Dancing with old age

This year, I have been thinking a lot about how I want to age. Being home in Malaysia recently, seeing the women in my clan, I am reminded of how we can always have a good laugh, always try to do the best, including aging gracefully.

And lately, I visited a friend in the Sir Edmund Hillary Retirement Home, in Ellerlie. It reminded me again of how we have some choices on how we choose to be when we grow old, although we don't necessarily have any control over our genetic disposition to early degenerative diseases such as dementia or Alzheimer's.

Three of my aunties -- on my dad's side -- are in their 80s. My oldest aunty, or Koo Ma, has such an incredible can-do attitude. Even with a crooked leg, on a walking stick, she drags herself around the kitchen, whipping up three big pots of her signature dishes when she came for a potluck dinner at our place. Never one to sit idle, never one to complain, never one to shy away from work. She is firm, determined, loving, caring and unstintingly loyal to her family and clan. This is something I aspire to be.

Yet, on the other spectrum, getting old can be hard. What happens if early dementia sets in? What happens when your knee goes? Your joints give way? Arthritis sets in. A hundred things can go wrong with your old body -- as you edge closer to the end. Unlike the golden phoenix, we don't have the opportunity to crash, burn and be reborn. So, best get ready with the best mindset -- to grow old gracefully, and have a lot of fun.

Here's my take in my column in the Malaysian News Straits Times "How we age is like a dice game"

Of reunions, a planet under strain and legacies of harmony

A bunch of 50 or nearly 50-year old girls can truly turn a café upside down. An afternoon tea that started at 12 started to wind down only at 4pm as time came and left and no one took any notice. After leaving school in 1979, we parted ways as teenagers filled with our personal trepidations as we take a new passage to life after 5th form.

Needless to say time has left its indelible mark on us. Our youthful bodies are fast showing the stress of modern life. Grey hair poke out like bean sprouts on our heads although some of us with better genes have survived the cruel hand of our biological limitations a lot better than the rest. A little tint can make a lot of difference we found. Here and there, the post middle age spread begins to take over. Some of us, again, refuse to age, seemingly able to battle childbearing and age marks better than others.

We laughed at our own foibles. We try to pry as much information as we dare – about our peers; on how they were doing in life; on who was doing what and where they were. It wasn’t too long ago that we of the same class would ask, “Eh, what did you get for Sejarah (History).” “Not telling,” the ultra private and kiasu (afraid to lose) teenage would say. “Ah, you only got 70%, I have 80%),” the more bashful would proclaim.

In school, we were ranked by our academic abilities. You were either placed in Science or Arts stream, based on what you achieved in your LCE (Lower Certificate Examination). I couldn’t understand why some of us were so upset for not making it to Science Stream. I was jubilant in the Arts stream. I was not natural with numbers and Science seemed like a journey to an alien planet back then.

Therein lies the problem with the school teachers then – we were never told we could be anything we wanted! We were never even told that just because you can’t understand trigonometry means you were going to completely fail in life.

We were never told that everyone comes with a certain gift, a different set of inherent intelligence. You could be mathematical, artistic, atheletic, analytical; or you could be a visual genius, a deft communicator – all based on which level of intelligence becoming the dominant force. If we were told all of these, we might feel better about our prospects in life and feel better equipped to seek a corner to nurture our dreams.

We were never told to dream big. We never had school guidance counsellors who helped us navigate our way through the horrific passage to the education jungle or the unknown world coming to greet us.

Our system of education taught us to obey, to repeat, to adhere to rules and tradition. Thinking outside the box, pushing the envelope, those phrases were not common ones during our time. There were model answers, model students, model behaviours. There was an order to the universe and the explicit message was, never rock the boat. The girls who dared to challenge or raise questions were deemed rebel rousers who needed to be snuffed out like forest fires.

How the world has changed. In 1969, we watched man take on the moon but only one person on our street was kind enough to let the neighbourhood kids watch his black and white television. It was one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind. Today, man is starting to explore space for leisure. Martians still elude us but Arthur C Clarke’s A Space Odyssey has left the realm of science fiction. A cool US$30 million might take you to the International Space Station.

Letters are really redundant these days. We hook up via the internet on social media sites. We play “Angry Birds” and “Temple Run” on Apple devices. We build virtual gardens because our real gardens seem like such hard work. We explore “Farmville” because modern life throws us to the other extreme of wanting to dig our hands into some dirt while not really wanting to get dirty.

The Luddites among us, rather than battle with Wii games on the Xboxes or Playstations, we try real exercise. We fear falling into the overweight category to bring on high cholesterol, heart attacks or strokes. Cancer which was never really a part of our pyche in the 1970s, has become a common noxious weed that haunts all our landscape. We have lost friends to cancer yet we are only turning 50 this year.

Our world is truly suffering from excesses as we lap up resources and the planet show signs of cracking. We would like to think the planet regenerates at its own pace. We hope global warming scientists have messed up their data somewhat – their message have indeed become an inconvenient truth in all aspects.

Yet in place of modest houses, people prefer to build concrete monoliths paved to the maximum with tiles that wipe out the need for weeding or gardening. In place of car pooling, we drive big vehicles that guzzle too much gasoline. In place of washing party plates, we take on styrofoam cups and plates; plastic forks and spoons. In place of homemade food, we take on caterers, fast-food and takeaways. We used to have flour bags for shopping, today we have enormous piles of plastic.

Putting aside the mundane drone of our daily lives, on April 15,2012, we hot mamas binged, teased, laughed and squealed. We returned to our carefree days when we pinched each other for fun; knocked friends at the back of their legs to throw them on the floor; dropped earthworms into our friend’s blouse in the science lab; squirted ink on each other; and drooled on Donny Osmond because he was singularly the best dude who manage to steal all our hearts as he sang “Puppy Love”.

It is 2012 yet, we the Class of ’79 feel so much joy at the having the chance to catch up. We put aside religious and racial differences; we put aside the vile Malaysian politicians who are bent on destroying a beautiful country with their twisted minds. We knew long before the politicians knew that harmony can only be reached when we have a genuine concern for shared prosperity which involves cherishing all Malaysians without pride or prejudice. We learned long ago to love our friends unconditionally, rich or poor, without fear or favour. We hope our children carry on this message of tolerance.

PS: Thanks Kay for creating this network and Nellie for organising the recent reunion!

Hanging onto our tradition

My mother worked herself silly in the lead of to the Year of the Dragon. Over the last 50 years, as far as I can remember, mom has put on a splendid feast for our family. On Chinese New Year Day, if there is nothing else in the shops to eat, chances are if you came to our house in Klang, you can get a very decent meal of mushrooms and chicken, cooked-to-perfection curry, sea cucumber braised with pork leg, fish maw stewed with meat balls and bamboo shoot.


Mom doesn’t do things in bits and pieces. She is not into modest spreads. Besides feasting on her amazing food, what I treasure most is the tradition she has left me. I know as we evolve, our culture and tradition take on their own shape-shifting. Just as Christmas is not complete with Christmas pudding, for me, Chinese New Year is not complete without pineapple tarts! I miss mom’s cooking and her disproportionately ambitious spreads.

I don't have the time to recreate all the dishes mom showed me how to make. What I try to do is recreate some of the things I love. I make pineapple tarts once a year, just to remind myself there is great torture in the labour-intensive process but there is also wondrous satisfaction that comes having extended a bit of an old knowledge that relied mostly on tacit know-how. You can can't tell a person who has never made pineapple jam how to spot a jam that's about to cook. Over the last two years, I have made love letters (kuih kapit), an ultra wafer-like crisp made from rice flour, eggs and coconut milk. I burnt my fingers making these slim biscuits, rang mom a few times to chat about the results. I am please with my effort to keep mom’s knowledge alive.


Over the last 5 years a group of us Malaysian and NZ-Chinese have gotten together to celebrate Chinese New Year. We give the kids a $2-token sum of Ang Pow (red packet) to remind them of the Chinese tradition of wishing your elders longevity and happiness and health. My kid, like all kids, is more interested in the money and how much she can stash up. I am sure over time, when she gets older, the tradition will sink in – she will realise wishing someone longevity is akin to spreading hope and positive potential. She will realise what she has experienced is something uniquely hers, it might be buried and hidden but can be nurtured and extended far into the future.


We don’t stop often enough to celebrate our culture and its nourishing effect on our soul. Traditions not only give us a distinctive flavour. Traditions bind us to a past which has become increasingly hard to define in a world whose dominant culture is globalisation of brands and consumer offerings. Without the anchor of our tradition, we are set up to be driftwoods in a global world that’s increasingly amorphous yet ambitious in its zest for same-ness and hegemony.

