It was late August 2008 and I wrote this down so I would never forget it.
"I returned to Bangkok last night after another visit to Singapore.
I always have a grand time in Singapore, what with five brothers and five sisters-in-law (my beloved Miriam passed away on June 30, 2010, and is so badly missed) who take such good care of me, and 12 little people (nieces and nephews) to spoil and adore.
They're always a good reason to visit my land of birth but, this time, they were not the only reason.
I was there to celebrate the life of my beloved mother, Charlotte. She would have been 84 - she was thirty when I
made my debut in this wonderful, if at times troubled, world, the fourth of ten boisterous children.
Charlotte grew up into a ravishing beauty and remained beautiful until she died on February 14, 2007. I could write a book about Charlotte - her charms, her talents, her wit, her rather incredible life by any standard. But I won't.
I will, however, take a moment to recall her amazing ability to not only survive but excel as a mother. She could have had any man she wanted and most likely lived a life of luxury but, instead, she chose my father, a hardworking, albeit hard-drinking, battler all his life.
Charlotte was a miracle worker. The going was tough but she always put food on the table, clothed us and made sure we did not miss school. This woman - who once dressed in the finest silks and dined at the finest places - took in other people's sewing, made pickles and tarts, and when the going got really tough, spent nine hours a day slogging away in the home of a woman she had known from way back when for a sad $5 a day. In our blackest days as a family, she wasn't ashamed to ask for and accept charity (always from her older brother); but, when times became good, she made it a point to be charitable in return. Her favourite haunt in her last years was a home for old, many forgotten, people, although her largesse even made its way to Africa and India via missionaries.
I do not recall her ever complaining and she never swore (not until dementia turned her mind). Not about the drudges, not about my father - who wasn't a bad man, just a frustrated soul who never had enough money for anything. We were always poor but we were not unhappy. In fact, my siblings and I have been known to spend endless hours talking about "the good times" - of shoes with potholed soles protected with cardboard; of dresses and uniforms with hems turned down so many times they created a pattern of stripes; of paydays when Papa came home - usually pickled - with a packet of Hokkien fried noodles and maybe two dozen sticks of satay - a veritable feast; of my sister and me saving our pocket money (five cents and sometimes ten cents) for a favourite LP or a pair of stockings (garters separate) for Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve when we were in our early teens.
On August 19, 2008, at 6.30pm, my brothers Gerard, Sidney, Alfred, two sisters-in-law (Joan, Gib) and I - plus two little people - sat in church to celebrate our mother's life. As we joined in the prayers, I beseeched God, asking Him if she could join us, even for a few seconds. I felt, very briefly, a warm tingle spread over me. It could have been anything but I would like to believe that it was Mum, brushing against me as she quickly planted kisses on all of us.
Rest in peace, Mum. I love you and miss you so much.
"I returned to Bangkok last night after another visit to Singapore.
I always have a grand time in Singapore, what with five brothers and five sisters-in-law (my beloved Miriam passed away on June 30, 2010, and is so badly missed) who take such good care of me, and 12 little people (nieces and nephews) to spoil and adore.
They're always a good reason to visit my land of birth but, this time, they were not the only reason.
I was there to celebrate the life of my beloved mother, Charlotte. She would have been 84 - she was thirty when I
made my debut in this wonderful, if at times troubled, world, the fourth of ten boisterous children.
Charlotte grew up into a ravishing beauty and remained beautiful until she died on February 14, 2007. I could write a book about Charlotte - her charms, her talents, her wit, her rather incredible life by any standard. But I won't.
I will, however, take a moment to recall her amazing ability to not only survive but excel as a mother. She could have had any man she wanted and most likely lived a life of luxury but, instead, she chose my father, a hardworking, albeit hard-drinking, battler all his life.
Charlotte was a miracle worker. The going was tough but she always put food on the table, clothed us and made sure we did not miss school. This woman - who once dressed in the finest silks and dined at the finest places - took in other people's sewing, made pickles and tarts, and when the going got really tough, spent nine hours a day slogging away in the home of a woman she had known from way back when for a sad $5 a day. In our blackest days as a family, she wasn't ashamed to ask for and accept charity (always from her older brother); but, when times became good, she made it a point to be charitable in return. Her favourite haunt in her last years was a home for old, many forgotten, people, although her largesse even made its way to Africa and India via missionaries.
I do not recall her ever complaining and she never swore (not until dementia turned her mind). Not about the drudges, not about my father - who wasn't a bad man, just a frustrated soul who never had enough money for anything. We were always poor but we were not unhappy. In fact, my siblings and I have been known to spend endless hours talking about "the good times" - of shoes with potholed soles protected with cardboard; of dresses and uniforms with hems turned down so many times they created a pattern of stripes; of paydays when Papa came home - usually pickled - with a packet of Hokkien fried noodles and maybe two dozen sticks of satay - a veritable feast; of my sister and me saving our pocket money (five cents and sometimes ten cents) for a favourite LP or a pair of stockings (garters separate) for Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve when we were in our early teens.
On August 19, 2008, at 6.30pm, my brothers Gerard, Sidney, Alfred, two sisters-in-law (Joan, Gib) and I - plus two little people - sat in church to celebrate our mother's life. As we joined in the prayers, I beseeched God, asking Him if she could join us, even for a few seconds. I felt, very briefly, a warm tingle spread over me. It could have been anything but I would like to believe that it was Mum, brushing against me as she quickly planted kisses on all of us.
Rest in peace, Mum. I love you and miss you so much.
Its beautiful... A brilliant writer indeed.
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