The Sight of My Father's Back

Father appeared in my dream recently. As usual, just like when he was alive, he was quiet and only smiled slightly in the dream. After that dream, I recalled bits and pieces about him. The first mind picture I had was Dounan Railway Station. That was one sunny afternoon in 1974. I stood by my father waiting for his North-bound train to return home. I was then serving my obligatory military service at Huwei Air Force Cadet Training Centre, and father himself rode one early South-bound train to where I was stationed to see me.

Out of missing me and concerning of my winter clothing, he spontaneously decided to bring some home-made food and some warm jackets to come to Huwei to see me. His appearance at the visitor's reception quarter that afternoon was beyond my expectation, so when I was paged for a meeting at the reception quarter of the camp entrance gate, I was puzzled.

When I rode my bike to rush to the camp gate from my office, I saw a medium height, solid built body with crew cut hair figure from a distance. I recognized it was father, both hands carrying bags of stuff. My mind was deeply touched upon seeing father, especially by his bothering to travel whole day in order to hand me some comfort.

He was not talkative. Apart from basic questioning about my living details in the camp, silence filled up most of the time of our being together. I briefly guided him through the barrack, and before long, it was about time to leave for catching his return train to Taipei.

I gave my father a lift with my bumping bike to Dounan Station 5 km away. While waiting for train on the platform, he became more talkative, and it was all about how I should be looking after myself well while being away from home. Soon, the train slowly rumbled in and put an halt by the platform. I saw from his back, noticed a slight bent over it. At that moment, the sight of his back made me recalled his being the most pampered only natural son of Chen family during his childhood and youthhood. And now, he was 59. Man did age after all. He entered the carriage, waved his hand signalling me to return to camp safely. My eyes welled up with tears at this moment till the train moved out of my sight.

The reminiscence of that episode about seeing my father off on the platform of Doulan Railway Station connected my thought to the short story titled "The sight of father's back (背影)“ written by Zhu Ziqing, a prominent literature scholar (1898-1948). Every Junior high school student in Taiwan read this article in their year two Chinese textbook. In the story, Zhu mentioned about how their originally well-off family became a shabby one and how his father, facing the worsening family setback, reacted to peoples and matters. Zhu Ziqing filled the story with great deal of emotions both his father's and his own. I was so moved when I reread the story that I intended to write some of the stories about my father.

Father was born to a wealthy family in 1915. My grandfather, being a well-known carpenter and furniture trader, had earned a big fortune for Chen family and owned many farming lands. Apprently my grandmother had had infertility problem since her marriage, as she bore her only son, my father at age 36. My uncle was adopted a few years before my grandmother got pregnancy. People in those days believed adopting a child, especially a boy, would increase high chance of a boy born to this family. (people in picture, from left: my aunt, my mother, my grandmother, my grand father, my father, my uncle)

So my father, being the only natural son of Chen family, was deeply pampered. He at a stage of his childhood, loved raising pets such as rabbit, bird. My mother was the one to tidy up the droppings. At another stage in his early youthhood, his interest changed to radio. When he heard that a new radio product was available in the market, one of my grandfather's apprentices would be assigned to escort him by riding a bicycle to Taichung City about 25 km away to buy one.

Life began to challenge my father from around the time when a 7.1 Richter scale earthquake hit the middle part of Taiwan and flattened our dwelling in 1935. Followed by my grandfather's death at age 59 in 1938, and the eruption of World War II in 1939. Consequently the timber supply for our furniture trade was cut off. Father was lacking of trade skill but he had to pick up the responsibility of Chen family's livelihood after my grandfather's demise.

To a young man in his mid 20's of age, being raised up in a fully protected circumstance, and lacking of trade skill, making a living to support a family of 7 in that tough situation was really difficult. So year after year, the whole family could only live on the reserve saved during grandfather's day.

Father's life challenges were not just from the three big incidents. There were many other heart breaking events arose before 1948. They lost three children. The first kid they lost was a boy killed in the 1935 Taichung Earthquake. The second was a girl whom my mother described as the most beautiful girl, named 'Hilei', she had ever seen, died from flu epidemic. The third was a boy died, again from flu epidemic, in his infancy in 1948. So if all of them survived, there should be 9 children all together in our family. (picture shows Chen's extended family in 1954, front row from left: 2nd cousin, my aunt, my mother holding my sister, my father, 1st sister, 4th sister; back row from left: 2nd sister, 3rd cousin, 3rd sister. Uncle was in Japan, 1st and 3rd cousin were visiting their father in Japan, so they were not in this photo.)

Since the government had enacted the Land Reform program in 1950, Chen family began to lose its status as a landlord. My memory that I had seen a rice paddy owned by our family was in 1955 or 1956. I think after 1960, all my father owned was a very old dwelling with a grocery shop in the Ching Shui township and a household of 8 members to feed. Anyone who has to went through these long term challenges will definitely develop anxiety and/or depression. My father did not show this symptom, but his short tempered personality must have something to do with it.

Father was a serious, strong willed, inflexible, easy to be offended type of person. This type of personality made him quite unpopular in the community.

We ran a grocery shop before 1967. Most of the time, the shop was managed by my mother and 3rd sister. My father took over the shift between 8pm to 2am. Now and then, he looked after the shop during the daytime when 3rd sister rode bike to the neighboring town, Salu, to pick up our orders of cigarette and wine for resale, and mother left for a while to cook lunch and dinner. Quite a few times, when father was in charge, I witnessed a few times during my childhood how he either upset the customer or being upset by the customer, anyway that resulted in unpleasant serious quarrels in our shop. So a close friend of our family advised my father to avoid showing up in the shop as it only discouraged customers to walk in. Therefore my father quit the involvement in running the shop eventually, and left for the neighboring town to work as a band saw technician for a timber mill.

It is understandable why had father developed into an unwelcoming person. That was all to do with his being overly pampered and protected when he was young. However, father was basically a righteous, sympathizing, trustworthy, courageous person. He never had problem getting along with decent people.

Having been in their 56 year long marriage life, my mother's comment about father must be the fairest one, "your dad does not know how to express his feeling and emotion", mum once said when she was alive.

Indeed father was very bad at expressing his inside world. All I can recall from my childhood memory, he never had kissed, hugged me; never had played any game with me; never had told me any story, however, I believed his love to me was profound. He had been trying to show his intimacy to us children, but just did not how to do it right.

One evening, when I was about 12 years old, he, out of nowhere, had this idea of giving me a treat, watching a live singing and dancing show. It was very weird, as we all knew father never had watched a movie or show before. And I never knew what was in his mind that evening when he asked me if I'd like to watch the show with him.

I remembered I was very excited from this surprising treat. I still remembered vividly that show was presented by a girls' group named Yu Xia girls singing and dancing troupe (玉霞女子歌舞團). But I had no idea what their show was all about.

