August 10, 2007

  • Older Wei-1

    Older Wei
    a new beginning

    Quite a few years ago I sat down to write a story about a boy and his grandfather. It did not start out taking place in China. I suppose the one question asked most often is "Why China?". The best answer I might give is that the China in my mind was a place less developed than the US. It was a place much like our early nation of the 19th century. It was a time before machines took away the nature of life as it had been known. The age of mass production has certainly changed the world. Now we are in the age of computers. People no longer socialize as they once did. The front porch style of life is gone... but not back in China and not in the days when this story took place.

    There were things I'd left open in the story and I've always wanted to go back for Young Wei's sake. He never had the chance to finish telling what things he had learned of the past. In the process of discovery of the past we learn about ourselves, not just about those whose lives we read and research. History makes the past come alive. When I was in school it did not seem so important. Now that I am older, the past becomes very much a thing I'd want to know more about... but all those who could tell me of the past are gone. Their secrets and the history of lives unknown are buried. If you cannot trace your ancestry back more than a generation or two, why not consider writing one? Isn't it just as much an adventure to create the world you came from? I feel a little of that as I begin to write "Older Wei". Here, then, is how the story continues:

            One of my last memories of Grandfather took place on a rainy, misty day. He had long ago retired from his job of heavy labor because his aging body could no longer perform the tasks they gave him. In retirement Grandfather seemed always to be waiting for something. He was impatient. It was not like his character to be impatient. If anything you may recall that I had said he was overly silent with his family. His rare journeys into town gave him a chance to meet with friends and talk, but the last time I went with Grandfather he just sat and listened, much as he did at home.

            He had not been at the table for lunch, an event he rarely would miss. He always had told Grandmother when he went out, but since her death some five years before there was no one to tell anymore. My wife loved him, but even though that love was returned in Grandfather's own fashion, he did not show her the same level of attention after Grandmother had died. The message was clear. No one could take his wife's place. No one could. No one did. No one tried to... or so I had thought.

            Knowing the behavior older people sometimes exhibited, it was my wife who told me to go out and search for him. The dinner would be kept warm... for both of us... when we returned. Had Grandfather gotten lost in the misty rain or somehow disoriented? We did not have an exact age for him because record keeping back in the days of his birth, whenever it might have been, was not clear. Grandfather did not much care about numbers, except when he was forced to endure a birthday party in his honor. I think he felt a certain amount of shame about not knowing the day of his birth, the month or the year. You did not measure life back then in terms of living long. You measured them in terms of surviving. It was a different China after all.

            Zhang Wei's parents were too poor to give him an annual envelope of "lucky" money or hong bao. There was not much to celebrate for Zhang Wei. When the times were good and rice was plentiful, songs would be sung in the evening. He told me this once. The songs were quite old and the lyrics made no sense, even though Grandfather said they were in Chinese. Grandfather and his family members were close enough to enjoy the tribal moments that close families have, even if they are less so these days. He sang songs with his family as if in thanks for one more year to be alive. Not all of his brothers and sisters did survive. Some died at childbirth, others died while giving birth to a child. You buried your dead each year. Found a new husband or wife if need be... and had new children to replace the ones whom death had taken away. Life was just a long march forward. Where were we marching? Who knew? Best to be silent and move ahead. Carry those who can no longer walk. Stay alive. Bury the dead and keep moving. This is what Grandmother told me. Grandfather said nothing of his childhood, or at least as little as he could.

            I was always curious about those times because Grandfather said so little. Who were his parents? No paintings of them were on the walls. Grandmother's parents were likewise long dead when I was born. My mother had never met them. My father? Ah, the less said about him, the better. He abandoned my mother forcing her to flee to Grandfather with child in hand. Grandfather took her in and took her shame. Everyone knew of her return. Tongues wagged non-stop, or so I as told. What silenced them? Grandfather's lack of shock, indignation, emotion. He was hard to read so there was really no gossip to believe. Only those with a long memory might have spoken... but they did not. It was perhaps for a good reason.

            Grandfather has never been a burden in the way some parents can be. They arrive making demands and suggesting changes their children might make to enjoy a happier "parent-approved" life. It was due to Grandfather being Grandfather more than anything else. He was also not a "parent" in the classical sense but rather a grandparent. He gave guidance only grudgingly and his life lessons were few and far between. When he gave them, the message lasted a lifetime. My lifetime.

    TO BE CONTINUED