Holiday Remembrances From a World Away

Every December, my family celebrates the holiday season with big feasts, a sparkling tree, and lots and lots of thoughtful gifts, something I could never have imagined having when I was growing up in Shanghai, China in the 1960s. Immersed in holiday music and spirit, we sit around the tree and exchange our tokens of love. At the same time, the festivities of the present always spark in me a bittersweet nostalgia for my past, a past that is now a world away in time and space.

Back then, as other families around us shopped for their holiday and New Year’s dinners, my three sisters and I anxiously waited for a miracle to happen. We were very aware of the fact that we had maybe only a single handful of rice left in our cold, empty house, and whether we had dinner on a night the rest of the country celebrated depended on if our father could persuade one of the communist party leaders at his workplace to come and see what dire need we were in. In such cases, a small check might be issued to the needy.

The end of each month was always hard for us anyway. My father was paid at the beginning of the month and his meager pay often meant eating plain porridge with some pickles for a few days before the next paycheck arrived. But, my father was determined to give us a good dinner every New Year’s Eve.

When he had to, he sat at his leaders’ office and waited until they agreed to come to our home. It would usually be very late in the afternoon. By the time he got the money and passed it onto my mother, most families already had their dinners cooked. We were the exception. My mother usually arrived at the market just as it was about to close.

By the time we got to eat our dinner, it was always late at night. None of us children ever complained about waiting or being hungry. We all enjoyed inhaling the delicious air in anticipation of our feast, even though the shrimp in the scallion and ginger sauce were very small, and the braised pork belly cubes could have used more cooking time.

If we were lucky that night, our mother would even offer us each a handful of hard milk candies after dinner. Their colorful cellophane wrappers made loud, cheerful, crinkling noises as I held them in my two hands. Before I hid them under my pillow, I always gave way to the temptation of opening one and popping it into my mouth. I fell asleep as soon as it was dissolved, leaving a sweetness that lingered into my dreams and made me smile. To the little me, it was a perfect holiday celebration.

Reflections From The East Column

By Qin Sun Stubis

You can always reach me at qstubis@gmail.com or please visit me at www.QinSunStubis.com. You can find a copy of my book, Once Our Lives, online at Amazon.com