We bought the tickets from the box office window, entered the theater and seated. Soon the program started. The brass band of this troupe played a very rocking exciting overture, then, a row of about 12 girls, danced out from both sides of the stage following the rhythm of the music kicking their legs up and down. And, gee..., every single one was in bikini. At age of 12, I was sort of aware of sexuality, but being in a conservative society in early 60's, I felt terribly awkward at that instant moment watching bikini girls with constantly serious dad next to me.

Father's usually serious facial expression made him not so popular in the community. However, his caring mind toward people in hardship was warm, and that was manifested in his action in silence.

He quietly gave money to beggars without even mentioned to mum for her praising on his kind deed. Mum told me that once she saw dad did this without his being aware of her watching from distance. She concluded father was soft minded but stink faced.

The feature of his personality traits made him a mighty defender for his married daughters and nieces. Before 1970's in Taiwan, domestic violence was more or less seen in most households. This was not an exception to many of my sisters and cousins who had married. It must be a horrified experience to my sisters when they were attacked by their spouse in over-heated quarrels that they cried home to report to my mother for solace.

This was what had been kept in my memory about one of the daughter defending episodes occurred when I was about 11 years old. Once in an afternoon I saw sister cried in mum's arms, and mum was sort of condemning and cursing her son-in-law's misconduct. Father was watching all this quietly. Then, suddenly we noticed father was disappeared. Mum's intuition told her father was rushing to sister's home to give her husband a lesson. Mum became worried about what might be happening between father and the son-in-law under that furious atmosphere.

Before father returned, sister took the evening bus home. After all, she was married, and to Chinese tradition, particularly before 1960's, there was no return to the maiden home for a married daughter.

Apparently father's sudden appearance at my brother's home with his innate 'stink' face had given the son-in-law an effective warning of "no more violence!"

Similar incidents happened to my other sisters and cousins, too. Every time father's silent but mad face successfully suppressed his son-in-laws' rude behaviors. So all my sisters commented that father was the bravest one in the world, while the brother-in-laws who'd ever made trouble all claimed "you'd better behave yourself if you want to see a smiley dad appearing before you."

To my sisters, father was a hero, a brave man. He seemed to be an unbeatable figure. Unexpectedly in September 1988, he was rushed to hospital and was diagnosed brain stroke. Followed by many complications and went through a major operation in his stomach. Throughout his life, I never heard him sighed or groaned once even in great discomfort when he was hospitalized. According to mother, he never had shed tears. "Being a brave man is the core objective of Japanese education", mum said. Dad had accepted 9 years of Japanese education during its ruling in Taiwan. (picture shows dad in a tour to a pearl company during his visit to uncle in Japan in 1963.)

During the four month time in hospital, father's only older brother flew back from Japan to see him. They might had met each other for about five times only in their lives since uncle migrated to Japan in early 1940's.

I was standing by father's bed side in the hospital when uncle walked into the ward. Uncle bent over to talk some comfort words to dad. Father's eyes showed great surprise upon recognizing his dear brother. Though he had lost speech ability, he could hear voice. He shed tears for the first time in his life after having heard his brother's words.

After about four months of many attempts of getting his series of complications fixed in the hospital, all failed, on 23/02/1989, father left this world. To my sisters, his strong will and unbeatable courage is always with them. As to me, it is always his meeting me at the Dounan Railway Station platform and the sight of his back.

A Baby Boomer's Memory

Born in 1951, I am a baby boomer. Recently when I get a chance to be meeting with friends of my age group, the chatting topics are more or less related to the planning of retirement. Indeed, the baby boom generation has entered their retiring stage of life.

What a shame, time has to pass by so swiftly that all of a sudden I am turning 60. Now recalling my childhood memories in 1950's, it feels like just a short moment ago. From time to time, I fall into the dream-like past. I think I should pass these bits and pieces of my childhood memories onto my children.

Taiwan of 1950's was still in its agricultural economy. Being an agriculture island, the living style in those days was simple and hard. A rice farmer worked so hard whole year round in the paddy with his water buffalo could only expect to feed his family without much surplus for saving in the bank. If there was a typhoon hit unfortunately, then the whole family got to cut their food in order to make end meet. Sometimes, the loss was too big to fix, selling child was not unusual. My mother was actually an example of this misfortune. Her story is accessible in this link.

We owned some farming land in my grandfather's day. During 1950's, KMT government launched Land Reform program aiming to improve farmers' living and divert the landlords' asset to investing in other industrial projects. This program, as I had heard vaguely from my father when I was young, made a lot of farmers cheerful and many resentful landlords at the same time. I could sense what my father felt about the Land Reform from his admonishing to me a few times that I should never get involved in politics.

Before all our lands were transferred to the farmers, we managed a small piece of land by our selves. That was my last impression of our family's farm land. One day, I think it was an autumn afternoon, I was brought along to that land.

It was the harvesting day of our rice paddy. We hired a couple of farmers to do the job as none of our family members was able to do such tough task. To local customary, the employer was supposed to provide daily the three meals plus two refreshments for the breaks in between the meals.

I was not yet at the school age, but I have retained a vivid memory of that day's field visit till now, so I should be around four or five years old then.

Three of my elder sisters hand carried the lunch to the harvesting site for the farm workers at the mid day. The sun was scorching hot. When we arrived, sister ran to ask the farmers to stop for a lunch break. I saw them walked out of the rice paddy with a broad rimmed cone top bamboo leave hat on their heads and a thin shorts only on their body. Their skin was almost dark brown. They smiled, and their eyes beamed at the food placed on the ground attentively as if they had been starved for a long time.

We waited nearby under the tree shade for the farmers to finish their lunch. While waiting, I felt the pleasure radiated from the farmers. The surrounding was very quiet only now and then saw some wild ducks flew high in the sky chirping back and forth. I was fascinated by the birds' singing. I listened so tentatively that my 3rd sister also joined me in watching the flying birds in the sky and mimicking their sound. Their tone sounded like huu-huu-gei-gei....huu-huu-gei-gei...repeatedly. I asked my sister what was the bird saying? Sister said, "they are saying 'look, look, I am getting married, I am getting married'." At that moment I thought sister was very smart that she understood bird's language.

Another bit memory recorded during this paddy visit was rather embarrassing to mention, but it reflected the hygiene level of that era. I suddenly had a strong urge to toilet when I was playing. I told 3rd sister my need. She looked around the surrounding to make sure no one was coming toward us and then she asked me to poo right at that spot. She proceeded to pull my shorts down. Feeling embarrassed for being exposed to others' eyeshot, I held my shorts tightly. Sister said to me, "I cover you from their viewing and you be quick!" Her tone was rather anxious.

