Original Article in Chinese 农历五月的回想 , Translation in English
The fifth month of the lunar calendar — that familiar season when the fragrance of zong ye (bamboo leaves) drifts through the air. I vaguely remember my childhood days. Around this time, Mother would always ask us to buy zong ye, string, garlic, scallions, and other ingredients while she busied herself soaking the leaves and rinsing the glutinous rice; Father would bring home the pork. After what felt like an endless wait, the house would finally be filled with the rich aroma of freshly steamed zongzi (rice dumplings). When all was ready, my siblings and I would gather around those dangling bundles, unwilling to leave. Smiling, Mother would allow each of us to take one. Soon enough, we would come back again, exclaiming how delicious they were. Understanding our unspoken wishes, she would hand us another. Only then were we truly content, happily tucking into our dumplings by the side. Perhaps she had already calculated it all along — making a few extras just to satisfy the greedy appetites of her children.
Mother was an overseas Chinese from Indonesia — gentle, kind-hearted, and warmly hospitable. As a child, she was the apple of her family’s eye. For her secondary schooling, she went to China, where she later met my father, and the two married. My eldest brother and sister were born in China. During those years, Mother must have picked up some culinary skills. After the war, my parents, searching for a livelihood, made their way south to Singapore. The eldest brother and sister, however, remained behind to accompany our aging grandmother, hoping to reunite someday. Yet unexpectedly, from that moment on, oceans and borders lay between them, and they remained separated for life. How cruel the hand of destiny — that flesh and blood should be kept apart to the very end!
Not long after the few of us came into the world one after another, Mother not only perfected her repertoire of Hakka dishes, but also taught herself — by following recipes — how to roast chicken and bake cakes. During festive seasons, she would always prepare something delicious for us to feast on. Whenever relatives or Father’s friends came to visit, Mother would bring out her signature Meicai Kourou (braised pork belly with preserved mustard greens). Guests who tasted it never failed to sing its praises. Even some of my schoolmates, back in my primary and secondary school days, were lucky enough to try this delicacy — and to this day, they still recall it with fondness.
Father grew up in the countryside of Jiaoling County, China, where the local children were known for their resilience and hard work — nothing came easily, yet they never complained. As a boy, he was not only skilled at football, but his school grades were often among the top of his class. His talent didn’t stop there: his cooking skills were impressive too. When we were young, we enjoyed his braised tofu with pork and canned beef stewed with onions — dishes so flavorful that they made us eat more than our fill, unable to stop ourselves!
Not long after starting work, my younger sister entered a cooking competition hosted by Xian Liang Restaurant — and she won third place! She had truly inherited Mother’s culinary skills: her steamed buns filled with minced meat were exceptional. As for me, I had no particular talent. I spent my days following my younger brother and our village classmates, playing endlessly — catching spiders, battling fighting fish, kicking balls, playing table tennis, climbing trees, hide-and-seek, hopscotch, reading comic strips… almost anything that promised fun. Yet I lacked my brother’s quick wits and photographic memory. Every evening, we would scramble to complete homework due the next day. My brother would finish effortlessly, while I barely scratched the surface. Consequently, my grades always “skimmed low across the sky” (barely passed), so to speak. When it came to math problems like the classic “chickens and rabbits” question, I could happily eat roast chicken, but counting the number of feet in the problem always left me confused. Tests required me to cram desperately late into the night! The only consolation was that my habit of diligently studying martial arts novels as a child eventually transformed into a determined, last-minute effort to catch up in all my subjects. Somehow, that was enough to get me through the primary school exams!
All those martial arts secrets and mysterious tricks swirling in my head unexpectedly came in handy in the first year of secondary school. Behind our school was an open field, dotted with small clusters of bushes. Scattered around were a few shallow yellow-earth pits, each about two or three feet across and just as deep. A few of us martial arts enthusiasts loved wandering through these bushes during breaks. One day, on a sudden whim, I dug out a few old, yellowed sheets of paper and sketched a few hand strikes and kicks, along with a short note about circulating energy and breathing. I folded the papers and put them in a small box. Then I found a slightly thick iron wire about two to three inches long, bent it into a U-shape, tied the ends with rubber bands, and inserted a small wooden stick into the rubber bands to hold it tight. Once the box was opened, the stick would spin and snap free quickly, almost like a self-activating mechanism. I secretly hid the box in one of the pits, then casually led a few friends toward it. Sure enough, the moment they opened the box, it made a light clinking sound. Some of them jumped in surprise, and a few got carried away, thinking it was a real martial arts secret manual — so much so that they took it home to “study”! When I later revealed this “masterpiece” to my younger siblings, everyone burst out laughing. I’m sure at that moment, my pride was written all over my face.
Extracurricular activities in secondary school were a whole new world for us little rascals. My fellow martial arts novel fan and I were immediately drawn to the handsome Boy Scout uniforms. With friends by my side, I joined in, and we even ended up in the same small troop. Together we learned formation drills, knot-tying, first aid bandaging, singing Scout songs, and more. The most fun, of course, were the campfires and map-based hikes. What I wanted most were the overnight camping trips, but my parents repeatedly refused, citing safety concerns. Later, after entering the workforce, a friend who had completed military service led a group of us on an overnight camping trip to a nearby island. We pitched tents, dug small drainage trenches, and even had an unexpected encounter with a large centipede! Fortunately, it was more thrilling than dangerous, and I finally fulfilled that long-held dream.
