From the children (III) — Let the story go on

Mother’s book is going to press — what a happy thing.

More than two years ago Mother began writing slowly on manuscript paper, stroke by stroke, word by word. My younger brother keyed it into the computer after work, so Mother need not worry about a laptop that often went on strike.

We were her most faithful readers. My sister-in-law’s feedback was always quick and warm; Mother said the family’s encouragement was indispensable fuel to keep writing.

After Father’s Day last August, Father’s illness forced the nearly finished book to stall. Under Mother’s devoted care he recovered well; half a year later the final work could start again.

Because Mother’s stories are what she lived through, they feel especially real and moving — like films with pictures, music, and colour.

As a full-time mother I have always been active in my two children’s school life — parent associations, volunteer parents, and still a fixed weekly slot at a primary school near home leading activities, inheriting Mother’s eagerness to help.

I remember Mr Lin Xian-teng, our elementary academic director, loved recreational events; each year we joined the township cultural competitions, and dependants’ children often performed for the troops — so many happy chances on stage. From fourth grade I solo-danced “Wang Zhaojun” for years.

Mother was always backstage making up the children; she gladly sewed costumes or made props herself, rushing about — a forerunner of the school’s volunteer mothers.

Worried about my brother away at senior high in Taipei, Mother wrote herself to a cousin in Taipei to help arrange things; the two of them then visited his teacher at home together and deeply moved him.

When my high-school grades slipped, Mother again set aside every big and small task, spent a whole day changing buses and a lot of fare, and went to school in person to ask my form teacher for help — hoping to understand and support this child who daydreamed all day.

Back then Mother listened whenever she could to “Our Family” on BCC, hosted by Miss Bai Qianru — more than forty years ago she already had advanced ideas about home–school contact and put them into practice. Thinking of it now, I admire Mother’s courage and wisdom enormously.

Our dear Father came to Taiwan in 1949 at twenty-four, met Mother, fell in love, and made a home. Within ten years five children arrived; he was bound to labour for this family all his life so everyone could eat.

Besides his regular military duties he found every way to moonlight. When off duty, Father usually cooked — like a magician he produced tasty dishes every meal and fed five hungry children.

Mother, tireless, mended clothes and did handwork to supplement the budget. The image of Mother on the sewing machine with a child on her back, fighting sleep, is burned into our hearts. Even so, before school registration we were often short and had to borrow from friends or ask officers for salary advances.

Under such weight Father never once raised his voice to Mother or scolded any of us half a sentence. Do children not have naughty spells, unruly times, adolescent rebellion?

In our family I was probably the most outgoing, playful, and sociable — the one who worried Mum and Dad most. Mother often scolded me for throwing my schoolbag through the door after school and vanishing.

At Qingming I took my two younger brothers to guess whose tomb offering was whose at other people’s graves — bow once, collect ten cents — thinking it fun and clever until Mother was deeply hurt and angry.

At mealtimes dependants’ mothers calling children home was a daily spectacle; our mother, not to be outdone, joined the chorus — imagine that scene; it was hilarious.

Thanks to Mother’s meticulous care Father has recovered well. Though we now have A-ni’s help, Mother still tends Father herself, almost never delegating.

One doctor put it this way: at their age, to stay so faithfully by each other’s side — is that not where love is greatest?

Now they are old; it should be our turn to care for them. Whenever I dress warmly I wonder whether Mum and Dad are warm enough, whether layers fail to keep heat. When my shoes are comfortable I wonder whether theirs pinch or rub.

Mother’s selfless devotion to family and children is our most precious inheritance and the finest example. Thank you, dear Father, dear Mother.