So I pulled down the shorts myself and squatted down and did a quick poo. Then, another problem came up, no toilet paper. In 1950's Taiwan, the toilet paper was as abrasive as the packaging tray of eggs. It looked like they were made of rice stalk because of its yellowish color and the stem chips were visible. But it was reasonable for the lowest grade of paper being used to wipe the bum clean. The problem was sister did not bring toilet paper along on that day.

She searched with her eyeshot on the ground and picked up a stone as big as a golf ball with the smoothest surface to give to me. I think I was pretty smart then as I got what she meant with that stone. I grabbed it and gently scratched my ass hole, threw that stone away, and pulled up my shorts. Felt relieved.

As a post World-War II baby boomer, we have witnessed and experienced the dramatic changes and improvement of living standard.

I am most impressed by the evolution of toilet happened during our generation. Until mid 1960's, almost all of the toilets, my home's, schools', bus station's, were of the type as shown in the sketch. On the center of the raised platform is a ditch with a slop leading to a big cavity in the ground outside of the house, and you know that's where all the shit and urine go to through that sliding slop. When you use the toilet, you firstly step up the two stairs and enter the cubicle, turn around, step one foot across the ditch, squat down and then you are ready to go. Oh yes, remember to close the door. Outside at the back of the cubicle is a wooden lid that covers up the waste storing cavity to prevent people from stepping into the hole.

Naturally it is always very stinky even though the toilet cubicle is usually built with maximum ventilation openings on the top. So it is normally located seprately from the house. Summer in Taiwan is hot and this makes the smell in the cubicle terrible.

Who empties the waste for you? Expensive?

Well, no fee charged for the removal of the waste, nonetheless, now and then, we even saw a bunch of vegetable was left by the lid of the waste storing cavity for us. The kind farmer who fetched the waste to use as fertilizer for his farm land did this as a return for using the free fertilizer.

So because of the nature of this kind of toilet facility, the stinky smell makes every user only occupies it as short a time as they can. In contrary to modern toilet which some users bring their books or newspaper in to read while the major task is being done. So I suppose that was why constipation was rarely heard of in the olden day, because everyone can not wait to run away from it as soon as the feat is done.

Once, when I was about 10 years old, I used the toilet early one winter morning. I heard some noise from outside of the cubicle when I was only half way through my bowl movement, suddenly a good blow of wind carrying the most vintage odor of the waste hit my buttock and my smell sensor. I realized that was that kind farmer doing his respectful deed. I held my breath, skillfully stopped at where I was, rapidly wiped the butt clean and rushed out of the cubicle, almost suffocated.

Then in 1963, we moved to live in a new house which had two toilets both were of the flux type of modern standard. What a big leap of toilet evolution.

I also saw a calculator as heavy as some 10 kgs. I used it myself actually, when I was in my military service at the Cadet Training Center in 1974, for summing up cadets competence assessments. Within just 4 years, in 1979, I was shown by my colleague his pocket calculator powered by one AAA battery, doing faster calculation than the one I used earlier.

Then the baby boomer saw many other things changed in rapid modification process: mobile phone, computer, television, data storage device, recorder, video camera, and such and such, the list goes on. All are appealing to make our life easier and happier. But are people's life easier and happier now compared to 1950's?

The baby boomer say: nope! Pursuing only the material pleasure is not the answer for happiness, there got to be some other stuff we have overlooked.

Mind Chatter - Self-talker in the mind

I can not recall the approximate time, now, when did I begin to notice there was a chatter inside me. The chatter I am talking about here is not a hallucinative one which whispers into our ears, but the one that comes out of the ego from our minds. Or may be I should term it the mind self-talker.

For a brief experiment on myself. I stop writing this post at this point. I close my eyes with an intention of still my thought and see what goes on during the following one minute.

Now I recount what have arisen in the mind. First of all the chatter started "Gee, it is chilly today" "it is cloudy" "what am I doing" "a mind chatter experiment" "what is Robbie doing? on the web? He got a good job." "why my mind is so busy?" "what to write in the blog?" "something that I have experienced." "Chenny promised to broaden his guitar teaching a bit, to include classical guitar music".

To my personal view point, the content that flashed through my mind in the one minute experiment is like a mass of entangled thread. It is possible to be guided toward a desired topic, but once there, it freely jumps onto something else, and just a short moment later it is gone to another one. It is like a curious wild monkey being put on a leash, but never settles down at any time.

If we look into our mind closely we will only then realize our mind is constantly talking and chatting all the time till we fall into sleep. Or perhaps even most of the time during sleep, the mind is still restlessly talking itself into the dream. This incessant mind chatting may result in poor productivity, inefficiency, chronicle fatigue, and eventually become a stubborn part of us that we find it annoying but we just tightly embrace it and react to it. And many of us, unfortunate enough, end up having to rely on sleeping pills, to take anti-depressant, or to consult mental health professionals.

Don't scare me! It is not that serious!

But it is true. I have heard of an estimated figure that one-fourth of the world population will experience some form of mental problem in any given year.

May be you will argue that you only think about happy stuff. Your mind chatting topics are all surrounding good and peaceful notions. Then, I congratulate you that you may be put in the lucky three-fourth world population.

However, according to law of impermanence, there is just nothing that will remain the same permanently. At least we all have to go through the major life issues - aging, sickness and death, each of which will throw us into pathetic mind chatting for sure.

I suppose that 2500 years ago when Prince Siddhatha found the way of ceasing the wandering thoughts and achieved Buddhahood, he realized the cause of suffering was this constant mind chatter that sooner or later leads us into thoughts of craving, hatred and ignorance if we don't get them under control. He decided to walk into the world to teach all the beings the technique of genuine awakening.

Recently I came across this passage when I was searching for discussion group on this topic in Chinese web pages: "狂心若歇﹐歇即菩提" which means "Once the wandering thought ceases, the wisdom emerges." (Please forgive me if my translation is off the original meaning too much.) This text is said to be originated from Surangama Sutra, and has made me ponder on how to tame the wandering mind.

So in the past three years since I was introduced to the Pure Land path, I have been at the same time in quest for the possibility of putting this wandering mind, or mind chatter, at ease, hoping to gain at least some happiness if not the complete awakening.

All the techniques had been tried. Sitting Zen, sutra chanting, visualization, walking meditation, mindfulness training, observing precepts, guided meditation and some mundane methods were adopted at different stage of the quest but the anticipated outcome was dim.

Finally came Master Chin Kung's persuasive explanation about why Buddha most recommended the method of chanting Amituofo to followers of this era.

Because the mind chatter has evolved to be far more stubborn and polluted by today's worldly temptation than the one in ancient days. Now that it is almost impossible to cease its constant chatting, we can coax it into chanting Amituofo. When the chanting becomes the whole thing of the chatter, that state is equivalent to enlightenment.

