A Full Moon and A Red Thread

Dear Friends,
I fear I concluded the story of my boy with the red ball too abruptly. My last night in Pong Yaeng came quickly and I was in a hurry to notify my family of a discovery.

There is a constant reoccurring theme in my life; a red thread, so to speak, that leads me to special people. For example, how I came to be at Bunnies By the Bay is a story that seems, upon the first hearing of it, unbelievable. I survived an earthquake in 1963 on Wu Fung Road. Others who survived are our shareholders and partners. We came together on the slimmest of reasons and tracked down two American sisters who had founded the company. We did not know at the time what desperate straits they were in. This tale knits us together even today, twelve years later, the way disasters bind strangers. The way soldiers become brothers. It amazes me how small signs and tokens have revealed themselves to me not to guide me, but to confirm new directions that seem frightening at the time.

These signs also seems haphazard and sometimes when I recount these tales to my analytical husband I see that look glaze across his eyes…”oh, there goes my artist wife again.” But he supports and believes in the luck that surrounds me. Even a handful of you, my new friends on Wu Fung Road, will be friends for life. I already know this. There are signs of red threads tangled about our ankles. And so my interest in this boy who has played in the fields across the ravine from my house in Thailand was one of those experiences I became almost embarrassed to reveal to my friends and partners.

It was hard explaining why I was so interested in him; I found his recycling of the TIGER BRAND RUBBER BALL into the many things I saw it become over three years very reassuring. Perhaps ALL things could be remade and used they way he constantly seemed to refashion his deflated red ball until it had been rued down to its truest, smallest thing. A red patch. Today, finally back in the USA, I tried to explain this to my partners who were curious why my last three posts were so “long and wordy.” That is when I realized how ridiculous I must appear to them. So over dramatic. Always digging for this connection. But then, I am ridiculous.

As I have written, my house in Thailand constantly needs to be aired out when I am away. This year, 12 months went by without visiting and when I arrived last week I spend nearly the entire time airing, cleaning and doing over 139 loads of laundry (stopped counting) and after only spending half an afternoon painting, I thought I must break down and hire a part time house keeper. It seemed an extravagance. A caretaker for an empty house. But a wonderful housekeeper came recommended by my neighbors. The next morning Kuhn Dao was at my door slipping off her shoes.

She was lovely, helpful, cheerful, independent and vaguely familiar. When she blew through a room, she left it hospital clean. It was only at the end of the day when I still could not quite put my finger on what it was about her that seemed so, well, close, I noticed that familiar color of coral that I have associated with the boy who had himself a grand time with a red ball and lost it. In a blink, I saw an eye-shaped patch on the back of her bicycle tire as she waved goodbye and scrambled over seat. I was as stunned to find my broken Thai voice as her feet were to find the pedals. With one hard push, she was off. I had just given her a key, established an account to pay her and handed over my Thai life to her. As I saw the red patch turn and turn it very suddenly dawned on me… she was the boy’s mother.

I raced after her, but she was gone so I continued through the gate running up to the Post Bar stumbling into his Post Office….”Did you know my new housekeeper is THE BOY’S mother?" I spilled a dozen questions in quick succession. Over a cup of tea the young Post Master calmed me down and told me what he knew. He IS the post office after all. He knows a lot. To protect her, I cannot be specific. I do know that last year she lost the land lease for the field she farmed and her motorcycle and was desperate for money so that her children could attend school. No one is too clear about her husband but it is presumed he is in Burma. She was introduced to my neighbors by the gardener who looks after our properties and in the year I have been away everything in her life has changed.

So what does this mean? Why is the very child I have sought to protect and worried about from my perch now live in the shadow of my eaves? Why did this boy seem to lunge at me so many times. Was he trying to get my attention without seeming to? What role will he play in my future?