While our children sit in front of their computers, ipods hooked onto their ears, fingers fast flying over their face booking activity, it is good to know we can give them what it means to be who we are by the simple act of getting once a year to feast on familiar homemade food our moms used to make and to enjoy the happiness brought by friends and the good fortune of health and happiness.

A wasteful generation

Consumerism, I gathered from Wiki, is “a social and economic order that is based on the systematic creation and fostering of a desire to purchase goods and services in ever greater amounts.” I have been asking myself this question: Am I am consumerist? Do I buy goods in ever greater amounts? Am I driven by greed and the desire to own things in hoards?

I confess, once upon a time, when I worked in the city, I bought something nearly every other day – from the shops. Once upon a time, I was always in need of a new serving dish, a new spatula, new cookbook, a new wok, a new pan, a new blender. The list has no end. My desires have no end.

When my kid was growing up, and while we lived in Singapore, we had a wall lined up with toys….We had cupboards choking with clothes for our kid. We had CDs running out of a space on the CD rack. We had books that were bursting from the shelves. Our clothes kept filling up the cupboards. The situation is pretty much the same in NZ.

A few years ago, I made a resolution to stop buying things. I have been partially successful. This year, I haven’t bought anything I didn’t truly need – I have prevented myself from buying a fruit juicer although it does look a bit dated. I am still wearing T-shirts I bought 10 years ago. I should feel so proud of myself. But then, how did I go so wrong with passing on this to my kid?

Have my bad habits set up up my kid into a consumerist? My child threw out a whole of clothes into the “pink bag” for recyling. “Why,” I asked. They looked perfectly good and were barely worn. “Last season’s clothes, mum,” was the answer. She has been through 3 handphones since she was Yr 6. She is in Yr 8. Her fourth one has just been ordered -- using her birthday money from family/friends.

Consumers are driven by their need to ever possess the latest in products and services. Our society is built upon growing at all costs. The “small is beautiful” economic theory propounded by British economist E. F. Schumacher doesn’t go down well in our consumerist world. Isn’t every country after greater GDP growth; every company after greater profits; every household after the latest iPads, iPhones or iWant! In this arena, the Bhutanese King Jigme Singye Wangchuck’s Gross National Happiness pursuit is definitely a worthy cause. Bhutan's macro economic policy is built upon attaining GNP, which encompass Buddhist ideals of spiritual wealth and health rather than pure materialistic wealth/health.

My teenage kid has never been through a single day of “lacking” in anything. I have to keep reminding her that there are people who have no food to eat. “Mum, what are we having for dinner,” she quips. “Fried rice,” I answered. The disappointment was evident. “Can we have something nice!”


Every generation needs a war, some wise person once said. This is so true. We live in a world where we have everything we want -- instantly! If we had to grow all our food, would we still be throwing our so much food into the compost or bin? If we have to draw water from the well, would we be having long showers? I read in Moa's Last Dancer -- the Chinese village folks were so poor, they ate everything that moved. They were lucky if they had meat once a year, for Chinese New York, even then, with more fat than meat!

The struggle for me has, and always will be, to live a moderate life -- one not driven by the need to own and consume, but a life based on moderation.

Every day, I become more aware that my teen has an extremely different set of values. Is my generation so different to hers? Am I out of whack in that I can't see the point in having so many pieces of fashionable clothes, all the nail polish, all the hair products, eye shadow, Chucks, Vans, Supre. Is this just the way the world is going and am I am fighting a losing battle?

"I am not smart"

Over the weekend, at our local tennis club, I met this young lady Judy (not her real name) who is a highly talented sportsperson. She is a high achiever in all areas of sports: table tennis,swimming, netball, socceer,and athletics. Her grandma tells us she has only been playing tennis a few years yet she is playing such high quality tennis at the moment.

While we were yakking away watching my other half play, Judy was asked what she wanted to do after she finishes school. I heard her made this remark: “I am not smart in school.” Her pronouncement was made as if her fate was sealed and the doors to future academia was closed to her forever.

I took the opportunity to tell her not to believe in the “I am not smart” thought process. Here is the thing about our brain – it is like a muscle, the more you use it, the better it becomes. At the end of the day, it may take Judy a lot more time to get to where “the smart kids” can achieve, nevertheless Judy can learn to make her brain work harder in areas she cannot do.

Noted author cum paediatrician Mel Levine’s One Mind at a Time is worth revisiting. Levine’s book highlights that our mind comes in different shapes and forms. Some kids may have advance verbal language skills but are poor spellers or writers. Another kid can’t follow things in a sequence. Have you ever met someone who can take apart complex parts of a machine but is never interested in school and its process? His overriding message is it is not that important to be good at everything.

Judy the sportsperson has superior kinaesthetic skills. Some people are wired like that. But boxing herself as “not smart” couldn’t be furthest from the truth. She is very smart – just in a different way.

Looking back at my school days, I can’t help but notice, a lot of the good sportspeople weren’t necessarily the most academic; and the top girls usually were quite poorly coordinated. There were exceptions of course but they were few and far between. I remember a girl in my class who could draw the most detailed pictures in art, obviously she had far superior spatial skills, but was never that good at other stuff in school. Again – nature can be cruel or kind – you can be endowed with all levels of intelligence or miss quite a few.

There is a message worth reinforcing to our kids – being smart (in the way that implies one has natural aptitude for passing exams or getting a high score by not having to work as hard) does not guarantee success in life.

The early bird catches the worm. The tortoise eventually won the race. The hoards of ants around my house never stop working to feed the queen ant. There are plenty of examples to show our kids that effort counts the most. If we work at something long enough, eventually we too will “get it”.

Mum used to always tell us “failure is the mother of all success”. It wasn’t necessarily internalised when I was young. But now, a lot older, and hopefully wiser, I would like to pass on this to my kid: the real advantage is not having brains but being able to keep trying, never giving up. Eventually, the person who succeeds is none other than the one willing to stay in the game the longest.

My 3rd Aunt -- farewelll, till we meet again

3rd Aunt is in red jacket, in front.



What is it about death that so preoccupies us? I think about death or dying often. It is morbid. But our gurus tell us to practice dying. So often, I think, about how I want to die – peacefully of course, and in my sleep. Hopefully my death will not cause much grief. Hopefully by then I would have gained enough merits so that I will have a good rebirth. That’s a simple wish. For now, I wish to live a long and healthy life!

My third aunty died about a month ago. I call her Koo-Ma in Cantonese. Sam Koo-Ma, to be exact. That’s how I will always remember her.

I will always remember how she loves to put curly fringes on my hair. She thinks my hair too straight. Everytime we go to her home-based hair saloon, she would put little curlers around my fringe to make them curl. How I hated those curly fringes. Out of politeness, I always told her they looked good (how can anything which shimmers in front of your head like little black earthworms look good?). For the first 14 years of my life, I reckon, I had my hair done by my Sam Koo Ma. Her fashion was to be my hair style.

The last time we had a big ball was when Sam Koo Ma came with other aunts to visit me in Auckland. So in Auckland I heard, for the first time, my Sam Koo Ma’s vocal prowess. She was a fa tan (principal female voice) in the Cantonese opera troupe she sang in. She tells me then, she practices daily, even into her 70s. She sang at my friend’s house – and she gave me a sense of her real accomplishments. How I wish I had asked her more about her love of Cantonese opera, how it came about; what she sang of; and whose stories she was singing.

We visited Queenstown – she marvelled at every shop in Arrowtown, fussed over buying the choicest bit of greenstone but didn’t end up with a piece. She loved the Warehouse, going through bits of cheap Chinese imports there. She loved the WinterGarden at the Domain, and marvelled at the plants -- their vibrancy. She loved the feijoas in our garden and helped sweep my back deck – putting me to shame. There she was, with my other aunty, cleaning my house while on holiday. That’s their nature…never sitting still. Working, working every minute.

She ran a hair saloon, cooked, cleaned, raise 4 children. I know her to be strongly independent and fiercely outspoken, never once to mince her words. What amazes me most is her having her last child, at 40. My cousin, the most beautiful baby ever, was born when my aunt was 40 and my mom looked after her baby for a while, while my aunty ran her saloon at home. She didn't stop her work even when a new baby arrived. She just kept on and on.

When I think of her, I also think of someone who just gets on doing what she does best. She is full of her own brand of wisdom, telling me once to always wash my dishes with a clean little towel so the detergent doesn’t linger; to always eat without too much salt; to not eat too much fried food. I must confess, her food is a little bland to me but she makes a mean Hainanese-style curry chicken. She practices her own brand of compassion: when my step grandmother died, Sam Koo-Ma helped take her ashes to be spread out in the sea at dusk, weeping for my step-grandmother, sharing in my mother's step sister's grief.