The logic is convincing to me. What about you?

DIY - do it yourself

Do it yourself - DIY, has been part of my everyday living since we moved to New Zealand in 1992. Not only because I am passionate with it, but also because I need to. When your mere income is the sole support of the whole family, you can become a DIY man more easily.

So as I recount now about what projects or repairs I have done in the past 17 years, I feel great, pride and awesomeness in me.

Compared to other giant DIYers who are able to build their own garden shed; construct their own BBQ area; lift the car engine, fix it and put it back, my DIY projects are nothing, but the passion of doing it myself is the same considering I can only do it after work and have to spend time with my small children.

As far as I can remember, the list covers: leaking taps, burnt light bulbs, leaking toilet flush tank, washing machine blocked, broken gutter, TV antenna connection gone loose, interior wall painting, motorized window of the car stuck, tire gone flat, repairing children's toys, repairing lawn mower, making working bench, felling a tree, and the list goes on.

The one among the repaired list that brought me the most self-satisfaction is this Ryobi brand petrol powered edge trimmer.

A few years ago, I convinced my wife that we needed a petrol powered edge trimmer as our previous one, a Ryobi brand also, an electric model powered by a rechargeable battery was not powerful enough to do a good job. She nodded.

I went to the garden tool section of a big hardware shop. Dear me! The cheapest model of the petrol powered range was from 300 mark. The electric range was much cheaper, around 150 mark, but my friend commented it as wasting money. Ryobi was priced at the low end and its design looked smart to me, so I selected it, made payment and came home excitedly.

The next day was a weekend. I unpacked it, read the manual, filled the fuel tank with the right petrol mixture and walked to the garden anticipating an easy start-up and a good job done.

Unfortunately it didn't respond to the first pull. "Never mind, this is normal." I thought to myself. Second pull, no response. I made sure I primed the carburetor, and set the choke fully closed. Third pull, no. Fourth pull, no! I began to be anxious. Fifth, sixth, no, no. I began to pant, I began to feel frustration. It ended up with a frustrated day.

The next day I returned the machine to the dealer. The person on duty that day was a senior staff. He seemed quite experienced. Having heard of my complaint, he rolled up his sleeves and had a try himself. One, two, three, four, I could see sweat started wetting his face, oooops! the string would not retract after the last pull.

He agreed something was wrong with it and gave me a replacement of the same model. He tested on the new one. Within four or five pulls, the machine roared. That was normal. I thanked his assistance and went home.

What happened after the new one arrived home? Not an enjoyable trimming experience! It stopped before the whole round was completed, and could not be started again. The second and third time of using it were nightmare, too. And the fourth time was the last time I failed in getting it work and decided to give it up.

Why I didn't return it to the dealer for another replacement this time? Well, when I recalled how that technician sweated and panted in trying to get it started, I felt sorry for him. And I thought my DIY talent might sort it out myself one day.

Every time I mowed the lawn, my mind went to that trimmer. Now and then, I took it out to try my luck to revive it, and it remained no hope at all. So I had been dealing with the messy tall grass along the fence with my bare hands since then.

Once I chanced upon a garden tool dealer in a shopping centre. I told him my trimmer's problem. He said it was a very common problem to trimmers and suggested a service to it for 100 bucks. I was reluctant to accept his offer having had the start-up problem ingrained in my memory.

The other time, I passed by another garden equipment shop in Mairangi Bay. I asked the shop keeper if they repaired engine trimmer. He asked what brand was my machine. I gave the name. He smiled mysteriously and said "we only service those serviceable brands...".

One day, I had this idea of servicing this machine myself, DIY! I searched on the web for information about repairing trimmers and luckily landed on the page which carried this savoir video. This video gave me detailed knowledge about the trimmer, most of all it reminded me of my DIY spirit.

On the next day, I set out to remove the carburetor from the machine and dismantled the whole thing according to what I had learned from the video. Soon all the parts were laid out on the working bench. The main body of the carburetor is like a bee hive having many tiny holes on all sides of the cube. A rubber cap, a membrane made from plastic film, a diaphragm attached to the bottom of the unit. I imagined how the petrol was pumped into the cube by the dome shaped rubber cap, how it then flew to the bottom part in the small reservoir, and how the movement of the piston of the engine sucked the fuel through the tiny hole from which the liquid fuel turns into mass of droplets like mist and finally into the combustion chamber of the engine.

Wow! the design is really amazing. Any part in this small mechanism fails will simply make the user frustrated. My trimmer had only been used three or four times since purchased, so why it just could not be fired no matter how I hard I tried?

I bought a can of WD40, a solvent based cleaner spray, to cleanse all the tunnels in the cube till I was sure not any dirt blocking in the veins. Then, I assembled the unit and attached it back to the machine carefully after thorough study on this important mechanism.

I couldn't wait to go a test. I filled up the tank with petro, manually pour about 20cc of petro through the carb into the engine. And pulled. One pull, two pull, urmmmm. It roared beautifully. A big smile came up my face and my heart beats hiked. But it stopped after two or three seconds. I supposed the fuel I manually poured in had run out and the supply from the carb was not immediately followed.

I repeated the same process a few times and saw the same problem persistent.Then I guessed the ratio of fresh air and the petrol droplets could be too low and caused the stop. So I turned the choke lever to the middle setting which would reduce the fresh air flow by half the volume. Then, one pull, two pulls, third pull, Urmmm---, hurray! it worked continually. Dreading it might stop at any time, I used it to trim the edges of the whole garden and it still ran.

So this was how I revived my edge trimmer through DIY. And this one is ranked the top one of my most unforgettable DIY accomplishment.

A memorable Transistor Radio

The fine music from Concert FM is in the background while I am writing this post. This red portable Panasonic transistor radio has been with us, the Chen family, since 1982. It is very old to a radio and yet it is still working nicely.

It is very memorable to me because it has witnessed quite a few important events in the Chen family since the day it was 'adopted' by my father in 1982.

In an early morning walk in the summer, my father and mother heard some sound from the roadside where they were passing by on the way home. Tracing where was the sound from, they found this lovely red radio lying on the roadside like a crying baby. My father picked it up, tenderly dusted off the dirts and then 'adopted' it.

It brought news, music and other entertainments to my father and mother while they sewed umbrellas for the factory as a passing time job. The sound quality was perfect. It loyally accompanied dad and mum when we were away at works.

In September 1982, not long after it was 'adopted', my daughter was born. This was the first baby that Chen family had longed for since Jean and I married 5 years earlier. My father sometimes used his 'adopted' radio to entertain his beloved grand daughter by turning to the right volum and placing it by Tessie's pillow to accompany her through a sound nap.