I was sad to drive down the mountain yesterday dawn to catch my flight to Bangkok, on to Taipei, and finally overnight, back across the Pacific to Whidbey Island. As I flew I kept thinking with some amazement that they would be in and out of my house until I return at Christmas. I wondered what they would make of it. As I write this tonight, right now, Dao is unlocking my doors in Pong Yaeng and throwing open all the shutters to awaken the spirit living it my studio and sleeping rooms. She will keep my hearth going so that next month when our large extended Asian based family reunites for my daughter Leigh's wedding it will be cozy and clean.

Will she recognize the paintings hanging there as being of her children? Will the children come and visit and stare at my strange pictures wondering if I have been watching them? Maybe it will be something like Yoli’s daughter Paloma and Maia’s ball hurling QQ will experience someday when they come to behold the careful record their mother's have made of their journey to all of us. Will they understand they were cared for long before they were aware of it and by complete strangers? Will this empower them? We love them for no reason. Will Dau see that I have cared about her family since that day she took her strong willed boy and compliant daughter down the hill to sell their cabbages?

It does not matter either way.

Red Ball III

The boy, Little Red, traded in his ball for a broom. His ball had been recycled many times transforming itself into a helmet, then a bucket, a slingshot and finally a bicycle's tire patch. It was the eye shaped patch, the unmistakable color of a faded red rubber ball, glued to the back tire of his mother's bicycle, that quickened my heart and made me realise that I had hired his mother to be my parttime house keeper.

~my last night in Pong Yaeng

The Red Ball II

A Giant Leap Forward

When Little Qui stepped over the threshold of her new home she had no idea what a grand adventure she had begun.


Red Ball II
~ I saw him! I was at the bicycle shop across the street from the Primary school when it let out at 2:45. I feared I might not recognize him. But in the time it took to blink, There he was. You cannot miss him. But I must continue first....


Dec. 2007
Dear Leigh, I finally made it back to Chiang Mai. I arrived last night.

I walked up to the village store this morning to get food. Word spread quickly through Pong Yaeng that I was back and I was greeted warmly at each stop. Kuhn Aong at the Post Office Bar mixed me a gin and tonic as a welcome home gift. I did not have the heart to tell him that it was not an ideal beverage for 8 am. I went through the motions of picking up my mail. This time looming election pamphlets.

The best part of my walk to the village was running into “THE” boy. I have not seen him the last two times I have been here and Niran was not helpful in explaining anything about what had happened to him. I had more or less given up on seeing him again and believed the family had moved away or worse, been picked up and deported. So I was relieved when I saw his mother on the side of the road loading up her motor bike rack with a basket of cabbages, alone. I hoped this meant the children were finally in school.

But walking back I heard a rustling in the low scrub that lines the road, a whacking sound like a whip or bamboo stick being used to beat down thick brush. It sounded like heavy work, but curiously I couldn't see anyone doing it. Then I heard a ferocious and terrifying roar. It was not that I was afraid but that I recognized this attempt to put fear into my heart as the sound of a child trying to sound terrifying. The boy popped out of the weeds standing only a head taller than the stalks in a move to take me by surprise. I was indeed taken aback. On his head was the red ball that I had returned to him this summer. It was completely deflated and inverted into itself forming a giant bowl which he wore as a helmet. His bamboo stick was a sword and his enemies the tall grass and weeds. He slayed them all with great gusto and shouted something at me that I did not understand but that sounded like “Death to Invading Farang.”

I feared for my life. I am normally not afraid of children, but I was completely convinced that he meant to slay a dragon and if I was mistaken for one, I was the fool. So I kept walking hoping that if I pretended to ignore him, he would not line me up in his sights or whack me. After a couple of bends in the road I reasoned with myself that it was silly to be afraid of a child, so I turned around to head back towards him, but I was too late and was passed by the mother and son on their motorcycle. Her boy was standing on the seat like one would stand inside a military jeep, leaning against his mother's back holding her shoulder like he was hanging onto the windshield and he held himself as if viewing troops. He was riding his jeep to battle. He held his stick out with one arm and his red helmet down on his head with the other whizzed down the mountain at a dizzying speed. Every time I see this boy I am clutched with fear, but I must admit, he was grand.

