Post #109 – Women’s Memoir Writing, ScrapMoir – Matilda Butler and Kendra Bonnett
Scrapbooking Our Memories, One Story at a Time
Sometimes a memory is so vivid. We know exactly what happened and who was there. But have you ever felt the same puzzlement that you felt many years before? Jean Wong’s memoir vignette recalls one special New Year’s Eve in Honolulu when she was at that age of wanting to look good for boys but not really knowing why or what that meant or how she should act. The angst of the young teenager is palpable in her memoir.
Memoir Contest Award Winner, Finalist
EVERY NEW YEAR’S EVE
Jean Wong
After four o’clock, Mom never let us outside to play. Once we were called home to take a bath and supper, the dark world was closed to us while we read or listened to the radio. The eve of the Chinese New Year was the exception as an auspicious future was secured after a blazing firework display.
Popping fire crackers were the one danger our mom taught us to face fearlessly. Yelping at cockroaches, troubled every time we sneezed, nervous about the next war or famine, she fretted over each lurking peril, but stood unruffled amidst the smoke and explosions. For these terrible sounds blocked all hovering evil spirits and once stopped, good luck was able to circulate freely. The sound of fire crackers was no more frightening to us than hearing corn pop.
Mom, Terry, and me when we were younger
Mom usually woke us up at 11:00 pm. My brother Terry and I quickly dressed and hurried to gather our punks and packages of fire crackers. We ran outside where Daddy was setting up great ladders in the front and back yard. A string of 10,000 firecrackers hung like monstrous centipedes ready to be lit exactly at midnight. Everyone else in the neighborhood was poised to do the same thing.
But one New Year’s Eve, I let my brother go first. I stayed back to change from my jeans and t-shirt into a pair of green slacks and one of my mother’s blouses. I took my hair down and tried parting it to the side, but my bangs were too long and so I had to pin everything up again. By the time I went outside, Terry had set up the ramps and dug the holes for the rockets to go off.
“When are your friends coming?” I asked him
“They’ll be here.”
“What if they aren’t?”
“They’ll show.”
My dad, years earlier, holding me as a baby.
Daddy owned a grocery store and the firecrackers he couldn’t sell he’d bring home. We were considered the richest family on the block by fireworks those days and the kids would come from all over the neighborhood to pop our firecrackers after the first midnight volley went off.
Boy might come too. His name was really John but he liked Boy better. I always felt funny saying “boy” to call out to someone but I hardly ever spoke to him anyway and I don’t think I’d ever said his name to his face.
The New Year’s signal came on the radio. Mom waved to Daddy that it was time to start. He lit the fuse and the string of fire crackers started sharply crackling, climbing up the ladder like an angry dragon. We all raced to the backyard to ignite the second string. The noise was deafening as the whole island of Oahu joined in this celebration of sound. You didn’t hear the sharp, fast popping of a small package going off but just one continuous reverberation of thunder. Once this finale subsided, the real fun started as we began to light anything we could get our hands on.
After a while we were busy with the ones we liked best. Daddy went for the legally forbidden cherry bombs. Many a hand had been blown off with these lethal mini bombs but Daddy was the expert. He even knew how to hold regular fire crackers in his hand, pinching them tightly, so they could go off without hurting himself. Terry loved to experiment with the rockets, seeing how many he could light at one time. Mom was on the balcony holding the long roman candles and sparklers. I loved the novelties best of all—the spinning helicopters, spouting volcanoes, and crazy zigzags. Smoke settled thickly on our front lawn and a caldron of sulfurous fumes filled our senses. Hisses, whirls, and eruptions accompanied the flashing kaleidoscope of colors shooting up in a dazzling array.
“Hey–rugged!”
“Mukai!”
“No wait for us, eh blala.”
I had a hard time lighting one of my fuses.
“Jean, go and get the boys some punks,” Mom called.
I ran into the house and started handing out the punks. I recognized Ernest, Jerry, Marcos, Sidney, and Humbert standing around but most of all I felt the shadowed form of Boy’s presence. He was new in the neighborhood and very tall. Terry said he was Hawaiian and some Portuguese. Although he was a little dark, we thought of him as white. His soft hazel eyes could turn brown or green depending on the light of the sun. He was much quieter than the other boys and wasn’t always goofing around and breaking into the local pidgin slang that we all spoke. I wondered if he’d grow up looking like Mr. Mathieson, our swimming teacher in school. I wished I could be a boy so I could talk with him like Terry did.
I began to feel anxious that the night was going by too quickly. The shadows in the dark seemed to dance with excitement and promise. My body felt clumsy and I was uncertain as to what I should be doing. My helicopters lay unlit as I stood motionless. All the boys were rummaging into the pile of assorted fireworks, selecting their favorites and joining in the fun. Boy picked up a pack and started to light one.
“Hey Boy,” Terry called.
“Yeah.”
“What ya do’ing?”
“What?”
“Don’t light’em on the ground–hold’em in your hand then throw.” Terry went over to show him how.
Everyone had grabbed a bunch of cherry bombs now and pretended to throw them at one another. They’d fake and then throw them across the street. But I wasn’t paying any attention. Boy was standing apart by himself on the driveway. His cherry bombs never went off. He threw them before they had a chance to light. His long stiff fingers were trembling. I felt a funny pain for him. I wanted to tell him there was nothing to be afraid of and then I got confused. Maybe he wasn’t afraid of anything but just wasn’t used to firecrackers. He was standing right there, but the distance was too great for me to say anything to him. I hoped the other boys wouldn’t notice. Finally everyone started hovering around Terry and his rockets, and it wasn’t long before my mom and dad were telling us it was time to come inside.
It was late at night when I finally got into bed, but I wasn’t tired. I lay awake for a long time hearing the occasion pop of firecrackers continuing through the night while I wondered about Boy and what he was really like.
CUSTARD MOCHI
This recipe was a favorite of my mom’s and we often had it on New Year’s Day. The mochi ingredient makes the texture very chewy–delicious!
1/2 c butter
3/4 c sugar
4 eggs
4 c milk
3 tsp. baking powder
2 tsp. vanilla
2 c mochiko (Mochiko is sweet rice flour and can be found in the Asian section of most grocery stores.)
Cream butter and sugar. Beat in one egg at a time. Add remaining ingredients and mix well. Pour into a well greased 9″ X 13″ pan. Bake 350 degrees for one hour.
Cool. Cut into squares and serve.