In October 1987, this radio witnessed the most joyful event of this old couple, the birth of our son Chenny. This boy baby of Chen family was one of the wishes they had been prayed for since our marriage 10 years earlier. Having a boy born to the family is a very important thing according to Chinese tradition. Mum and dad ever commented that this 'adopted' radio did bring the family luckiness.

In September 1988, dad was sent to hospital due to a serious stroke. The attendant whom I employed to look after my father during the wrok days in the hospital complained that it was boring in the ward. I thought of this radio and lent it to him. Thus, he got some form of entertainment and my father could see his 'adopted' radio sitting on his bedside. During the weekend, it was my turn to look after father at the hospital, and I could experience the importance of this radio to both the patient and the attendant.

Father died of some complications after 5 month hospitalization. In February 1989, his doctor discharged him from hospital so that he could pass away in his own home. This is a tradition held by my parent's generation. So this radio followed father to our home and was kept silent for some time after father's death.

It must be such a memorable item that when we were packing up for immigration to New Zealand, we put it carefully in the seafreight parcels. And here this lovely radio has been with us in New Zealand.

In the last 3 years, I have been working from home as Programme Advisor for an organization called Kiwi Ora. Working from home can make one feel quite isolated, so I unconciously found this radio from the cabinet and set it up. Ah! it is still sounding perfect, and it has accompanied me through the days working as a Kiwi Ora PA.

Recently, my son showed off his high tech i-pod to me in my home office. Without hesitation, I pulled him to the desk side where this radio sit and told him the history of this red machine. He remained silence for quite a while, looked as if he had relized the value of time and caring.

Introducing Mrs. Lee's art works

This Chinese character means Buddha. It was written, or I should say, painted on a framed canvas with color oil paints, by Mrs. Lee, our family friend. It looks like she is doing calligraphy on this character. But, traditionally, Chinese calligraphy is done on absorbent cotton paper with water based black ink, while this work is done on canvas with oil based color paint.

Mrs. Lee calls her painging style "Buddha Calligraphy Oil Painting". The style name implies that all her works are surrounding on this Chinese character "Buddha" exclusively; are in various calligraphy patterns; and are done with oil painting skills.

Mrs. Lee loves oil painting. She loves the richness of its colors. She tried to describe for me about how she was overwhelmed by the antient oil painting works displayed in Louvre Museum when she visited Paris ten or more years ago. "That sudden wonder I had upon viewing those art works was hard for me to describe. Perhaps the seed of my fondness of oil painting was nurtured by those masterpieces at that moment and started its sprouting. I had been pondering on oil painting works after we left Paris."

About five years ago, Mrs. Lee was referred to Master Chin Kung's DVD lectures on Buddhism. Through learning Buddhism together with her husband, her spiritual practice progressed steadily. She learned from Master Chin Kung that by observing precepts so one can attain concentration; by holding concentration so one attains wisdom, the perfect state of enlightenment. During this stage she had the idea of practicing concentration by doing calligraphy.

"I think now that I am a devoted Buddhist, why not begin my practice on the 佛﹐Buddha?" So she did her first calligraphy of 佛﹐Buddha, in the conventional way, by using paint brush, ink stone, ink tray, and absorbent cotton paper.

She gazed at her calligraphy upon its completion for a while, at that moment, the feeling she had buried in her mind after that visit to the Louvre Museum sprang out. The idea of integrating the three areas - spiritual practice, calligraphy and oil painting, emerged. Not long after that wonderful inventive day, she had all the materials need for the so called "Buddha calligraphy oil painting" ready in her studio.

"I usually enter a blissful mind state when I work on this art, no exception," she said, "it has been my method of cultivating concentration, and my way of getting solace whenever I have any worrying thing in my mind."

I noticed that one of the pieces was a 佛 riding on space shuttle, and I asked her what was in her mind when she combined this two mutually contradicting subjects into one picture. She said, "The public has misunderstood Buddhism as being superstitious, while as a matter of fact Buddhism exists everywhere throughout the univers, in our daily living, so I was trying to tell the spectators even the success in launching a space shuttle which is the product of all the top forms of science and engineering is the manifestation of Buddha nature."

As time goes by, her works is cramming up her small studio, so she has another idea. "I had this strong urge of sharing my enjoyment from doing Buddha calligraphy oil painting with others." she said.

Mr. Lee, her husband, is also a very devoted Buddhist. He organized a Buddhism learning group on the North Shore. He helped to give many items of his wife's art work away through the Buddhist group.

Yet, she wants to spread her joy to many more other groups. I asked her what kind of price would she put on her works.

"The materials are affordable to me, my labor and time are the offerings to Buddhism, so I am very happy to give away free," she said, "but if anyone who does feel the blissfulness from the works is willing to share the cost, they can pay whatever amount they like as donation to Amitabha North Shore Association".

Being moved by her devotion to Buddhism and her pursuit of Dharmic bliss, I volunteered to construct a website for her to publicize her ideas and artworks.

So this concludes the story of Mrs. Lee's unique Buddha Calligraphy Oil Painting.

A Cross-generation Friendship

This young fella is known as Robbie. He has been my colleague, English teacher, playmate, or in the modern term, my buddy since that day when he introduced himself to me in 2003. As his age is the same of my own kid, I take this friendship with him as a cross-generation one.

The stories started from 21st October 2003, the first day of the three day training program which our company, Ora Limited, sent us to for our learning of moderation skills. Ora is a private training establishment providing a distant learning programme titled Kiwi Ora to deliver knowledge about the basics of New Zealand to new immigrants who enrolled.

It was a clear spring morning. The training was undergoing in Wesley Community Centre in Auckland. Peter, the trainer, had just finished his first class of the day and announced a 20 minute tea break. So we walked out of the classroom for a good breath of air and mingling with colleagues we had not seen before.

As I was leaning on the veranda rail outside of the classroom, gazing afar, recollecting what had been taught in the first class, a young man with a backpack walked briskly up the flight of stairs, sort of in haste, toward me.

"Hi!" he said to me, panted a bit. "Hi!" I greeted back, "my name is Morris. Are you coming for the training?". "Yes," he said, "My name is Robbie. I am a newly recruited advisor. The second head in the office just informed me of the training this morning. It is my commencing day today, so I came from office to join in the class. I must have missed the first period..."

The conversation went on. I knew he was from Taiwan at age 6 with his parents. He had just graduated from Auckland University, was major in Education, worked for Federal Express in the last six months, and bits and pieces of other topics till the trainer swinged the bell to call us in.

The second class was game related to the training. The trainees were divided into 3 groups to be in the game. Robbie was naturally invited to join our group. His English proficiency, nimble movement required by the game made the elder and ESL (English second language) members of our group less stressful.