I am fairly certain that someday he will be a famous general and lead a coup here in Thailand.



April, 2008

Mae Sa Ban Doi


I have returned to Mae Sa Ban DOi. It is warm and dry. The Songkran festival starts tomorrow and I am excited. Children, teens, and even grown men are playing with water everywhere. In the same way that fireworks reduce men to boys, so too water pistols. Buckets and bazooka water guns are everywhere.

I did have an encounter with the boy. I saw him yesterday from the Post Bar. He was playing in the creek below. but when I noticed him, I was in the middle of a serious conversation with Kuhn Aong about my electricity. He explained that I can now pay our utility bill at the post office and so we were sorting through six months of undelivered mail looking for my latest bill. I did not have the heart to tell him that Kuhn Vecharee already takes care of this through international internet auto bill pay, fearing that such a revelation would cause Kuhn Aong to give up hope. So I played along. After he was satisfied that the Thai government was certainly inefficient for never charging farang for electricity he let me go with an armful of undelivered newspapers and junk mail that he thought might be useful to me in painting.

I was laden with paper when the little boy jumped out from behind a huge mail drop receptacle which is positioned prominently in front of the bamboo shack post office. It is made of iron and looks like a sumo sugar dispenser. It is certainly large enough to adequately hold the volume of mail generated, in say, all of Manhattan in its tall hollow body. If all of Pong Yaeng is someday washed off the mountain I know certainly that this postal edifice will survive with the two or three letters laying safely in its bottom. Maybe with my lost letter to Grandma. Anyway, I was indeed completely taken by surprised when the lad ambushed me in the appropriate Song Kran ritual of welcoming the spring rains by hurling approximately 5cups of water in my face from his inverted red rubber ball helmet which now was his SongKran bucket.



He ran away before I could wipe the water out of my eyes.

The Red Ball I

Shiao Lu Buys Rice

Granny sent Shiao Lu to the market to buy rice. She gave him four kwai and told him there was no extra for a red bean icy.



~~Dear Fiends,
I am posting from Northern Thailand where I have a second home. Tonight I went to the Post Office for dinner. In our town the Post Master also runs a small restaurant and bar to the side of the stamp counter. Thus, his establishment is called, The Post Bar. As is my habit each time I come here, I stop to see Kuhn Aong and to pick up any mail that has come for me. There has never been a letter, not one in three years, but it is an excuse to say hello and to catch up on what is happening in town. He is also witness to a relationship I have with a small boy in this village. No one knows much about him as he is most likely the child of an undocumented Burmese refugee. There are a large number here, but he also may be from the hill tribes of Hmong and Karen. No one knows.

But tonight, let me begin to tell you a long story. Tonight I asked the Post Master about the boy. I have been here three days and haven’t seen him. Kuhn Aong smiled as if we share a secret and then gave me some hint of what I may find tomorrow if I stand quietly in the bicycle shop that is adjacent to the school gate. So that is where I will be. Tomorrow, at three.

But it begins like this, two and a half years ago. I wrote my daughter all about it.

June 16, 2007
Mae Sa Ban Doi

Sawadee Kah Dear Leigh,
I await your arrival in Thailand next month with joyful anticipation. Dad and Ben arrive next week. I have been here a month already. I spend my mornings sketching and preparing boards for painting, but often just sit, observing the villages around me from the veranda on the second floor where I have great views across the valley of several hill tribe farms. Directly across from me, over a ravine, I can observe, quite intimately, the comings and goings of a family as they farm without them being the slightest bit aware of me. I became fascinated with them when I began to hear the chatter and cries of a small boy every morning around dawn. The acoustics are such that I kept thinking someone was in the house. So I heard him before I ever saw him.