She was never one to raise her voice. But you can feel her anger or disapproval. Her eyes, they told you everything. Her face is pretty much an open book. She was a pretty black and white person.

The last time I saw her was in Klang, in July 2010. I made an attempt to drop by her house – by then she was in a wheelchair, unable to speak due to a muscular degenerative disease (I was told). She tried to give me back a little money I gave her…generous to the end, that’s how she was. She couldn’t speak – but through her eyes I could see defeat, frustration. I see disappointment too, a sense of “what has become of me”. I soothed her hand for while, letting know all is well with us in Auckland. Princess is fine. I told her to take care. Inside, I wept for her loneliness which she shares alone, for her inability to do anything for herself. Inside, I wish she had a peaceful death. May you have a good rebirth my beloved aunt. You will always have a special place in my heart. Till we meet again.

Halloween no more - the things we used to love

2008: Halloween Loot

Today and for the last few days, it dawned on me that my little Princess is no longer little and she has definitely been pushing away things that confined her to what what she was. A definitely pre-teen has emerged full blown – monster or angel who can tell?

For the first time this year she didn’t make me buy her a Hallowen goodie bag, and she didn’t dress up, and she didn’t go trick-or-treating. YAY! No more Halloween dress ups and cleanups!

Somehow, the moment also struck me as sad -- a strange passing – a sort of rite of passage. That’s how our specie evolve. We take on new experiences, discard the old. We grow new cells, the old ones die. We take on new adventures, look for new heights. What used to be important can be of little significance. Ah, the passage of time can dull even the sharpest thrills.


So Halloween came and went without much fan fare. I always grumbled about the work associated with getting her ready. Last year, our dear Princess was still Cleopatra, lugging home mountains of lollies in her Halloween goodie bag bought from the $2-shop. She has been a princess, a fairy, a sort of nothing…But every year for the last 5 years, she always went trick-or-treating. Once, a grumpy old lady who was our neighbour, told Princess and her friends to “Go away, I am too old for this.” I thought that was mean. The kids thought so too.

Our dear neighbours’ two little girls came knocking on our door on Sunday – “Trick or treat!” Eva said in an animated voice. Her little sister Xanthe came toddling by….Oh how sweet…We gave them heaps of our snake-shaped lollies…They stayed for a while and went away to their next house. I secretly wished there were more trick-or-treaters. I secretly wished I had put up black rubbery spiders sitting on home-spun web on my front door…for the fun of it all!

Time flies. My Princess is more interested in her ipod, skping, boys, dealing with a sprout of pimples invading her forehead, and chatting with her friends on Facebook.

In another time, another year, she would have had her loot from Halloween spread all over the floor, stuffing herself silly and going on a sugar high for the rest of the evening. Today, all she wanted to do was get back to her online chats!

The Klang I used to love

I was home in Klang for nearly 3 weeks during July. I lament the fact that the Klang I used to know is not anymore the Klang I can claim to know. Growing up in 68 Jalan Meru, everyone knew everyone on the street. If I did something silly, my neighbours will be the first to tell my mom. The first shop on the block was a coffee shop (owned by a Hainanese); the 2nd shop was a car workshop/sales showroom (owned by a HockChew); the 3rd shop was us, the laundry (owned by my grandpa a Cantonese)…and so on and so forth. We chatted with our neighbours everyday. I played with the kids on the street for hours on the weekends.

Back then things came with little or no packaging. We recycled our coconut oil bottle, going to the local grocer to get fresh supply which he pumped out of a bigger tin. We went to the Wonton Noodle Seller with our stainless steel or aluminium carriers which we used for decades. Back then, 20cents was a lot of money. Back then, my dad earned $200 per month and fed the entire household.

Reunion with old classmates, Class of 79 at Convent Klang

Back then, Klang was a sort of happening place. The circus used to come to town every year. I would watch from our shopfloor, upstairs, the parade of animals, jesters and circus managers – elephants and horse plied the main Jalan Meru to get to the big tent set up for the circus about 5 mins from my house. It was such a crowd puller – the big tents, the weird and wonderful, the smell of animal defacation putrifying in the tropical heat; the flies swarming on elephant poo…The trapez artist arms and legs of steel. The lady cuddling her giant pet python in a box which we had to pay 50cents to watch.

We kids used to roam along Jalan Meru, crossing the road into the huge padang across our shophouse. We flew kites in the backsteet, learnt to ride our parents' bicycles on the gravel road. When election time came, our streets were filled with party propaganda. We watched the Barisan National posters overtake every other party, but somehow the DAP surreptiously, manages to get in their posters up in obvious places.

These days, Klang is a veritable mess. There is so much traffic I am too scared to go out. I can’t drive so I need to be ferried around. This is what it feels like to be displaced. I have no sense of where things are because I haven’t lived in Klang since 1990 (and from 1979-1985 I was in Canada).

When we go to the Malls, I feel like Klang is an alien land – all dressed up with the latest laptop skins, fashion accessories, big labels; the Americanization of the world...everyone wants an Iphone or an Ipad. Trends get to Klang quickly.

Klang has money pouring out of its pores. Everyone seems to drive around in shinny cars. Every kid has tuition either in the morning or at night. Every parent seems to work late into the evening or night. Every house has several locks and many metal grills. Every other house seem to have a maid – an Indon or a Cambodian - these days. Every employer of a maid has a nasty story to tell, of a maid having stolen money; of a maid having an affair and getting pregnant; of a maid running away. Every road seems packed head to tail with cars, going everywhere, going nowhere.

Agar agar is the only constant in an ever changing world. One of my favourites as a child.

Princess and I were glad to touch down in Auckland where the air was clean and everything looked perfectly green. The traffic towards our home was manageable.

I have grown attached to Auckland. It is home for me now. I know where the bargains are; where the cheap haircuts are and where to go to for my foot massage. I know the back street to Princess’ school; I know the lady from the local Paper Plus and the Cambodian lady who cuts my hair, the local chemist who dispenses our drug.

Leaving Klang, I felt a sense of loss. Of times gone by. Of a place I have loved but cannot claim to love anymore. Of family members I do not get to see except once every so often over a few years. My aunties are getting old; my cousins have all got kids who are growing so fast I can't ever catch up. We are all getting old. Absence, they say, makes the heart grow fonder. Absence for me, leaves huge gaps unpatchable.

I have a mom who read me stories

Mother’s Day came and went. I rang mom to wish her “Happy Mother’s Day”…she was happy that I rang, happy that I remembered. I hadn’t organised any presents although on her birthday, which was just a few days ago, I organised some chocolates and cake online for arrival on her birthday.

Mom loves cakes, in fact, she loves anything sweet. When she gets angry, she often takes out her biscuit tins or chocolate bars, if any, and munches. It must be for the sugar rush, and the high it provides.

Mom spent a lot of time on the call telling me what the domestic helper is doing wrong. For Mom, I am the boxer’s punch bag…I listen to her as she vents her frustrations.

There is much to say about Mom’s threshold levels – she has a very high tresh hold, for pain and suffering, and hard work. I hope I can develop such high tresh holds.

On this particular Mother’s Day, I am reminded of one of Mom's golden rules, one which I use on Princess as well. Never default on the time you should get home from school.

I remember once, after Chinese school, I was playing in the rain, oblivious to the rule that I was to head home right after school. Some friends of mine were playing in the courtyard, and I lingered to watch, then got tempted to stay, a bit longer. Then I got attracted to the game they were playing in the school courtyard, so I too stayed, to participate in the game. It was nearly dusk, and the sky was turning somewhat grey and dull. There was a surreal feeling to the school yard, all empty except for a bunch of school kids having a good time. I forgot the golden rule.

Mom came looking for me. I froze the minute I saw her. It was almost like death had come to visit. I knew for sure I would get a good walloping when I got home. No words were spoken as I trailed behind her on our way home. Me the errant sheep returned to the fold. My skin burned with shame, as I trudge behind her, in hurried steps. I could see fury written all over her face. I learnt my lesson that day.

I remember this incident because this is one of mom’s many golden rules that Princess has taken to heart. If there are changes to the time she needs to get home, she has to inform me, where ever she may be. I love this golden rule.

Once, I broke a set of tea cups when my skipping rope dragged an entire tray of cups onto the floor. My friends and I were livid with fear, watching the family cups crash into tiny pieces. My great grandmother was furious and cursing us in a language not suited for kids. I thought I would die from a good hiding. But mom didn’t even seem that bothered. She told me to pick up the pieces. No fuss over the shattered cups. I think the cups were not important for her. She knew how to distinguish between what is really important, and what is not. Breaking tea cups was a small matter in her scheme of things. Not keeping time was a major sin.

