Memories of my Grandfather
On Monday I visited my mother’s father, my Gung Gung, to pay my respects.
I don’t actually remember very much about him; I was five when I saw him last and he was buried thirteen years ago. He was a giant for a Chinese man, six feet tall even in his old age, and from stories I believe he was a kind and dignified man, if distant and bound by tradition. My mother tells me that he never held any of his grandchildren that came before me, only rarely held those after, and that I must have been his favorite from the way he indulged me when I came to visit.
I don’t remember this, though, because all adults are giants to five-year-olds and by the earliest I remember my cousins were already (I think) getting too big to hold. More than anything I remember that he smoked quite a lot, what brand I never knew, and that he kept a can of peanuts at his desk. It was always the blue Planters can, honey-roasted to give them that crunchy, candy-like shell. In Hong Kong this is not a small thing; they are not very easy to find. I remember never having them before, but I liked them when he shared, and I buy a can once in a while even today.
That’s all. He was distant to my cousins and my sister doesn’t remember him at all. In fifty years, the best first-hand memories of my Gung Gung will be the blue Planters can of honey-roasted peanuts. In a hundred there will be none at all.
I didn’t have very much to say to him, so I brought a can to leave beside the incense and oranges. That seemed like the only thing to do.
I’m going to go with the thought that it’s the little quirky things that we remember the most and a can of Honey Roasted Planters peanuts is as nice a memorial as anyone can really ask for. ^_^ Heehee, you must have been a precious kid.