The boy is about 4, maybe five. His mother farms a plot of capsicum and cabbages with the help of a daughter who looks to be about 12. The mother rarely stands straight but when she does I can see a broad smooth face and a high forehead. The daughter is quiet. She looks somewhat beaten down and has wistfulness about her I can see even from across the ravine.

The boy is the orneriest child I have observed in many years. At dawn I hear him talking, singing, shouting and bantering with the two women as they descend the hill towards their patch of land. Within an hour he is bored and begins a relentless and annoying ploy to get attention. Usually he is unsuccessful. He frustrates his already tired mother and drives his sullen sister completely mad. Several times I have seen her lunge to whack him but he is always just a hair out of reach and a second too fast for her. He pees on her vegetables, throws rotten cabbages at her butt, howls, scowls, and pouts. He is insufferable and if I were his mother I would turn him over my knee and give him a sound spanking or a good flick to the ears.

Yet I confess he is riveting to observe. I am almost ashamed. And even as I cluck over the most outrageous childish tantrums, I chuckle and have even guffawed out loud and fallen off my perch. He seems so full of himself, so confident. He never wavers or acts confused. He is demanding. I wonder about them...is there a father?.....why doesn't the girl go to school? Where do they live? Are they Hmong? If so why no embroidered clothing? Are they refugees? They seem so alone in Mae Rim. I never see them with others at the market in our village or loitering about the food stalls or baht bus stops.

In the evenings around 6, the Wat in Pong Yaeng sounds a gong six times. Niran, our gardener, says this is not a call to prayer as I thought, but a reminder to the farmers, who don’t wear watches, that it is time to go home and that if they leave when the gongs go off they can make it up hill before dark. The ringing of the gong is also my signal to grab a drink and get myself in position on the veranda so that I can observe the little family pack their baskets for the day and head home. The boy loves this, happy to leave the boredom of farming. His mother, despite having worked all day bent over, picks the clinging boy up and carries him home on her back. He is as spoiled as a rotten egg.

Yesterday, I was walking up to the village when this family unexpectedly and quite suddenly passed me on a tinny looking motorcycle. In their speed they did not notice me or pay me the slightest attention at all. I had never seen them anywhere but in the field so it was shocking to see them out, sort of like when you run into your 4th grade teacher in a nightclub. They whizzed passed me. The mother was driving, the girl on the back seat with her arms behind her gripping the rack for balance and upon which was an over stuffed, loosely woven basket of freshly cut cabbages. This load looked to weigh more than all three of them combined. No helmets. The boy STOOD on the seat between his mother and sister casually leaning against his mother's back. His pose indicated complete ease and I am sure this is the only way he has ever traveled. He seemed as comfortable as if he was simply leaning against an immovable fortress wall. His arms were stretched out like wings. He was flying. His little tuft of hair was blowing wildly back. I gasped aloud and clutched my chest at the danger and speed.

I was terrified I would never see them again. I watched them disappear down the road and had an awful feeling wash over me as I stood in the steamy pavement staring at where they had just passed. This might be what feels like to be God. To observe others without them knowing you are watching. To know what dangers people face and to worry and fret about their well being without their own slightest concern. For the rest of my day I could not refrain from scheming as to how I could rescue this family. I could give them money. Move them into my house. Provide for them. I would give them advantages. Buy them a car with seat belts or better yet a car seat. I could improve their lives. Keep them from danger. Save them.

In the afternoon when Kuhn Niran came to water, I almost rushed him to ask if he knew anything about this family. "Don't woolie madam, 'dey come back. Go market...sell begetable...it's ok. not danger."

He was obviously right for in the morning I awoke to their chatter again. The boy seemed louder and more excited than normal. When he came into view I could see what made him so happy; a big juicy rubber red ball the size of a basketball. Clearly the expedition to the market had been successful enough to afford this small luxury. He was delighted and played merrily all day long tossing it, spiking it, bouncing it. He threw it at his sister a dozen times but she seemed appreciative it was not rotten produce and didn't scowl at him. He tossed it high and then squealed when he caught it. But mostly he chased the bounding ball all over the mountain side.