I have a mom who loves a good yarn. How many nights have I spent listening eagerly to her interpreting for us, her readings from a Chinese newspaper serial of the story of a mute and how unwanted and unloved he was. How many nights have I wished I was the maiden traipsing across the bridge of birds as she went to meet her love, the cowherd. How many nights have I wondered about how lucky I was to be born in an era where girls were allowed education, not like the Butterfly Lovers (Liang San Bao, Zhu Ying Tai) where the heroin had to disguise herself as a man to get an education. How many times have I heard stories of the bizarre, of a maiden whose tummy grew full of scorpions due to evil magic, of crickets who grew so large, they terrorised me in my dreams.
(image:sourced from ebeijing.gov.cn)

If there is one thing I grew up with, it is mom’s love for romance, adventures, tragedies, or tales of sword and sorcery found in novels and movies. Once I woke up at 3am in our apartment, then in Singapore, to see the lights on in her room (her sister was visiting as well). I turned the knob of the door to see a sea of tissues on the floor, and two red-eye women, sniffling their hearts out to a tragic Cantonese serial! They burst out laughing when they saw me. I wasn’t sure if I should laugh or despair!

Here’s a poem I love that depicts in part my mom’s love for adventures and her love for newspaper serials and wuxia (sword and sorcery) serials. Thanks mom for all the stories you gave me as a child. Happy Mother’s Day!


The Reading Mom

I had a Mother who read to me
Saga of pirates who scoured the sea,
Cutlasses clenched in their yellow teeth,
"Blackbirds" stowed in the hold beneath.

I had a mother who read to me the things
That wholesome life to the boy heart brings-
Stories that stir with an upward touch,
Oh, that each mother of boys were such!

I had a Mother who read me lays
Of ancient and gallant and golden days;
Stories of Marmion and Ivanhoe,
Which every boy has a right to know.

You may have tangible wealth untold;
Caskets of jewels and coffers of gold.
Richer than I you can never be-
I had a Mother who read to me.

I had a mother who read me tales
Of Gelert the hound of the hills of Wales,
True to his trust till his tragic death,
Faithfulness blent with his final breath.

By Gillian, Strickland, "The Reading Mother."

Living with a broken achilles tendon

I am missing my left leg heaps. A couple of weeks ago, I broke my achilles tendon while playing tennis with Princess, at our neighourhood tennis club. The beauty about the injury is -- contrary to many accounts I have read where the injured is in heavy pain -- I suffered no real pain. Or not the sort of pain that would scar me for life. I remember reaching for a top-spin from Princess, and the next thing I knew, I was on my knees, and when I tried to get up, I fell over. So I turned to sit on my buttocks, and laughed my guts out. All I could think of was "this is ridiculous, me being on the floor sitting on my bump in the middle of the tennis court." Princess thought it might be that I had snapped my achilles tendon, I ignored her, as usual, she was right (she knew exactly what to expect as grandpa had told the story of how he snapped his, and I wasn't listening as usual.)

They tell me I am to be in a cast for 6-8 weeks. Over the weekend, someone told me he had a friend who had his injury in October last year and was only beginning to walk. Horrors! I want to get back to full steam. I want to be able to mop the floor with two hands, to vacuum,to be able to carry heaps of groceries into the house, and to sleep without lugging a tonne of bricks as I toss or turn at night.

Still, to be able to walk is a world better than having to hobble on two crutches.

Here's what inventors of medical equipment should think of....
1) A lightweight mobile platform, that operates like a mini ride-on but with a less heavy structure, something you can sit on, and rest your leg, and allows your free movement of your hand to do your chores.
2) Crutches: they kill your palms, and your hands. All the pressure you put on your hands while hauling your body around is no joke. A sort of soft-gel handle to go with the crutches would be nice.
3) A better version of plastic leg cover for when you shower. The one I have is quite good but when I walk on it, into the shower, with my metal cast/stomper, I fear it will tear at some stage. At $45, I don't want to have to replace it too soon. I can't think of a better version yet, when I have, I will let you know.

I have found that my family is not good with housework. With me being incapacitated, the first week, I felt like hell...with the mess around, and especially not being able carry a fresh cup of coffee to my study!

I have some wonderful food offerings from my friend, Michelle, who made me nice roast pork, and stir-fries; helped me with shopping, my friend Cindy who made me yummy peasoup; and my dear friend Kororia who insisted she cleaned my house, Jenny who brought me stew and Madeira cake. Jo-Ann made us dumplings for dinner and helped me unpack all my weekend stuff strewn across my living room, making it a living hell for me.

Mom rings me regularly to ask how my leg is doing. "Same old, same old." I tell her...She sighs and tsskss, but there is nothing much she can do for me being thousands of kilometres away! Plus she has more on her hand coping with her grumpy, demanding husband.

What would we do without our legs? We would use our hands a bit more, and in time, grow longer hands with very awesome grips. It is funny how insecure you feel, having one long leg, and a shorter one. Going down the stairs, I have to remember not to tilt too much, or I topple, like a badly assembled Leggo. It is amazing watching others watch you, as you walk, they fear for you, and are ready to catch, in case you crash like a rainforest tree chopped down.

In the shower, I miss not having the freedom to stand up and scrub the shower walls...And most of all, I miss not being able to run...Time slows down when you are hobbling on crutches. Your spine gets too much work, and your back and shoulder hurts from all the extra exertion you put in the wrong places. Glorious homosapiens, that we are, walking upright, standing on two feet...arms free to do as we please!

It is also amazing how quickly you can innovate. I have found many uses for my crutches. Use them:

1) To whack anyone who crosses me.
2) To draw curtains.
3) To turn the lights off in the night while in bed.
4) To push the start button on my clothes dryer.
5) To to poke/push baskets or to reach for things from far.
6) To shove laundry into a pile without bending!

All in all, the past few weeks and next month will be one where I will have to move like a slug, and retell my tennis injury story ten thousand times. I am not planning to go to parties, not that I am embarrassed. I can't be bothered to socialise.
I am not planning to do much beyond reading and whatever housework I have to do.

Love (both) your achilles tendon....you need it more than it needs you!

10,000 hours to be truly good

I bought this book called Outliers, The Story of Success, for Tony as a Christmas present. It was a cheeky thing to do but I learnt this trick from him who excels at buying me things he wanted.

Outliers is written by Malcom Gladwell, the guy with the buffy hair who also wrote Tipping Point. Gladwell’s theory is that geniuses do not become what they are until they have put in the hard yards. Mozart may have wrote his first symphony at 10 but it wasn’t a masterpiece.

He also postulates that cultural environment shapes a lot of what we are or become. My favourite story in the book is about Jewish lawyers, how their forefathers started off in clusters, in parts of the US, often as tailors. But by the second or third generation, their kids quickly become lawyers or doctors. There is a certain level of charm in the story for me, as the grand daughter of a Chinese immigrant to Malaysia. My grandfather owned a laundry shop, so did countless clansmen from his village. My dad was an accounts clerk, I became the first in my family to have a University degree, followed by 4 of my first cousins, and my brother is an accountant. We moved on from the laundry shop because success was imprinted into our minds from the time we were born by our parents who did not want to revert to poverty in China.

It may seem like a cliché to see the Jews dominating the tailoring trade in parts of New York. But this reality appears in most cultures. The Jews who went to America who subsequently became tailors already came with a lot of knowledge about their trade from their country of origin. They used it. My grandfather and his clansmen got together capital and provided the expertise they learnt or acquired, to become the Cantonese “laundromats” of their era. Many Teochews (a dialect group), from Southern China, were provision shop owners, based on what the clansmen shared with each other – their knowledge of acquiring rice, flour, sugar, cooking oil and a 1,000little things you can buy in their shop. And if you want to learn the diamond trade, a good place to start is amongst the close-knit Palanpuris in India, who control the diamond cutting and polishing trade in the world.

I like Gladwell’s story because this is lesson I have been trying to impart to Princess. Hard work is everything; and if you do something long enough, you will get good at what you do. You can’t help where you are born, or to which family you have been born into. These are “given”. But you can be a master of your trade by doing the 20 hours per week for 10 years to be truly good at what you do, be in piano, ballet, tennis, or golf, a writer, a hairdresser or an accountant. The other key is to start early, or to have a head-start. The girls at Princess' tennis club have mostly been playing since 4.5 to 5 yrs old...that's how young we started. There is a girl in Princess' class who does 3 hours of tennis a day...she is no doubt, an elite sportswoman already, at 11. So, it is all about the hours.

Gladwell told CNN in an interview we are often impatient to see success. Success, like good cheese or wine, comes with sufficient time. What we need to do, he says, is to create opportunities or institutions allowing people to acquire the mastery they need to be successful.