Robbie and I became close friend during the three days. Soon the three day training was over and we went back to work routine from own home office relying on telephone and internet to contact the Kiwi Ora students and the outside world.

Computer skills is an important part of our everyday job as a Kiwi Ora advisor. We were supposed to be able to use the Office softwares and general office equipments well. We had to deal with trouble-shooting in case of paper jam on printer or fax machine, computer system crash, internet disruption, virus issues and etc. Under this circumstance, someone like Robbie who was recognised as computer expert among advisors became very important, and often called out to the rescue of other advisors'.

I was quite good at keeping the office equipments run smoothly, however, from time to time the Windows system, virus or internet could go wrong inevitably and these problems were beyond my computer knowledge.

Once, my internet connection was lost. Robbie came to check all the possible problems but found none. The last option would be running a system restoration which was very time consuming. Without a frown, Robbie moved my notebook to his home and spent one whole night to get it up and running.

Another time of Robbie's big help given to my computer was when I shifted to another place in October 2004. The internet connection was lost again. He just worked on it for me with enthusiasm.

His regular contact with me via e-mail and text message through mobile phone means I have a private tutor teaching me English. At the begining stage of my involvement in Kiwi Ora, it took me at least 15 minutes to finish writing a short e-mail. Through constant practice in writing messages to him, I am now able to write a lengthy article like this post in English with ease of mind. Thanks to him.

With so much assistances he had given me, what had I repaid him? I could not think of any, however, he insisted he had learned a lot through talking with me. What a profound compliment he has made!

Being young, that meant his reactions toward unfair or offensive remarks from his students or other colleagues tended to be following the impulse instead of the brain. Fortunately he managed to hold the hurtful feelings and turned to seek for counselling from me.

I usually gave him my caring ears, showed my empathy to him, reflected what he was feeling, and lastly asked him what would he do toward the problem. I followed the counselling principles which I had learned from my 10 year engagement in the voluntary role as Auckland Lifeline telephone counsellor. Although I was not sure how much help my caring ears and the fundamental counselling skills may have brought in defusing his anger, I did act to him like a patient and caring parent to his own kids. Well, he usually commented at the end of our counselling-like conversation, "ah! sensei (sir in Japanese), you are wise man. Thank you very much.", leaving me dumbfounded.

In June 2005, I was diagnosed having Parkinson Disease. Quite depressed I was from hearing doctor's announcement. This time, Robbie played his role as my counsellor. His prescription was: inviting me to join his letter-drop cruise* whenever he scheduled one; and proposal of taking my annual leave for a holiday in Australia. I accepted his suggestion and he also arranged his holiday to be in the same time window. So on 15th August 2005 we flew together to Sydney. I stayed at my 4th sister's place and he stayed at the Holiday Inn enjoying a real holiday.
As my disease deteriorated due to its progressive nature, I was gradually losing ability of driving for duration over 10 minutes. He was always pleased to give me a ride to places such as company functions, conference, student meeting venues, or anywhere over the other side of the harbour bridge.

By April 2006, my disease became more unbearable. I considered quit from this job. It was a tough decision to make as although my daughter had gained her bachelor degree and a permanent job, my son was just in his first year in the university then. It was Robbie who came to my home office on 3rd May 2006 to help me make up my mind.

I had drafted my resignation e-mail the previous day but was finding no enough courage to send it to the head office. Robbie said to me, "Chenny is in university now and is able to support himself, why do you have to struggle with work now that the disease is troubling you?" That's right, how can I hide the fact of being sick forever? So at that moment I hit the SEND button of the Outlook to get that resignation letter e-mailed to the manager with Robbie standing beside me watching.

About two month after my resignation, Robbie followed me. He got an even better job at an education institute. His new employer sent him to Boston, USA to attend the world annual e-learning conference.

Though our colleagueship had come to an end in 2006, however, this cross-generation friendship carries on till no end.
Things are in constant flux. I was informed by Robbie the other day of his very tough decision in life: shift to Adelaide, Australia where he was just offered a job as e-learning advisor. Considering New Zealand is where he spent his days of childhood and youthhood; is where all his friends live; is where his parents reside. It is a difficult decision to make, yet the quest for the deeper taste of life can only be attained if one is resolved to transcend the boundary of comfort zone. No matter what is to be his final choice, by the moment prior to his very likely departure, I post this article as my best wish to his new life in Australia.

* letter-drop cruise: Some of Kiwi Ora learners are slow in doing their assessments. When their due-date is up, then the advisor has to use all sorts of method to motivate them. Dropping a notice of late assessment by hand-delivery in the student's letter box make them feel the advisor is close to them and thus they give more effort on the assessment.

Mother's cooking

This is a zoomed in cropped photo of my mother (on the right) and my aunt from a very old and faded family photograph. Mother was about 19 at the time when this picture was taken in 1934. She was dressed in a female adult suite for important occasions in that era.

Once, we were reviewing our albums, this was the one she stayed her attention on the longest as if her memories about that scene emerged right before her. Then, she usually left it with a comment, "Your aunt and I were widely praised by people in the community as the most beautiful and dutiful daughter-in-laws of Chen's family", and then away to the next photo.

Indeed, mother was very beautiful when she was young. Apart from her good looks was her excellent cooking skill. It is especially true when I retrospect the images of her working in our very old kitchen of 50's in Taiwan when burning coal or wood was the only way to cook. The chopping board was about 50 cm in diameter. There were no sink and bench for preparing the cooking ingredients. Chopping board served as working bench and a pail of water fetched from a facet some ten meters away were what you got to cook two to four dishes and the staple, rice, every day.

Not only that, mother had to slaughter chicken or duck from a lively one to a naked lifeless one and lastly a delicious roasted or stewed meat dish that the whole family fought to grab to their own bowl. I wondered if any of us ever thought about how mother worked in the ill equipped kitchen to get those tasty dishes served on table.

Once I noticed mother only picked the least demanded dish into her rice bowl while all of us landed our chopsticks on the meaty dishes, I asked her why? "A cook is delighted the most seeing the dishes are emptied rapidly. I am fine with this less wanted one....", she said.

I remembered once I watched how mother slaughtered a duck of black feather. That was an unforgettable experience.

In a small town like Ching Shui of 1950's, most of the households got to kill poultry by themselves. There were just no such thing as supermarket where they could simply pick a tray of chicken thighs to their cart. They went to the poultry section of the market; point to the most lively one to the vendor; the vendor tied up the legs of the fowl with a few straws; hooked the poor creature on the balance scale to get the weight of the fowl to figure out a fair price for both parties. Then the mother carried that fowl all the way back home with the fowl's head dangling down along the way.

This was what I witnessed when mother processed that very duck.