Yesterday noon, I again went up to the market, but first stopped to have lunch at the Post Bar and chat some with Kuhn Aong. I like him. He is a Chiang Mai University drop out from the School of Architecture. It seems he ran out of money so he got a job delivering the mail for Pong Yaeng village and the Royal project nearby on account of his good English reading comprehension. He never calls me Kuhn Jeanne, like everyone else does, but my whole address. "Oh Good Morning Miss Jeanne Ming Brantingham Hayes of Fouteen Dash Three Mae Sa Ban Doi."

The Post Bar is a post office, but it is also a bar. It is a bamboo shack of which half of it hangs dangerously over the side of the gully where a seasonal river rushes. It sounds nice; the water on the rocks, but it makes me a little queasy. I mailed a letter to Grandma from the Post Bar over a month ago and she never received it. I am pretty sure that if I were to hike down to the river bed, I would find my mail stuck to a boulder with the ink running like mascara. The slats on the bamboo floor are wider than mailbox openings. I would bet the most important letter one would ever write would end up falling through the floor never to be delivered or read. Maybe it is just as well.

Anyway, I was thumbing through Kuhn Aong’s impressive collection of Thai architecture magazines when something red caught my eye down on the river. The boy’s ball was bouncing violently from rock to rock making its way down the waterfall into a sludgy pool just below the Post Bar.

I again gasped, fearing that the boy must be behind the ball and in the same peril. I dropped my spoon of rice, hopped the thicket and half slid half bolted down the ravine wading into the water to save the ball and if need be, a boy. I expected to catch his shirt or to look find him on the rocks with his hands outstretched demanding the balls return, but there was no sign of him. My heart froze and I desperately waded in the water looking for him. Soon though, I heard him howling. Kuhn Aong hung over the Post Bar, literally, directing me where to step so I could scoop up the rubber ball.

I was suddenly delighted to have an excuse to meet the boy; to hand him the ball or throw it to him and that he would thank me and that we would become best friends instantly. Maybe he would see from my face that I liked him or sense that I already cared very much about him. As I hiked out of the ravine up to the highway and then further up the hill towards his inconsolable cries, I considered how returning this ball might change his life. My imagination went wild and at the point where I could picture them living with me in America, I came to the path that leads to their garden.

I could smell potent earth. Clay. Musty and rich dirt mixed with some night soil and this brought me to my senses. Maybe my intrusion wasn’t a good thing. I had unwound all my fantasies by the time I reached the path which leads to their patch and thier field is marked by a tall bendy stand of bamboo trees that forms a curtain, shielding the plot from view. I could still hear the boy crying and carrying on. I could hear him scratching and searching for the ball and his mother trying to dissuade him. Her voice had that sound of resignation when toys are won and lost in a day.

I decided at last it would be best if I was to stay invisible. So I backed up and kicked the ball as high as I could, hoping it would clear the tree tops. I could hear it fall softly into the dirt. I knew I had hit the mark when I heard the boy squeal joyfully announcing to his mother that his ball was in sight.

In the two minutes it took me to get back to my veranda perch, I found him staring up to the tree tops. How had his ball fallen from the sky? It had rolled down. Now it had come from up there. I could see him with it tucked under his arm as he stared cock eyed trying to figure out how his ball had come back to him. He pointed, trying to interest his mother and sister in this mystery. Neither paid him any attention and continued hoeing. He bugged them all afternoon to explain it. I could tell by his voice. Questions Questions Questions.

With the sounding of temple gongs at dusk, the boy’s mother picked him up and juggled him to her back. His sister gathered up the tools and balanced a basket on her head. She handed the boy his ball, which he tucked tightly under his arm again and when they were all set, when he was sure he had it tightly and would not lose it again, only then did they slowly trudged up the hill to what I hope is a cozy home.

