My Father. A Dad, No Less.

It is after all, Father's Day daily, one might argue, but not quite the same. A day some say commercialized, yet not quite so, in my opinion. A father surrounded by his wife and three girls, an all girls-team, yet retained his male alpha position in his own ways. 

We dine monthly, fortnightly, most months weekly. His favorite tim sum in Yum Cha, nestled in the old charm of Serangoon Gardens, while I love bringing him to Imperial Treasure in Nan Bei, smacked right in the heart of town in Ngee Ann City. And often he would decline, feeling that I have spent way more than I should on food. But little does he know that I hardly take my meals there, and yet insisted on going because the very first time I did I remembered he ordered his second portion of goose meat, something I do not remember him doing in other eating places. An eager to please attitude surfaced, and after savoring the numerous tim sum places, I would still bring him there for lunch or tea when I can, just to have him order a second portion of that ill-fated goose.

He was the most adventurous father in comparison to our friends'. He could climb a mountain and dive in deep waters, and brought us along on those expeditions, and afterwards lamented that had it not for us, he would not have gone the distance for such sports. Of course he was lying. He would have gone anyway as he loved new adventures. The road trips we have taken could amount to some flyer miles clocked up for some holiday travellers. It was that frequent. With each opportunity we had we will be off exploring some part of Malaysia, where he claimed heritage. Flying was rare, the first time was to Kuala Lumpur and the second to Bangkok. And that was that. Being adventurous need not involve huge sums of moolah, we realized. It had to involve willing parties who could roll like sushi or squashed pancakes sleeping on the back of a sedan, on that several-hour-drive with limited breaks in between. And so he taught us the spirit of adventure. That life is not all about study and work. That we ought to take time to feel the foreign waves against our naked feet and that the drive uphill to a cooler climate need not take months of preparing. All we had to do was decide that we want to go. Spontaneity was the key.

He told us about the animals he kept as pets as a child. We loved listening to the stories of his childhood. They were most amazingly surreal and kept our imagination tickled. We often interrupted and asked if they were fiction or fact. How was it possible that a chameleon could really change the color of its hide, we would wonder then. He told us of a street dog he had as a puppy on the sly, and it got real big and ugly and detested by the people in the neighbourhood. And how his father secretly brought the stray to 100km away and deserted it there, and how he was so mad he refused his meals for 3 days, and how miraculously that dear one returned to his home a week later, half-alive from the perils of the wild (and traffic), and that nobody since then could separate man and dog. He taught us kindness. He was not only kind to dogs, but cats (yucks!) too, and he could make the two species turn into best of pals. He also kept fish and birds, and one monkey too he claimed, (though we doubted that), and one can imagine the hungry bird eyeing that helpless birdie while Father was in school. But he managed them all. Imagine the kindness he bestowed to fellow friends and family. He was only 15 when his beloved pet was knocked down by a truck nearby his home, and he told us he carried that dog back to bury it in the backyard, under the unapproving eyes of his mother. His brothers had taken no pity on it, he flew solo on the mission to dig five feet under and gave it a proper burial. He could empathize with a stray, which he affirmed several times during the bedtime stories that it was no different from fancy breeds, because we kept asking why since he did not pay for it, unlike the later ones we keep. We always have dogs around us. They were his best friends. He taught that not to be shallow. That regardless of skin, all things and beings are pretty much the same. 

He was in charge of sending us to school every morning, a task he undertook with pride. And because he did not have to wake that early in the morn but chose to, he was rewarded in return with hearty breakfast of all types by Mother. She would prepare the meals, more for him than for us, because we remembered distinctly we do not like hotdogs which he considered palatable, and there were often such processed meat on our melamines, though we vehemently protested against them. Speaking of meals, Father would return home almost daily for dinners. Those days when he had to stay in late for work, we would be given packeted chicken rice. We would complain incessantly to him, and he would ensure that he return earliest and soonest possible thereafter, and in the meantime during the day gave word to Mother that he would, so she had ample time to whip up loving dinners for us. We once doubted in her love for us, but today we know that this is the simple theory to making a marriage last. That spouses come before children, and only in a secure marriage can the love for the children thrive. Some may not agree, but it sure worked for us. Father loves Mother. They then love the kids. Easy-to-understand equation.

I did not plan on writing a lengthy submission. But there is no way I can shorten to a single paragraph of a man who has defined me. He taught me the love for books and music. He was not a reader but he understood its importance, and Sundays went spent in the now defunct Sunny Bookstore in serangoon gardens (if my memory did not fail me on its location). It was there he would "deposit" my sister and I, while he took his coffee breaks with Mother. It sure worked. We bought and returned the books in time, it was our library, paying very little to enjoy the literary works. I vividly remembered I cheated on him. I was supposed to return "Jane Eyre" and "The Little Women" but I hid the books under my bed, and told him I lost them in school. Only in returning do you get a portion of what you have paid in return, and I was bent on not returning these books. I got away with it. And thus started a cheaterbug streak on keeping the books I did not wish to return. Sister soon found out. She told on me. He did not reprimand me. He told Mother to do so. She was the evil witch, and I had to surrender them to Sunny, the bookstore owner. He taught us honesty. He plays the harmonica beautifully. Self-taught. And I would never forget that look of disappointment he tried to hide when I collected the results of my Grade 5 piano results. I flunked. He tried to dismiss it like it did not matter, but I could feel it in my bones. He then told Mother to tell me that playing for exams is different from playing for interest, and so I gave up the lessons of torture and instead played at home with Sister 1 on her flute, and Sister 2 on her french horn, Father on his mouthpiece, and Mother lent her not-so-melodious vocals. We are a fun-loving family who enjoy going to the KaraOKes. He does not sing as much as the evil witch who more than often snatches the microphone to her advantage. We would always insist that they do duets, we love seeing them in love.

On my wedding day while waiting to walk down the aisle he told me that I had found a man worthy of my love and that I should hold on to what is dear forever. He chose the hymn Canon in D major for the march in after listening to 3 other selections. It was the one I liked the most. Even Mother did not know that he was involved in this major choice. We were that close, in hearts.

In short, he was the father described in 'Danny, The Champion of the World', written by Roald Dahl, “What I have been trying so hard to tell you all along is simply that my father, without the slightest doubt, was the most marvellous and exciting father any boy ever had.” (except we were girls)

We had a cake today, similar to what we have always had, but with a littlest one as an addition to the family. He now has a Missy, 3 thousand pieces of gold (chinese literal translation for "daughters"), 2 pretty grand-daughters, a grandson in the likes of a rascal and his loyal furry (who by now may not be that furry anymore, given its recent bout of ticks) pooch friend.

-IamChrisIBlog