Where I depart, I think, from the author, is the difference between "having it" and not having it -- talent or in-born knack, the code in your DNA which gives you just that edge in differentiating yourself between good and outstanding.

Now, I realise why I can’t make good bread -- I need to truly do 10,000 hours of baking before achieving any form of mastery in getting the perfect dough!

Outliers

30 years later -- how the world has changed

In 1979, a bunch of us girls, left school, Convent Klang, a highly popular school in our neighbourhood started by the Catholics. I had little knowledge of the world around me, having at that stage never been 30km outside of my precint, Jalan Meru. It was the last year for those of us in 5th Form. We took our major exams -- the one that would mark us for life -- the MCE or Malaysian Certificate Examination. A good aggreggate would mean access into Lower Six (6th Form) while a not-so-good result would relegate us to find other alternatives. For some, 5th Form marks the end of school to find a job, either as a secretary or typist, or whatever it was that came up. Most of us haven't seen each other since 1979.

KFC came to Klang in the 70s
Up until the 5th Form exams, life was of little concern to us girls. We were self-absorbed teenagers, soaking in the Americanisation of the world. In the 1970s, I remember, Colonel Sanders and his red strippy bucket of chicken, first came to Klang. Kentucky Fried Chicken was a treat!

In the 1970s, we girls at school swooned over Donny Osmand. The Beatles were still breaking girls' hearts all over the world. In Klang, Bollywood was already a phenomena way before the word Bollywood came to symbolise Indian prowess in movie making. My friends and I went to watch Bobby, and left the cinema much in love with Rishi Kapoor. I watched Haathi Meere Sathi (a story of friendship between a boy and his elephant) and learnt to sing the first few lines of the song Chal Chal Chal, Meere Sathi, Oh Meere Hathi... Farrah Fawcett was a rave as one of Charlie's Angels, so was the 6 Million Dollar Man.

Bell bottoms and high-handle bars
The 70s came with high handle bars on our bicycles, hippie-inspired dresses, and bell-bottom pants. Then came the platform shoes, and Afro hairstyles. A lot of the fashion didn't make sense to me -- a teenager coping with outrageous growth spurt, pimples and weight issues. Mom seems to be always in a stress mode, and the best times were still the times at school.

I looked forward to school as the school ground is a place to destress. Of course back then, in the 70s, we girls didn't think the word stress even existed. Our teachers were mostly dragon ladies who told us we were useless; and the authority at school was something to be feared at all times. We had tests and report cards to bring home to our parents. Mimicking today's global world, our school had its fair bit of competition -- some girls were always studying. Others like me did what I could get away with -- which meant the barest minimum. Some girls were so talented, everything they touch became magical in a short time. Others were born scholars while others had little chance to show they too can excel.



How to bake with no ovens
I remember well the Indian girls in the lower classes (we were streamed, yes). Poor things. What were the teachers thinking, asking for white shoes and white socks, when they had to walk through muddy estates to get to school during the monsoon season? What were they thinking, asking for ingredients for cookery class when most people were struggling to keep mouths fed in their households. What were they thinking, teaching us to bake when most of us didn't have ovens.

Troubling 70s
The 70s was a testy period in world history. Richard Nixon was trying to end the Vietnam war to no avail and landed himself into hot soup with the Watergate scandal. Vietnam suffered tremendously during the war. It wasn't until 1975 the last of US diplomatic personnel left Vietnam. Shortly after, Cambodia experienced what we now come to know as the Killing Fields, plundered by the Khmer Rouge.

Malaysia was battling Communism in the 70's. We were brought up to feared the name Chin Peng, a Communist guerilla. Communism was loathed. We were told to loath what it represented because of the larger part of the world was still feeling the effects of the Cold War, and the wise men of our time couldn't decide which to fear more -- the Russians' brand of socialism or China's brand.

China was in a bigger mess. Mao's wife and her gang of four was terrorising China. Mao died in the 70s, leaving behind a pit full of vicious vipers to fight it out. Zhou Enlai came into power. I remember his face all over the Chinese newspapers, not that it meant anything to me back then.

Americans, still reeling from the impact of fighting a pointless war that was not theirs to fight, was also facing domestic challenges. The Americans were going through a stockmarket bear phase, and the economy was in the doldrums. Life repeats itself -- or so it seems.

The British government was by then only a shadow of its former self. The coloniser was facing its own challenges at home, massive labour strikes and power shortages. At one stage, Britain had to ask the IMF for funds to keep the country afloat -- sounds familiar?

In the 70s, the world was not a happy place. There was war in the Middle East following the lost of Palestinian land to the Israelis. The Arabic world was up in arms, there was an Arab oil embargo, causing what we know as the oil shock.

Malaysia was then a nation with just over 10 million people (peninsular) and rubber accounted for over 20% of our exports. It was then, still a primary producer. We had Indian friends whose parents worked in the rubber estates. We had Chinese and Malay friends who were rubber smallholders. Tin was by then on the throes of its demise as a lucrative commodity.

Self-centre teenagers
As teenagers in the 70s, these events meant little to us. Our world was self-centred...it was all about us, and our happiness, or the happiness of our parents or immediate and extended families.

I believe school was theraphy for us. We met our friends in the school yard, we traded gossips about the latest episode of Peyton Place, and caught up on the latest hairstyles our posh friends were into (Farah Fawcett was a definite rave for a while).



At the school yard, all the effects of what was happening in the world evaded us. We were with our friends, playing hopscotch, badminton, netball. We were learning about bits of Southeast Asian history. My favourite was the Malacca Sultanate and the Thai Mongkuts and Chulalongkorns. I had little time for Math or Science or Commerce. But I think most of us didn't pay attention because Math and Science were such dry subjects given the way they were taught.

At school, a little bowl of noodles can go a long way. 20 cents was a big deal. We could buy a plate of noodles and a cup of rose-syrup water. And if we saved up enough, we could buy some kerupuk (prawn crackers) or a snack of our choice.


Connected world
Recently, a few of us got connected on Facebook. In the 1970s, the world's vision of computers was there was room for one large computer (IBM's mainframe). The world then progressed to semiconductors, revolutionising processing power. Then the nerds got more clever, and now we have powerful chips that run computers and computer programmers who design super softwares that run fancy algorithms which only, again, nerds can understand. Yet, we thank the nerds for Facebook. Without them, those of us on Facebook wouldn't have got in touch.

I looked for my lost friend Zubaidah on Facebook. And found her to my delight! I couldn't believe my luck. Then I found, our friend Kay, who thanks to her foresight, set up a group on Facebook called Class of 79. First it was her and Anom, then a few of us got hooked up. Now we have caught up with a friend in Adelaide, one in France, one in the US, me in NZ, and a few others. We have over 2 dozens of emails now...what a beauty email is. The girls have had a face-to-face meeting early January, thanks to Zahara Awang, a smiley, can-do gal that she is, who cooked and hosted the lot! I couldn't be there but was watching via Facebook!

We have grown too, from our cocoons. From being self-absorbed, we now have to put up with our kids' self-absorption. Some of my friends have kids in their 20s! Mine is only 11.

Dreams can be built
We learnt over the last 30 years that dreams can be made. We learnt your teachers can't tell you what you cannot be. Your teachers can also give you interest, or the small encouragement that would make a world of difference in how you view your ability. My first real inspiration was Cikgu Zaleha, a fair Malay lady who had class and compassion. We learnt that we can become greater than what our school teachers would have us believe. For some, school wasn't so much a place to learn, but to build character.

I feel so happy just to have reconnected with a part of my life that reflected mostly my self-absorbed teenage years. School was my oasis in many ways. It was at school, amidst the laugher of my friends, that I forgot how hard my parents had to stretch the budget, or how much I was costing them just for school uniform and accessories for school.

At school, we were a vast melting pot -- learning to like what each other eat, and learning how we can be different and yet the same. We all have one basic instict -- that of self-preservation, and that of having a chance to have a go at making life better for ourself, and our family.

Till we meet again -- Anna Woolf (Apri 68-Dec09)

Aunty Unu, preparing surprise cake for Princess in Gold Coast.
Tony's birthday party in Sept.
Picture of Princess with Aunty Unu.
Picture of Aunty Unu as the Avatar, Ang, (from a cartoon series) I took in, Mahurangi, 09.


The Chinese do not have the equivalent of the term “goodbye”. So here I am, doing the very Chinese thing – saying “Joi Kin” (in Cantonese my dad’s dialect), till we meet again, to Anna.

Anna was a Aunty Unu to Princess. She missed Princess’ arrival because she had to drive back to the house to get my parents to the hospital. She never quite let me forget that.

