MY dad passed away about seven years ago. He was born in an era which was known as the Roaring 20s. By the time, he had just finished his education, the war in the Pacific had reached the shores of Malaya (now Malaysia).
My father survived the war but not before being shot at by a Japanese Zero fighter plane. It was obviously flown by a pilot who had plenty of free time in his hands. He spotted my father walking along a lonely street, tipped his wings and dove. Opened up his deadly guns and a rain of lethal bullets echoed in the street where my dad was walking.
Needless to say, my dad had the fright of his life and ran like Jessie Owens. He leapt across an impossibly wide monsoon drain and lived to tell the tale to his children. That incident was one of the highlights of his life.
The years that followed blended with the big band music that reverberated through the dancing halls of Penang, otherwise known as the Pearl of the Orient. My dad in his early adulthood had developed a passion for dancing and he was a fast learner.
His buddy at that time, a veteran of several night clubs, was a Malay guy nicknamed Tikus (or rat). He taught a couple of basic steps to my dad and my dad picked up the rest from other regulars at night clubs usually frequently by British residents who had returned to Malaya to run the rubber plantations and tin mines scattered all over Malaya.
In a few short years, my dad become quite nibble with his feet as he tangoed and waltzed through the cabarets and night clubs whenever finances permitted. That love for dancing never left him until the last couple of years in his life.
My dad died at the age of 74. He was a man of few hobbies. Nothing significant as I recalled. One of his hobbies, if you can call it a hobby, is mahjong. Basically, it is gambling.
The Chinese are very passionate about this game of tiles. This passion for mahjong also followed my father for the rest of his natural life.
One of the things that my father did which did rub off on me was collecting memorable phrases. When I was in my teens, I stumbled across an old notebook in my dad's drawer. I opened the pages and out sprung some of the lovely phrases ever written in English.
When I asked my dad about them, he told me that in his school years he met some interesting people who had an unusual command of the English language. Some of the things these friends had written so fascinated my father that he copied them for posterity.
Among the more memorable ones are:
Friendship cheers the faint and weary
Makes the timid spirit brave
Warns the erring, lights the dreary
Smooths the passage to the grave.
Another:
Sometimes in the crowded place, there comes the fleeting vision of a dear remembered face. It strikes some memory's golden strings and awakens the echoing music of the unforgotten things.
I too caught the English language "bug" and engraved it in the walls of my mind. And there the sayings stayed there until such times when I needed them.
My dad also had another passion. He loved clothes, especially new ones. Whenever he had money, he would make a beeline for the clothing shops. He bought them even if he didn't need them. Trousers, shirts, shoes, anything that will spruce up his image.
He bought them, brought them home and immediately put them on. He also had lots of perfume. He loved them all. He loved fragrances. The stronger the better. As a result, our house would always be enveloped by fragrances whenever he walked across the house to leave for an appointment.
His other hobby is being a very serious punter of most kinds of lotteries. After about 50 years, he developed a radar-like sense for winning numbers. I don't know if he was just lucky or psychic but he struck prizes rather frequently in his later years. So most of the time, he was quite cheerful, understandably so, because his wallet was constantly bulging with cash.
Even though my father wasn't highly educated like other people's fathers, his taste for music was world class. One of his favourite LPs was this sad-looking album which had only piano tunes.
The musical pieces were slow and tended to lull listeners to sleep. My dad loved the LP to bits. He used to sit in the dark in his sarong with a cigarette on his lips, eyes half-closed and slipped into dreamland with only the piano music in the background.
Now that I am much older, I am beginning to understand my dad's love for music. Some of his music choices have also left a deep impression on me. For example, Nat King Cole, Dean Martin, Chet Atkins, Jim Reeves, Pat Boone, Petty Como, Frank Sinatra and Chubby Checker.
I guess in this particular area, I am a bit like my dad. My dad lived life to the fullest he know how.
I have wanting to say all this in writing for my dad for a long time. Now, I have the time and the space. So this is for you, dad. Life is never final. The journey continues.
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