Chinese New Year Celebration

This year, Chinese New Year arrives early instead of its usual February -March schedule. “Longing for beloved ones quadruples around festival times”, as the old saying goes. This article is dedicated to my dear Grandma Duan who went to be with the Lord in 1984 at the age of 90.

I remember in the early years of my childhood. Every Chinese New Year, we would go to Grandma’s in a little town 400 kilometers away.  It was always an exciting time for us. This was the time we dressed up to visit relatives and kids collected Red Envelops with money inside. Every household presented plentiful of candies in colorful wrappers, fresh and dried fruits, honey soaked melons and varieties of nuts and seeds to keep us busy. There were fireworks flying the sky, fireworks wiggling and waggling on the ground and fireworks everywhere. The most memorable part for me is always the food and fun Grandma put together for the whole family.

Mom woke my brother and me up before dawn. With a quick breakfast, we hit the door and aboard the big bus. The aged bus reluctantly crawled through the winding narrow two lane roundabout, up and down and up and down the steep mystic mountains of the Yungui Plateau for hours. I often amused myself with the beautiful rice terrace reflecting sunlight, bouncing off radiance in all directions.  Up above in the sky, constantly changing clouds set me off into a far away land of imagination. Down below in the valleys, endless seas of bright yellow mustard flowers waved in the early spring breeze. We would count the numbers on the cement milestones along the road side, one kilometer at a time. When the number got to 388, we knew the journey was almost over.

Approaching the house, we could already smell the savory aroma of Grandma’s cooking miles away. Once entering the double gates, we were welcomed immediately into the open courtyard brightened with eight large fire torches. There sat invitingly four large round wooden tables all in a row. Each was set for 12, topped with 12 steaming colorful dishes. Mom said Grandma started to prepare for the feast a week before. Everyone said Grandma was full of wits and grace. I figured the wits part must have meant the way she could keep the dishes hot and fresh for so long; the grace part was the way she kept herself so well groomed and cheerful after a whole week of laboring in the kitchen.

Following the family tradition, everyone was seated according to their age. Therefore, adults and children were split into two tables each. From the eldest to the youngest, everyone would go up to Grandma’s seat and make a toast to thank her for the feast and wish her longevity. I really meant it every time. The toasting was followed by the sound of chopsticks and woos and ahs of satisfied tongues and the clicking of toasting wine glasses. The laughter and jokes kept going till midnight. The folklores told a monster named Nian (Year), who would come at midnight to touch the foreheads of sleeping children and make them ill. Everyone stayed awake to pass Nian’s visit. At midnight sharp, two ten feet long bundles of red and golden firecrackers were set off. The clamorous crackling sound supposedly would scare Nian away.

Next morning, I always awoke to the sight of a pair of new flat heeled cotton shoes by my pillow. They were a lot more like Toms Shoes selling for $40 a pair nowadays, except they had cream colored rubber soles instead of Eva. Mine was always special. Grandma said city girls were too sophisticated to wear embroidered shoes. She always chose small plaid, polka dots or stripped fabric for me. Sometimes, she would even surprise me with a solid material decorated with little shining plastic buttons of different sizes and shapes. Those were my favorites. With all 22 grandchildren, I wondered how many stitches and drills she had to make year after year.  Mom said she had to first glue 2 or 3 layers of scrap fabrics together with a white lining and a surface fabric. The prepped shell then was cut to shape and size with a solid bias trim around the top openings. She then would fasten the shoe top with linen threads to the sole with a drill. The drill looked like a sharp crochet needle with a wooden handle at the top.

Dressed up in my new outfit made for the day, I navigated through all the uncles and aunts scattered in the sitting room, bypassing the tables piled up with tempting candies and nuts. I went straight to Grandma. There she was, beautiful as ever, in her navy blue traditional Chinese buttoned jacket, hair combed smooth and knotted at the back of her head. Her little lotus feet nestled in a pair of black velvet boat like shoes no bigger than 6 inches. They were embroidered with shades of red, green and white silk threads. Grandmother was the perfect embodiment of a traditional Chinese woman whose 3 inch bound feet held volumes of virtues and kindness.  Grace and beauty should be her middle name. I used to think she was the incarnation of an angel without wings. There was only one thing on my mind at that moment. It’s the time to Bai Nian, meaning to wish good luck and fortune for the coming New Year. In the old days, younger generations would have to kneel down and bow their heads on the floor to their elders. My family had given up the old tradition by the time I was born. Fortunately, they kept the Red Envelope tradition. Elderly members in the family would give out money sealed in red envelopes as gifts. It was said to keep the monster Sui away from youngsters and bring good luck for rest of the year. Grandma never worked for an income in her life. She would still magically manage to give one crisp new Chinese Yuan in a red envelop for each of her grandchildren. Uncles and aunts varied from 2 to 5 Yuan. I usually finished the day with a pretty sizable income for the year, around 25-30 Yuan. I was a happy camper! My Dad made only 60 Yuan a month back then. I could get a bowl of rice noodle soup with minced pork for a dime for breakfast, and treated myself to 5 fruity hard candies for a penny, or a few slices of pickled radish after school. Not to mention the luxury of making a real purchase at the small department store around the corner where all the big people shopped. A bundle of colorful rubber bands for my hair braids and a hot pink plastic hair comb were enough to satisfy my bubbling sense of beauty. I loved the scented rubber erasers and those dazzling metallic bright colored craft papers at the stationary stores. With little toy selections available, we invested heavily in the collection of comic books called “Little People Books”. One thing that still puzzles me till today is people of all sizes and ages loved to read them, side by side with us little people.

Dad was the one who inspired and taught me the love of art, music and great literature. His best friend Gu from childhood, who lived 3 doors down from Grandma’s, was a man of many talents. He could do absolutely anything you can think of. I wondered oftentimes to myself if he came out of his Mommy’s belly just like the rest of us. Uncle Yi has always been the loner in the family, not a man of many words, and full of pride. He played the best Erhu, a traditional Chinese instrument. It sounds like a broken hearted fiddle, has only two strings with a bow trapped in between. With Dad’s accordion, Gu’s harmonica and Uncle Yi’s Echo, they could readily put up some entertainment for the rest of the day. Gu would also sing along while Uncle Yi played solo on the Erhu. He called it Peking Opera. Grandma was his faithful audience. I attribute my love of Peking Opera and opera of all sorts to Gu. The beautiful poetic phrases sometimes were hard to comprehend, the intricate stories mostly stated hundreds of years back. I developed a passion for it which was rare for kids of my age. Years later, I discovered it became a powerful weapon to get rid of boys in a polite way. Sitting in an opera theater for 4 hours could kill any date. One of the reasons I was closer to Grandma was that we had shared the same appreciation for that form of drama.

Grandma always treated me to a day of horseback riding. She had way passed the age of riding a horse by then. I was told she had been a great rider. I had no access to a real horse in the city. I love horses. I love riding freely through open prairies with budding wild flowers of early spring, warm breeze embracing my face. My brother always teased me that I should have been born a country girl.

The five day visit with Grandma always seemed to end sooner than expected. With bags loaded with goodies, promises for reunion soon, we headed back to the noisy, populous and horseless urban life again.