She took time to accompany Princess at the World Transplant Games in Brisbane in August this year. I could see her pride, watching Princess come in first, in the 50m dash, first in long jump, 2nd in swimming, knowing Princess did have the real makings of a competitor, (much like her).

She bought Princess her first easel (which stands too tall in the living room) bought Princess her first metronome, and cringed and chided at Princess’ complete lack of attention to timing at the piano. She once witnessed how I blew my top at Princess, for her lack of focus on the task at hand – practising her piano. Talent Princess had. It was effort she lacked. We both sat and chatted and agreed about effort being everything. She and I often joked about Yale and Harvard as destinations for Princess to aspire to. Princess, obviously has no desire to go to either, and would stomp off, in a huff and a puff, and how we laughed.

On many occasions, Anna would hover over the kitchen, and commented on how I should clean up my benchtop and the clutter. I have largely ignored Anna because she was a perfectionist in everyway, and I am totally at ease with a few specks of dust and a bit of mess. But lately, clutter is beginning to bother me a lot more.

Anna, to me, is a contradiction. She is fire and ice; rain and sunshine. She is gentle yet wrathful.

Anna is bountifully generous with others and stingy with her own comfort. In fact, when she was on her last leg, I was helping her clean up the family bach (she was not in good shape to clean up and yet wouldn’t stop) for the next lot coming in, and she was so apologetic about it, I felt most embarrassed.

Death and dying. How does one prepare for such a momentous event? Grief we must. But let go we also must. This is one of the noble truths Buddha taught – the truth of suffering; also the truth of impermanence. In Buddhist cosmology, there is no such thing as going to meet your maker and Anna and I have had discussions about what happens after death in Buddhist belief. A famous forest monk Ajan Chah has these words of wisdom: The minute we are born, we start to die. How apt. The cycle of life and death.

Anna is not a fan of religion. But she once told me if there was any religious path she could most relate to, it would be Buddhism.

Anna didn’t need religion. She has many religious qualities which we all aspire to.

We disagree on many things but also agree on many of the crucial ones. She dislikes the Chinese way of scuttling around issues, prefering to nail everything right down to black and white. The Chinese, we like to see shades of grade in everything.

Princess wrote this poem right after Anna was first diagnosed with cancer, in her kidneys. I found it crushed up, in a crumbled bit of paper, in the recycling bin. I am glad I retrieved it. It is to be our lesson.

Let the wind pass away,
Let the rustling leaves blow away,
Let the dust get swept away,
Don’t cling to your beloved,
The lesson is don’t let attachment, teach you its way.
(8 yrs, 2007)

Here is another one of Princess’ poems, found tossed in a scrapbook to be thrown out. I have retrieved this as well…and I think it a perfect description of how most of us who know Anna feel too.

The only thing that makes a flowing droop is the morning dew,
Straight and tall a flower survives the cold night
With the company of dancing leaves
Once admired always admired. (Julia Woolf, 10 yrs, Mar 09)

So, in typical Chinese fashion, here is a "till we meet again" Anna, not a goodbye. Thanks Anna for being a part of our life. Princess, Tony and I will miss you heaps.

For Anna's favourite music and other tributes check out NotPC and Annie Fox

From squeals to meals

The Woolf family just spent our weekend at Mahurangi East. It was a perfect weekend, except for a bit of rain on Monday. Still, Hubby managed to take the 3 Woolf girls and Uncle WaterMelon for spin in the StabiCraft. The waters were kind to us, supplying the fishermen (Hubby and Father In Law) an abundance of fresh snapper.

What really struck me about the Woolf girls this time is how they have grown and how well they seem to be able to occupy themselves. It wasn't so long ago that they have high tendencies to stomp through the bach, making elephants sound gentle.

This Labour Weekend, the stomping seems to have all but dissapeared. The squels and screams haven't stopped but they should be getting less and less, I hope. I also hope they will never turn into sultry teenage girls with no worries outside their own and nothing to say except for the occassional monosyllabic answers teenagers give. I hope they will be charming, loveable and happy girls, chatty and inspiring well into their teenage years.

Making lunch
This Labour Weekend, the Princess, Cousin 1 and Cousin 2 undertook a massive expedition -- they cooked us Labour Day lunch. It was impressive considering they had not much ingredients to work with. They served us tuna pasta (the touch of lime was sheer brilliance!), roasted herb potatoes and for dessert, Summer Splash (chopped pineapple and apples with juic -- perfect). They topped our meal with coffee/tea and put on a splash of spring flowers on the table. During meal times, they were eager and willing to help chop and stir fry. What a change...over a year!

Family meals are crucial. It is around these meal times we get to show our best, and our worst; to define what we stand for, and learn that acceptance of what we are not, or what others are not, can be as meditative an experience as going to listen to a sermon or hear a guru teach. It is around these meals that you get a sense of how hurriedly or slowly a person takes his/her time to take a bite, and sense the rush of taste. It is around these meals that the unspoken speaks more than the words.


I now can hope Princess will cook (when she wants to). The Woolf girls exceeded their appetite for springrolls. They fried mini spring rolls for lunch until they cleaned off Grandma's entire box of spring rolls. They must learn how to reuse used oil, and put away empty food boxes.

I love seeing how the Woolf girls gel, as a pack. It is a mistake to bring a fourth number into this triad. They are at their element when they are three. The bond is strong and enviable as it should be. I feel so lucky for Princess to have such cousins, as I have my own dear cousins in Malaysia.

I remember my own childhood, of weeks spent hiding in the lush guava trees, in my maternal grandfather's backyard. Sometimes, the guavas hang so full on the branches, they are dying for you to pick them but I used to prefer picking the green ones, for use as missiles for "shoot" at my cousins. I remember holidays stomping through muddy red earth at my aunty's house in Kapar Road, fighting with the boys to be treated as an equal, and waiting for mangoesteens that never seem to ripen. I remember the cabin crackers that taste like heaven dipped in black coffee, and how afternoon tea can turn into a brief paradise.

Secret island
Over this weekend, I came to see how boring I had become. The girls dragged me to their "secret island" where they plan to swim in the summer. I had to put sandshoes on, and walked through water and slimmy stones and algae-clothed stones. The water was mostly warm and quite delightful. It took about 20 minutes for us to get around the bay from the beginning of the road...I have been sworn to secrecy, I cannot tell anyone where the place is. Access to their paradise is by invitation only (or whoever is unlucky enough to be dragged out comfy sofas for a walk in the sun.)
At one point, we met an over excited dog...I wasn't quite sure what I would do if he/she started to chase -- lucky for us, we were in knee-high water, and the dog was water shy.

Over the weekend, I comfirmed my status as a hopeless romantic, staying up will 1am to watch and rewatch Jane Austen's Emma, Mansfield Park and Northanger Abbey. I have the same misdeeds, reading and rereading Orson Scott Card's Ender Series, or Tenzin Palmo's Cave in the Snow. What about all the other books I have to read?

The girls watched and rewatched Wild Child (the DVD). I love this part of being a child -- that of doing something repetitive, which can somehow magically provide an endless stream of joy and wonder.

Watching the three girls brave the cold pool, and squealing and splashing, I am reminded this is what childhood is about. Is is also a reminder for us adults that the older we get, the less prone we are to see the magic in everyday life.

We all know now the Woolf girls know how to put on a mean lunch. Also that Aunty Unu can really become a fanatic at housework and does a mean crossword puzzle; and oh, there is hope for the Woolf men in the fishing department, coming home with their first major catch, and that Uncle Watermelon really is a weed murderer par excellence, disguised as a horticulture scientist.

Waste not want not

A couple of weeks ago, in the Saturday edition of the Herald, Canvas ran an article about this lady who is Kiwi but moved to the Aussie outback to escape the hustle and bustle of city life. She wasn’t a natural cook but grabbed onto this idea of writing a book about cooking that would help households save money. Her trick is cooking only 3 days a week. The rest of the week’s meal consists of eating concoctions built around what has been cooked the three days prior.

Fine idea. I like the concept of saving money. The Chinese are great at saving leftovers. There is a fantastic dish mom used to make “Kai Choy” it is called.

Kai choy
What goes into the pot is a medley of leftover roast duck, steamed chick, roast pork, and other bits and pieces from a Chinese New Year banquet. The pot holds together a melting pot of flavours from an assortment of meat.

Gather all your leftovers in a pot, throw is some water, a big handful of dried chillies and a handful of dried tamarin slices; add some sugar and generous helpings of fresh mustard greens (kai choy) and boil them to death. Voila – a cauldron of disintegrated meats and seasoning blend in with the mustard greens to make a part-stew, part tom-yum like dish that is amazingly tasty and appetizing (never mind the look).