And so my dear girl, I hope too you will find this place a cozy home. Hurry.

Love,
Mama

She Grows Paprika

This painting has no story and yet many tales. It isn't finished. I returned to my home in Northern Thailand two days ago and was pleased to find this on my easel. I started it a year ago and completely forgot about it. It is of a girl who lives across the valley. She carries her brother on her back to and from the fields where she and her mother tend Paprika plants. I have watched this trio for three years now and have many stories about their comings and goings. I watch them from my studio. They cannot see me.

~~from the hills of Pong Yaeng, Mae Rim, Chiang Mai~~~Northern Thailand

Going Home

Deng Zi Mei was pleased she had sold everyone of her Granny’s cabbages. Her last one went to Lao Bao for dumplings.

~~Dear Ones,
I have been in Zhong Shan and Hong Kong this past week working. While in China, it is hard for me to blog and this trip, the weather was freezing cold and seemed more so because in Southern China the buildings aren't heated. I woke up in the morning and could see my breath while still in bed!

Tonight though, I am in Taiwan. As soon as I step off the plane my pores fill up with the musty humidity of home mixed with a tinge of sesame oil. It is the aroma of home(some would call it stinky) but to me it is the most wonderful smell.
After a good bowl of Taiwan Noodles, I powered up to see what you have all been up to. Tonight I travel on to Thailand.

Jeanne-ming

Shiao Li and Bao Bao

Bao Bao, the youngest of all the Wu children, loved his Ah Yi more than anyone in the world. In fact he adored Shiao Li. This feeling, he described to his wife many years later, was more urgent than love. He went on to declare that the years he had spent tied to his nanny's back were the happiest of his whole life.


~posting from Taiwan. Sigh. Home again.

Su Ling Sits Still

When Mr. Ma arrived for his appointment with the Han’s of Tai Nan in order to finalize the purchase of their 50 hectors of terraced land, he could not help but notice the surprising presence of their youngest daughter. She sat very still next to her father and this made Mr. Ma feel uneasy. He thought Miss Han might lurch faster than a grasshopper to stop her father from reaching for his chop.

A Late Night Return

A Late Night Return

It was only at major festivals that the Huang’s baby was brought home to join his family. Otherwise he lived with his Ah Ma. After The Autumn Festival, his elder brother’s usual chore was to take Bao Bao back to Granny.


~from New York. Returning home tonight. My husband Peter's Mother, Satia Hayes passed away yesterday at the good age of 95. She has returned home.

Clear Direction

Mei Mei had been waiting in the bamboo grove at the end of the lane for some time. She was waiting for a good omen, hoping that the way the bamboo leaves fell at her feet would indicate to her how she would begin her trip. All she needed was some clear direction.

~from New York

Evening

Ah Ma had a terrible time staying awake past dinner time.



~for QQ

A Quiet Chat

A Quiet Chat

Jade and Moon had a quiet chat over tea. They talked about calligraphy and growing vegetables. It seems they also had a few things to say about their daughters.

Warriors of Exceeding Joy

Warriors of Exceeding Joy

~I have been quite busy since I returned from China and have had little time for "quiet chats" myself. I had a show that opened Saturday night at the OPEN DOOR Gallery and have been consumed with getting all my Wu Fung Road portraits ready in time. This show was for my dear friend Shaista who bravely fights, but with Exceeding Joy.

Fly Home

Miss Bao had been here and there and everywhere. She was glad to be back from her long trip and to see that Exceeding Joy was waiting to welcome her home.

~From Whidbey Island

A Late Night Song

After everyone in the household had used up all the hot water for baths and gone to bed, it was finally Ah Hwa's chance to do laundry. Perhaps it was the sound of water that drew Exceeding Joy, now a free bird, to stop by for a visit.

