horse.  Baby, don't you worry.  We are coming home.