We have had occasions in the dining room where my aunties sit around the table spinning yarns as chew on bones and fish mustard greens to savour the sweet and sour and slightly spicy dish.

The Chinese never waste food. Well, the generation that was, that is. These days, I tend to be less conscious of the lessons mom gave me – never ever waster food.

Leftovers were reheated in mom’s home until they were no longer recognizable.
If we had rice leftover, it was turned into fried rice – dressed up with a bit of chopped garlic and leftover meats and some green peas/carrots.

If we had leftover roast pork, it can be brought to live again with a bit of chopped garlic, fried with dark soy sauce and sugar.

If we had bean sprouts that wilted, it was mixed into a batter, and some chopped spring onions and a bit of dried or fresh shrimps, to make a delicious fritter.

When we were young, our great grandmother used to save the not-so-fresh sweet potatoes and boil them for mashing. Mixed with a little tapioca starch and sugar, they were deep fried into potato balls that made a fine breakfast.

Leftover pork lard would be fried to perfection. Sautéed with garlic and chopped fermented beans, the pork lard became crackling -- a dish so divine and sinful.

Wasteful generation
I wonder if Princess’ generation will do the same. I throw out leftovers after a week but it is often done with great guilt. Waste has become so much a part of our lives.

Every generation needs a war, I was told. It is true. My aunties told me they used to eat only sweet potatoes (kumara) as they hid in the jungle during the Japanese invasion of Malaysia. Other families have similar stories.

Let us not forget. Whatever we can save should be saved. The challenge is inspiring our kids to have this consciousness of saving and being frugal. We don’t live like our parents used to live. But we need to remind ourselves that wasting is indeed sinful – not in a Biblical sense but because so many hours/so much resources go into bringing food to our table. I tell Princess – enjoy the food, and be happy when you eat. It is being here now, and enjoying everything on the table, and enjoying the great company around us. Nothing beats that! This is the secret to happiness.

Lessons on life (and organ donation)

Pic: Long Jump medal winners
Pic: Aunty Unu, artist in the making








Brisbane can be intimidating. Its giant highways that snake through the topography make Auckland look like toyland. Brisbane’s wild weather swings capture the best of what it means to be a huge unpredictable country.

It was in Gold Coast – about an hour’s bus ride away from Brisbane International Airport – that we got a taste of what it is like to transplant everything you ever wanted onto a stretch of land that stretches from coast to cost, marked by the ocean that rages on, even at the best of times.

What is it about Gold Coast people? Every other girl walks around in skirts really short, and every other bloke has ugly body marks wrapped around their arms and call them tattoos. The young girls parade their arms, legs, bodies and bums. The guys with or without nice bodies show them off in surf shorts.

You can’t walk away from Gold Coast unimpressed. It is a vast piece of man-made landscape. It has tall buildings straining into the sky, trying to touch the clouds. It is about the only place in the world that has more Thai restaurants than Thailand. And here, you can eat a cup of ice cream with as much gummy bears in it as you want, or go scare yourself to death with death-defying rides in the theme parks.

I am glad I took Princess to the Gold Coast for the 17th World Transplant Games. There she learnt that money can run out pretty quickly if you just spend and spend. Or if you forget the NZ dollar sucks because you loss about 20% everytime you buy an Aussie dollar.

Lessons
There she learnt that sun screen is a must, in the scorching heat, and rehydrating yourself can save you a lot of pain later.

There, she learnt, that time and tide waits for no man and to catch the bus, you actually may be competing with hundreds of others dying to get on the same bus.

There, as an 11 year old, she learnt the arduous discipline of a competitor, waking up to be at breakfast at 5.45am, and getting ready to compete at a venue by 7.30am.

There, she learnt that sometimes you win, and sometimes you lose. Watching the Japanese girl burst into tears when she came last in the 50m sprint told Princess that some people deal with disappointment outwardly, others never show any sign. It is not about losing, but also about how you deal with the aftermath.

There, she learnt that to be gracious when you win is the true mark of an athlete. It is never just about the wins, but also how much compassion you show to others who struggle to do something that doesn’t come as naturally.

There she learnt about what it means to have team mates who cheer for you, and stand in the hot sun to bake, just to watch you race and cheer you across the finish line.

There, she learnt, to give as much as she receives – that to give up a seat to an older couple after a tough day at the fields/tracks can be just as rewarding as winning a medal.

No freak show
There she learnt the lives and tales of other little girls and adults just like her. That she is no freak show.

Transplant patients are a testament to how life can be normal. Sure – there were visible signs of athletes cracking under the heat of the sun, knees giving way, older participants panting and heaving. But there were also plenty of signs of healthy, golden and brown runners or swimmers who dare test their limits and come out as glorious as the sun.

There I go again, thinking about Dr Stephen Munn’s wisdom -- the whole transplant odyssey is about achieving normality. Sure, every now and then Princess comes up against bad liver enzymes showing something is not right. Every now and then, there are those unexplained aches and pains.

But at 11 years old, Princess is a normal kid looking forward to going to intermediate school next year. She greeted her 11 birthday on August 27th at the 17th World Transplant Games in the Gold Coast, with over 1,000 people singing her Happy Birthday and a cake with a computer generated photo of Jacob Black, her beloved from Twilight; and oh, a silver medal in the 25m swim on the same day. How cool is that?

She came home from her school today giggly about the puberty talk and being shown tampon soaked and expanding in water – a silly 11 year old, with a lot more zest for things a lot sillier I suspect.

Family
Hubby came home after a 6-8 week assignment in Wanganui, working on a dairy project, and a boys-only ski weekend.

Aunty Unu, the braveheart that she was, came to the Gold Coast with us to cheer Princess on, forgetting her own troubled battle with cancer, and the 5 zaps she has just had to treat the insidiousness of malignant tumour in her spine.

Grandma took a week out to cheer Princess too and did so well being dragged around by us on so many occasions on our expeditions here and there. So did Aunty Malulu who gave up a week of precious time.

We are a normal family. Leading a somewhat normal life.

The story has to be about the priceless gift of life given to us by some unknown person with a family, just like ours -- probably with hopes and dreams, just like ours.

Spread the message of transplant and organ donation around. There is a life somewhere needing a precious organ.

Transplant Games 2009: An ordinary day, go Kiwis

Aug 23rd 2009 wasn’t like any other day. The sun was shinning in Brisbane’s Broadbeach except it wasn’t ordinary sun. It was a sun coming up to greet thousands of people who had descended on Broadbeach to attend the 17th World Transplant Games.

We are in the Gold Coast at the Transplant Games – a sporting event held bi-annually for transplant patients.

Our first main event was the beach walk – along the spectacular crashing waves, an inflated giant beach ball rolled by various people – 5km to and from the tallest landmark along the beach.

As you look through the long lines of people snaking through the beach, walking to celebrate the gift of life (of organ donation), you forget – despite the ordinariness of a day so hot in Brisbane – that this is far from an ordinary day.

It is most extraordinary to see so many transplant patients and their families and supporters gathered on a beach, being scorched by the hot sun.

Chances are if you turned around, you would have met a boy, a girl, a man, a woman of various ages. Chances are he or she would have been a recipient of an organ, or a donor family, or a family member of a transplant patient. Chances are he or she would have had multiple weeks of hospital stays, heartaches and tremendous quiet suffering that neither you nor I will ever know.

The New Zealand contingent came out full force – 20-0dd transplant patients and a slightly larger number of families and supporters. The air was filled with camaraderie.

We wear our black polos with pride. Afterall, the All Blacks had just won the rugby the night before against the Aussies, and a few Aussies and other nationalities who are keen rugby folks noted the victory. The world may not be able to pronounce New Zealand. But they can say the All Blacks. “What is a Kiwi,” a Canadian couple I met on the beach asks. Hm, how do I explain ways we use the word Kiwi in New Zealand?

The sand was the only cold thing around. The sun was unforgiving and wrathful. We trundled along and back. Sweaty with face like lobsters freshly cooked, we head back to the apartment for a quick shower and change before the next big event. For the athletes it was a group photo shoot. For supporters, getting ready for the big Opening Ceremony.

The Opening Ceremony
It was big, it was bold, and it was truly a showcase of Australia. We were entertained by voices, cheerleaders, dancers, string divas, voice maestros. It was not the crazy stuff that you see on telly with the Beijing Olympics but it was certainly fun and entertaining. It was an hour or two too long – but what the heck, the Aussies have got to strut their best and we sit patiently, waiting for the ceremonies and show to get on, and end. We even gave the host nation a standing ovation when they came in. The race begins in ernest on Monday.