"So, what are you doing here?" The old servant inquired.

~from Hong Kong's Lamma Island

Returning Home

Ah Ying had many important things on her mind as she herded her flock from Third Uncle’s pond. She could not remember if she had tethered up the water buffalo earlier this morning or if she had fed the chickens at dawn. She was confused about the chilies she had laid out in the courtyard and still was not clear if she was suppose to take her brother to Granny Chen's or go to the market. She was not sure how she would manage all her chores.

~from Zhong Shan, China

Lucky Pearls

As Moon Festival approached, Mr. Wan's mistress wondered if she would see her lover, even if just for a few hours. It was doubtful though, given all his family obligations. Just in case he should surprise her, she wore her red envelope slippers and her lucky pearls.




~sold to anonymous buyer. Proceeds went to Home Sweet Home in Shanghai, a home for the homeless.

The Lin Brothers Get Paid

When the Lin Brothers had finished sweeping the Wong's courtyard it was late and Mrs. Wong, who controlled the family purse, had already gone to bed. The Wong's gate man refused to wake anyone in the household who had authority to see that the boys from Chai Yi were paid. It was also too late to walk back to town for dinner so he offered the brothers the stone floor of his guard house and a bowl of luke-warm tea.

Mrs. Tan's Gold Ring

Mrs. Tan was highly respected by all her neighbors. She was good with money. She could not resist any opportunity to show off her gold ring. "Wa! I tell you what! When I fled from Shanghai I came here with only one small piece of gold my Ni Ni gave to me for the trip. I sewed it into my red padded coat. I had nothing! I have sold and bought it back many many times whenever I am low on the cash."

Third Brother Ponders

Third Brother was pondering his life. He had suddenly become homesick.

Autumn Festival

When Mrs. Huang gathered her children and prepared to take them to her parent's home to pay respects to their ancestors, her only son, Little Brother, refused to go unless Shiao Li, his nanny, accompanied them. Huang Tai Tai sighed, but finally agreed.

Don't Be Afraid

When Li Mei was about to set off to work as a kitchen maid for Mrs. Chen, her auntie told her not to be afraid. "You'll see. It is a very very lucky arrangement. The Chen's have many sons."

Exceeding Joy

When Uncle Tu finally returned from his trip to the big northern city he was informed by a very nervous Mrs Chen that her third son had carelessly let the old man's beloved song bird, Exceeding Joy escape. She went on to tell him that every resident of Wu Fung Road had spent two weeks or more trying to either catch the bird or coax it back into its cage. She hoped that Uncle Tu would not be angry and demand compensation.

Exceeding Joy had flitted here and there, eluding them all while she flew about exploring the courtyards of Wu Fung Road and singing as she pleased. At last the wayward bird alighted on the outstretched hands of Little Kite, a child with no known ancestors but in the care of the Chen family as a possible future wife for one of their many sons.

When Uncle Tu saw his bird and the little girl together, he was suddenly glad to be back in Chai Yi and even happier to live on Wu Fung Road. The big northern city had been a disappointment and he had found no happiness there.


"Chen Tai Tai," he said turning to her. "It's alright. Sorry for the trouble my bird has caused you."

A Fitting Tune For a Fleeting Return

Exceeding Joy was glad to be back. In truth, her daring escape from Uncle Tu's courtyard and subsequent travels had only gotten her as far as the end of town. When she heard Little Wang, Teacher Li's poorest student, reciting ancient poems for his class, she suddenly felt the need to sing. Exceeding Joy came willingly to the boy and pondered for a moment as to what would be a fitting homecoming tune.

Recess

Not everyone on Wu Fung Road was listening for Uncle Tu's return. Some were at school. Chang Fei had just been called upon by Teacher Li to recited a passage from Dream of the Red Chamber when he was interrupted by the gleeful singing of Uncle Tu's bird, Exceeding Joy, who had been loose and free for more than a week.


Never had a student felt more relief.