Another vivid memory I have is from one evening during a Scout event at school. The school had organized the event at a venue where tables were laden with pastries and snacks. I don’t even recall the occasion itself. Most people were in the hall or elsewhere, leaving just a few of us Scouts to keep watch. Hungry as we were, we anxiously waited for the crowd to arrive. When everyone finally came, I grabbed a cream puff and devoured it in just a few bites. The taste was sheer bliss — so exquisite that, no matter how many cream puffs I ate later in life, nothing ever matched that first magical bite!
Mother had taught for a few years, and Father wielded the teacher’s baton until his retirement. They both lived frugally, not only striving to provide us with the necessities of life and education, but also offering a little extra whenever possible. Truly, we owe them a deep debt of gratitude for their sacrifices. During our secondary school years, Father bought us a bicycle. After a few wobbly, tumble-filled attempts, we quickly figured out the knack of riding safely. Remarkably, we managed to share it peacefully, without quarrels. The final stretch to school was an uphill slope, and I always challenged myself on that incline. Each time I failed to reach the top, I’d get off and push the bike. Days passed — or perhaps weeks — but eventually, I made it! The thrill of finally conquering that slope is hard to put into words.
In secondary school, many of the Chinese texts we read left a deep impression on me. Fanxing 《繁星》 (Countless Stars), a lyrical essay reflecting on the starry sky — evoking nostalgia, solace, and connection to the homeland — gave me a sudden awakening, a sense that it wasn’t too late to change for the better. Beiying 《背影》 (Back View), portraying a father struggling over a railway platform to buy oranges for his son — a simple yet powerful image of silent, selfless love — quietly moistened the corners of my eyes before I even realized it. Er Shi Ji Qu 《儿时记趣》 (Childhood Memories), with its playful recollections of seeing mosquitoes as cranes and tiny insects as giants, stirred up the childlike wonder that hadn’t yet faded in me. And Zheng Qi Ge 《正气歌》 (Song of Righteousness), written in captivity to praise moral courage and loyal resistance, shone with a spirit of upright integrity that could never be conquered. Each of these works was, in its own way, nourishment for both heart and mind. And yet, my bad habit of lin shi bao fo jiao — cramming at the last minute — remained unchanged. Between play and hurried studying, I somehow, almost unknowingly, grew a little older.
By sheer luck, I got into high school. The school was in Queenstown, and every morning meant squeezing onto two buses. If I left a little late, I’d end up pressed against the door, swaying along with the crowd. The bright spot was discovering that the school actually taught Wuzuquan (Five Ancestors Fist, Southern Chinese kung fu style blending the hard and soft techniques of five ancestral arts into an effective system for close-range combat.) Without a second thought, I gathered my courage and signed up. Every morning, I was up at five to run through a full practice – far more diligent than I ever was with my books! By coincidence, among the students who joined was someone I clicked with so well that we nicknamed him “Yip Man” (Ip Man). From then on, I had a partner — someone to spar with, practice alongside, and share endless laughter. Two years flew by in the blink of an eye. We never became martial arts masters, of course, and before long, we each went our separate ways. Still, I kept at it for a few more years, though my practice grew sporadic, until I eventually “withdrew from the martial world” and turned to gymnastics instead. Looking back, I’m convinced those years of training laid a solid foundation — after I started working, I rarely needed to take sick leave. Even so, there was another activity at school that tugged at my heart: the brass band. The steady, rhythmic beat of the drums stirred something in me every time. Yet, being the shy, reserved type, I never worked up the nerve to ask about joining. And so, that small dream quietly slipped away.
After graduating from high school, I vaguely remember spotting a notice on the bulletin board about scholarships to study at a university in Thailand — Ramkhamhaeng University, if I’m not mistaken. I found it quite interesting, though I honestly can’t remember if I ever put in an application. In that blur of youthful confusion, the whole matter simply slipped past me. Not long after, I came across an advertisement for army officer recruitment. The idea sparked my interest, but again, I don’t remember if I ever applied. Looking back, I realize I was overestimating myself — skinny as a bamboo pole, I doubt I could have cut even if I had tried. Yet life has a way of circling back with unexpected turns. More than ten years later, one evening on my way home from work, I suddenly spotted a uniformed officer leading a small group of soldiers. To my astonishment, it was none other than my long-lost secondary school friend — the fellow martial arts enthusiast and Boy Scout who once shared so many adventures with me! Mother knew him too. In fact, he had once praised her “Mei Cai Kou Rou”, a memory that still makes me smile. That chance encounter filled me with both joy and quiet reflection. Perhaps this is simply how life unfolds — sometimes with a twist of fate, sometimes with a sigh of nostalgia, but always with its own unmistakable flavor.
After entering the working world and navigating a few twists and turns, I eventually found myself at a factory, where I took on administrative duties. At one charity event, I was unexpectedly assigned the role of emcee. With no way out, I could only grit my teeth and prepare as best I could. Fortunately, I met some warm and cooperative seniors, and together we managed to spark interaction, laughter, and applause. That moment left me with a genuine sense of accomplishment. But as times changed and technology advanced, the factory’s products were gradually phased out, until at last, in 2018, the factory closed its doors for good — much like how life itself, sooner or later, reaches its twilight. Perhaps that is the quiet reminder: to make the most of the present, to give our best to whatever lies before us. For no matter how small or brief, every spark we create is still a spark.
Every year, when the fragrant season of zongzi (rice dumplings) arrives in the fifth month of the lunar calendar, I am reminded of the ones my mother made with her own hands. Now, with circumstances changed and people gone, fragments of life surge like clouds and tides, vivid in memory. Though I have accomplished no great feats, life has been full of simple joys. I have lived well — and what more could one ask for?
林金隆
小部分時間工作也參加合唱團拜Face支線得以老伴參與冰棒活動希望有多些設施活動讓大家同度隨心所欲之年