Princess came down with the NZ contingent, looking for our faces as she marches down. The arena is a like a big black cave. We must have looked like bats to her, stuck to our seats. She can’t see us, but we waved and cheered “Go Kiwis”.

I would love to say forget the race but it is hard to forget the competitive aspect on a transplant patient’s life. It is as if every organ recipient has got a bigger story to tell – having conquered death (some of them multiple times), there is always something larger and more challenging.

The sporting competition will always be the sideshow, I think. The main drama is these transplant patients’ constant struggle with coming to terms with how life can be normal, and yet abnormal.

These are the contradictions. You can look a transplant patient in the eye, see his/her joy and triumph, but never their true battle scars. You see them fit as a fiddle and forget they can get very sick and turn custardy the next day. At the games, you even feel almost helpless you are so unfit compared to some of them.

If you have seen the Italian cyclists, you would think Lance Armstrong and Tour de France. These cyclists are slim, sinous and sensationally gorgeous in their tight biking gear. Our Kiwi cyclist’s wife was afraid she might have lost a pump she loaned to the Italians. Trust a Kiwi wife to be so dependable.

At the arena where the 17th World Transplant Athletes marched in, I got a sense of what it felt like to be part of a community – of people who have experienced hope and life.

This Thursday, August 27th, Princess will turn 11. She has had her new liver since June 2004. On Sunday, she will just one of 100 other kids in the games, all transplant kids. The adult athletes total just under 900. She brings with her a diary, her math homework, and an assignment from Mr May her class teacher to jot down things she has done everyday. It will be a hard task to keep to the homework. She would rather watch Sponge Bob on telly.

The sun is scorching. It is 30 degrees outside. Princess is just back from the pools with Aunty Malulu. Tomorrow (Tuesday) is her first event – tennis. Should we practice today? Maybe, maybe not. Lina my friend who lives in Brissy, is coming to visit us. We were thinking shopping?

Princess has been busy collecting pins from other athletes. She is a Kiwi gal. Kiwis are passive aggressive. They are laidback and competitive all at once. They are serious yet fun. The Kiwi contingent will battle the Goliaths in these games – the Aussies, the Brits and the Americans. We maybe a small nation but we are giant totaras – proud and unmovable. Go Kiwis!

Off to Brisbane for World Transplant Games

Three generations of Woolfs head to Brisbane this Saturday at the unearthly check-in time of 4.40am to head to the World Transplant Games. We are all excited, no doubt, except for the prospect of having to wake up at 3.30am to get ready!

Grandma, Aunties (three cheers for Aunty Unu who is just out of one of the world's most killing chemo regimes and out and about with us!), Princess and I are excited about the prospects of seeing other organ recipients run, swim, play golf, and do things most normal people do. Princess hasn't practiced much. But as a liver transplant recipient, she lives a damn normal life. She swims an hour a week, trains for gymnastics between 3 to 4.5 hours lately, and plays tennis for 2 hours on Fridays. In between, there is math tuition, piano and Mandarin lessons. What a full life!

I am excited over seeing a good friend who lives in Brisbane -- her family has dotted on Princess the day they knew her. Also, we are excited about seeing another friend who has also moved from NZ to Brisbane (WHAT IS IT ABOUT BRISBANE THAT ATTRACTS KIWIS?)

Hubby continues to be on site in Wanganui. So he can only cheer from across the ditch.

Brisbane will remind us of the gift of life from our organ donour (from Australia). We stand in constant humble awe and thanks for the precious gift - from an unknown person.

Single sex school anyone?

Lately the debate has surfaced again about the merits of single sex setting for students in New Zealand. The argument is boys learn differently to girls. Another starting bit of statistics that surfaced was that boys were achieving less than girls in national examinations.

I went to an all-girls school -- a Convent to be precise. Did I learn better because I was among girls? I don't think so. Back in my days, the business of education rested in the hands of missionaries. In Klang the popular schools were La Salle (Catholic, ACS (Anglican), High School (hm, I am not sure what denomination this school is but my dad and all my brothers went to this school which was an all-boys' school). For girls' schoool, we had Convent (Catholic), MGS (Methodist) and Bukit Kuda and Raja Zarina.

I learnt one myth growing up (I call this a myth because there has been no statistics to back this) -- girls at Convent are the most "wild" and boy crazy. I never dated a single guy until I was at University. I left home at 17, and my parents let me loose in a world called Canada where I could do almost anything under the sky and they would not know. My parents gave me freedom. They also gave me a solid grounding in the value of not failing, and not doing anything immoral.

In University, the co-ed environment showed me many facets of life. Students snogging at every corner...There was an ease with which the students mixed. I mixed with male students like I have always done, although I was raised in a Convent eeducation. My business was to study, get my degree. That was the focus. Boys? They were by-the-by. They were part of the picture, not the centre, as many moms are prone to be afraid of.

So as the NZ educators go through this process of debating the merits of co-ed or single sex education, I know Hubby and I have made the right decision -- that of sending Princess to a co-ed school. She will start off in an all girls environment from years 7 till 10, and from years 11 till 13 merge with boys in the school. I am cool with that. Hubby and I decided on a school that seemed less academically-skewed and more holistic in their expectations of children -- that your personal is required and the outcomes are less important. I hope Princess gives the blokes a good run for their money.

Of course I am hoping Princess will not get distracted by the boys in her class by the time she reaches year 11. But then, distraction is natural. Shielding a kid from distraction is not natural. Building an artificial environment is definitely not natural.

I am sure that single sex schools can illustrate many merits of their system. I share the view of Nae Nae College Principal -- who was on CloseUp this week -- saying as a nation, NZ's challenge is not about gender-based education, but the inequality in achievements in society. He is in a decile 3 co-ed school (based on the population's socio economic topography), pitched against a decile 10 Auckland Grammar Boys. The Nae Nae College principal's message was this, the school is there to give students a set of life skills, not just academic. I agree.

As an Asian parent, I tend to get very excited about academic achievements. I am learning to let go, a little, and to learn to absorb a different set of values -- that learning is not about regurgitating facts but about being able to look an a situation, a problem, and take it head on -- giving it one's best...the outcomes -- they are often determined by those who try the hardest and not the smartest or richest or ones that go to a certain type of school.

Books -- source of our kids' intellect

If we encountered a man or rare intellect, we should ask him what books he read.
- Ralph Waldo Emerson

This week was Book Week at Princess’ school. It culminated in a Book Character Parade today at 9.15am at the school. Oh what fun it was. Principal came as Cruela de Vil – what good sport. Principal’s assistant was the Wicked Witch with a basket full of poison toadstools. Princess and her friend went as Cat in the Hat.

There was Yoda, my favourite. Indiana Jones, another favourite. There were Edwards and Bellas (from the recent Twilight series). One class formed a huge Hungry Caterpillar. We spotted Wally and Caesar, and Robin Hood. Sponge Bob, Bob the Builder and Thomas the Tank Engine were all on parade.

It was fun for the kids. An entire school, including the school caretaker, got to dress up as a character (from a book, oh well, film that made it to bookdom as well).

How many nights have I spent reading and reading Mrs Gaddy the Ghost? How many times since Princess was 3 months did I read and reread Brown bear, brown bear what do you see….and how many times did we read Maurice Sendak’s Where the Wild Things are? Or We are going on a bear hunt, we’re going to catch a big one…???

I loved every memory of our bedtime reading. Princess has moved beyond bear hunts and Mrs Gaddy. She is onto bigger books. Her current reading list is an eclectic mix of Lang Lang's Journey of a Thousand Miles (world famous pianist’s biography), Anne Frank’s Diary; and a couple of other popular books for teenagers. She told me today none of her classmates knew the quiz question on The Secret Garden. I am glad I introduced her early to Frances Hodgson Burnett. Between then and now, we have built quite a library. Last year, we parted finally, with Geronimo Stilton, our beloved reporter mouse with a small heart. We also sold our entire Roald Dahl collection on Trade Me. The sale was sad but necessary. Space at home is finite. Our love for books is infinite. We are clutching onto an entire collection of Lemony Snickett, and a whole series of Colin Thompson's How to Live Forever and others.

I have no regrets spending all the money I spent on books. I am sure I will buy more as the years go by but we are at this space where I can share books with Princess. I would still like her to read teenage books though she has read bits of April Fool’s Day and found it too depressing to move on. She has also read parts of my Orson Scott-Card’s Ender’s Game and yet to catch on to the story-telling brilliance ala Scott-Card.

Books are a treasure. We don’t put dog ears on our books. We don’t deface books by scribbling on them. We don’t stress their spines by folding a whole lot of pages together. Books are almost objects of worship at home. They give us a space to retreat, to reminisce, to laugh, to wonder, to inspire, and renew ourselves daily. Ah, the beauty we call books!