Mother fetched the duck to a cleared area in the kitchen. Pulled both of its wings and stepped over the wings with her left foot. She had made some preparations prior to the slaughtering. A deep wok of slow boiling water was ready for removing duck's hair by dipping it for a right length of time. A tray of about two cups of glutenous rice was placed aside for absorbing the duck's blood for making a side dish called duck blood cake.

Back to the slaughtering. Mother asked me to go away as the killing was disturbing to view. I begged to stay to watch. No time to waste on arguing, so she carried on. She read out a short speech while her fingers nipping off hairs clear around the spot of the duck's neck where she aimed to set the blade on. I still remember that mantra mother read to the duck. It went "duck, duck, it's suffering being a duck, not worthwhile trapping in the form of a duck forever. Be born to become a member in a rich family."

As soon as the mantra finished, the blade swished, the blood streamed down, mother quickly moved the plate of gluten rice to the blood. The duck jerked a couple of struggles before it went complete motionless. Then mother kept on moving the rice plate about to make all the rice dampened by the blood evenly till no more was to flow out. The head was then put in between the wings waiting for dehairing.

Phew! That's enough for me. I am not going to tell what I had seen after that. It is disgusting to watch the whole process, but we seem to be forgetful particularly when the duck become a dish on the table. However, that memory during my childhood germinated and grew fruition that about 25 years later I claimed myself as vegetarian.

As to mother, she stopped slaughtering by herself for cooking after a dreadful experience occurred. She told me she once killed a big duck without any family member around. She laid the duck on the ground after its blood was drained. Suddenly when she was doing something else, she heard some rustling noise at her back. She turned around and saw that dead duck stood on its legs with head still wrapped in between the wings clumsily walking about. Mother gasped and ran away from the kitchen horrified.

I think slaughtering might be mother's most disliked task of her everyday cooking chores. Otherwise cooking of other non-life related dishes is simply piece of cake to her.

Since she was assigned to cooking chore for Chen's family by my grandmother at the age of ten, she had quickly acquired all the kitchen skills such as setting up fire, control of the heat strength of the fire, food preparation and storage, steaming, grilling, stir frying, boiling, flavor seasoning and etc.

There is not any signature dish of hers as all her dishes are just equally good. But what impressed me the most was the rapidness of her cooking.

Once a group of our relatives came to visit us unexpectedly around lunch time. It was a customary that the host was supposed to offer the visitors meal be they not yet had one. Immediately my mother retreated to the kitchen, and within one hour she presented a big plate of lovely fried noodle, a grilled whole fish with soy sauce and drizzled with spring onion, a plate of sliced boiled pork with sauce, and a stir fried green leafy vegetable on the table. Sometimes I came home from school hungry. This was never a problem to mother that within 10 minutes, she could turn the leftover into yummy hot meal for me.

While fast food business is damaging the health of young consumers worldwide nowadays, cooking from a mother is becoming more urgent and important. It is not only the deliciousness that counts, it is the love and education that generate from cooking activity make us unforgettable in a later day.

Learning Japanese 1972-1973

Japan had a difficult time after World War II. From 1945 to 1956 when it was admitted as an UN member nation, this period of a decade must be the toughest time in its history imagining the great number of soldiers killed overseas, the two atomic bombs that wiped off two of its big cities in a short instant during the world war.

Yet, it stood up, reconstructed their homes, and just within 10 years, it became fit again. In the 3 decades from 1960's to 1980's, its GDP was over 10% for many years, and although gradually declined during 1980's, an average growth of 4% was still maintained. So during that period, Japanese Miracle was a familiar term seen on newspaper.

When a country becomes rich, its cultural influence in the world strengthens too. The indication of this influence can be seen by the growing popularity for its language and pop music.

1971 was my first year in the college. The most popular foreign language apart from English for students to select as their school subject was Japanese in Taiwan. In areas in Taipei city where private educational institutes were clustered, we could see commercial signs of Japanese language schools were one after another along the street.

In late 1960's, when I was still a high school student, I began to feel the Japanese cultural influence on me because among so many popular singers on radio and TV, I was deeply fascinated to a Japanese singer called Judy Wong. Judy was a Taiwanese but was raised up in Japan. I was her fan during my teens period. Later I enrolled myself on a Japanese learning course with a private language school when I received my first payment of wage from my part time job in 1972 doing subtitle for movies. When people asked me why I chose Japanese as my second foreign language, I always replied "because I am a fan of Judy Wong".

Two years before I started learning Japanese in the language school in 1972, I already bought a beginner's learning kit, a disc record and a textbook. I learned the 51 片かな and 平かな together with very basic conversational 挨拶語, such as 今日は，今晩は，おわよごさいます and so on all by myself from that kit in 1970. So by the time of enrolment, 先生assessed my level and placed me in the intermediate class. I still remember now the first lesson of my textbook is about a 手紙、letter.

There were 2 sessions of two hours each per week in the course. Class began at 7:00pm in the evening. I was always the first student arriving the classroom if I was not called to do the film subtitle job after school. The teacher was in his late 40's, a clerk of a trading company supposed to be a Sino-Japan joint venture one. He was of a medium plump guy with heavy near-sighted glasses and crew cut hair. His spoken Japanese resembled those Samurais I saw in the movies. I thought he deliberately mimicked the actor's tone in his teaching in order to add some fun in the class. And his tactic worked, as I found his class interesting and enjoyable.

During the two years of learning Japanese, I made acquaintance with a girl named Yang Li-fang in the class. Miss Yang was 3 years older than me, an employee of Matsushita Electronic. A smile always on her face when she walked into the classroom. Being a clerk of a large company, she must be loaded with tasks as I noticed her frequent absence from class. Each time she came to class, she took the seat next to me and asked to borrow my notebook so as to catch up the missed lessons.

A couple of times, she invited me to have supper with her after the class at the nearby food stools. I should confess now that I did wish our friendship could further develop. One day, I wrote her a letter after seeing a long absence of her from class. The letter must have implied my admiration of her, although slightly, because she sensed it. To avoid causing embarrassment to me, she skillfully mentioned that she had boyfriend. Thus, I remained a boy without a girlfriend until 3 years later in 1975 when my colleague in the Air Force Cadet Training Centre introduced me to a girl who is now my wife.

I learned Japanese quite hard that I was up to a level of being able to write understandable letter in Japanese to my uncle who lived in Kobe, the 6th biggest city of Japan. However, I only got two chances so far to put my Japanese into practice.

The first one occurred when I and 4 of my college classmates were in a tour to the Eastern Taiwan where there was a big population of the earliest Taiwan settlers who spoke their own language and some Japanese. In a bus to Hwalian, the eastern city, one of our seats was mistakenly occupied by a seemingly early Taiwan settler, a tribe woman. None of my friends could make her understand she had taken the wrong seat. One of my friends knew that most Taiwan tribesmen spoke Japanese, so they urged me to try my Japanese. So I did, and after a couple of sentences uttered from my mouth, she realized what had gone wrong and returned the seat to us.

The second time was in 2000 when my daughter, Tessie, was staying in Tottori of Japan through AFS student exchange. One evening after work, my wife received a call from Japan, she passed it to me because both parties found no common language for the communication to go on. I took the call and practised my learned Japanese the second time in the past 27 years. My Japanese was already very rusty then, and yet when there was no effective common language between the two, a few right words did make both side relieved and the messages somewhat understood. Tessie's host mother just wanted to tell us that Tessie was very safe and happy in their home, and was getting along well with the family members.

Now the whole world is facing a big economic recession, and Japan is no exception. There is a saying that whatever goes up comes down, I find this explains all the ups and downs of all matters. Buddha's teaching is even more sensible, Impermanence applies to every thing we know of. However, as a not-yet-enlightened being I still hope the downturn will be over soon.

Part Time Job

One Sunday morning in 2000, I was surprised to see Tessie, my daughter, bravely walked into Daikoku Restaurant to the interview for her application of a part time job as waitress. She looked somewhat nervous but she deliberately tilted her chin up, radiated as much confidence as possible through her face and posture, smiled a bit and walked to the reception counter. Outside of the restaurant, waiting for her in the car, I and my wife observed all about that short moment of Tessie's pre-interview nervousness, extolled, "what a brave girl."

About half an hour later, she walked lightly out with natural brilliant smile. "I am employed!", she yelled.

This life experience of hers occurred when she had just returned from her one year stay in Kansai of Japan through AFS student exchange scheme, and was going to enter the university. She had worked a couple of other part time jobs during her school days so she had earned her own.

Seems that year 12 is the period when most of New Zealand children starts their first part time job. Again, when Chenny, my son, reached his year 12 in school, I heard from my wife one day after work that Chenny was out with some other classmates in the business areas of Takapuna and Milford hunting for part time jobs door by door.

Both I and my wife had been concerned that Chenny might not be as independent and brave as his sister, but the news of Chenny's attempt of seeking a paid job indeed astounded me deeply. I was so grateful to the education of New Zealand which helped my two children cultivate the spirit of independence.Though his first attempt was a failure, he didn't let it affect his mood. A few months after that try, through one of his close friends' recommendation, he got a part time job with New World Super Market Milford, worked as produce assistant stocking the shelves of its vegetable section. (Chenny is second from left.)


Since then, he, was just like his sister, had made his own spending money to accommodate his social and hobby needs through their own effort. Of course he changed a couple of employers since then. By the time this blog post is being written, he is working as guitar tutor at Glenfield Music Education Centre in North Shore.

What about their dad in terms of part time job during his school days? Nothing until the end of his first year in Journalism College.

I was in my first year in the college in 1970. In Taiwan, the school year normally starts from September. The first semester ends at early February followed by three week term break. The second semester starts from early March and ends at the tail part of June followed by two months of summer vacation.

In the Western world of 60's, The Beatles were getting popular, and hippy style living was spreading like wild fire, and these cultures began to cast their influences over the students in Taiwan at the ending part of 60's, In most high schools, the male students were supposed to be bald and this was part of the school uniform code. The school which I was in was less strict on the hair ban. They allowed us grow hair on the top part of the head up to 2cm maximum, and yet many more rebellious boys still tested the authority by growing hair beyond the limit. So from time to time, there were serious arguments between the offenders and the disciplinary officers occurred in the school yard.So as soon as we entered university, we were free from the hair restrictions. In the campus, we saw quite a few students grew hair style of The Beatles, and most of us grew hair following the society's norm. Mine was of the average length and of the standard model in 1970 (photo taken in a school gala).

Now back to the part time jobs I involved in the three years from 1970 to 1973.

When the first school year was coming to end in June 1971, I registered myself as job seeker at the student center in the school. I knew the number of job seekers outnumbered the jobs available, however, I hoped that I was lucky enough to be given one of any jobs because I really felt I should not ask for any pocket money from my parents after high school.

And I was really lucky that I was assigned to the Central Currency Production Plant to work as assistant of its administration office. That was a 9 to 5 job, but because it was for me during the summer vacation to work in only, so I called it part time job, the first paid job in my life. I used some of the money I earned from that job to buy a transistor radio.

Then in 1972, I was offered an on call job in a film subtitle print* workshop. It was owned by my friend's big brother. My friend was there helping his brother doing the marking on the footage of the corresponding subtitle, but since he was leaving for military service, he recommended me to his brother.

When I went to the interview with the boss, he showed me what to do and told me the wage of $100 (at that time, a simple lunch costs about $4) would be paid upon completion of each movie. Averagely each movie took me 8 hours to finish on my part. I was over joyed with this offer.

Every day after school, I was asked to call my boss to see if there was any task awaiting me. If so, then I was given a start date for that job, and I went to work on it as instructed. Sometimes if the job was urgent, I had to work till midnight or even through out the night till it was done. But it was not too bad.

When I got paid a lump sum at the end of the first working month, I used part of that money to enroll myself on a Japanese course with a private institute. In another blog post, I will tell you some dramas that occurred during that period of time.

I was on that part time job till I graduated in June 1973.

I like to tell my children that it is not for the money we go for a part time job, it is for the spirit of independence and for gaining life experience we go for it during our school days.

Amituofo

* How the subtitle was done at where I worked in 1972? Nowadays the subtitle of a film of other language is done by various modern technologies. But the process of the subtitle making which I involved in 1972 was quite primitive compared to modern day's.

The process began with recording of the dialogues of the whole film in a small lab. The translator presented to watch the movie while I recorded the sound onto the tape recorder. Then I gave the recorder together with the tape to the translator after the movie. The translator listened to the tape and typed all the dialogues in sentences of proper length on the paper both the original language, normally English, and the translation. Each sentence was coded with a number.

Then this bunch of papers of the translated sentences was passed to a writer whose calligraphy was perfect. He wrote each sentence within the specified space for plate making.

Then the calligrapher's originals were made into copper letterpress through photo graphic technique with corresponding number on its back side.

While the dialogues were being made into letterpress plates, I ran the reels through a photo electrical device. This device beamed through the sound track of the reel and brought the sound out through a speaker, enabled me to trace the beginning and the end of each dialogue on the reel so I could mark on the film with the code corresponding with both of the translation's and the letterpress plate's.

Lastly my boss would run the reel through a stamp machine which applied heat on the letterpress plate that has a code corresponding to the code I marked on the film frame. After the plate had stamped each of the picture frames, the subtitle of that peculiar dialogue was then done.