I was a young girl growing up in Vietnam. I was the 5th of 10 children born to my parents. I was a toddler when Saigon finally fell to the communists. I have some powerful and frightening stories of what happened in the wake of that event and in the years that followed.
But that’s a blog for another time.
Lately, I’ve been remembering my grandpa, my mother’s father, who lived on a farm far from Saigon city. His daughters, my mom included, didn’t enjoy living in the country and rarely visited my grandpa. But I loved being there.
For four summers, from my eighth year to my twelfth, I would travel out to see my grandpa. The trip took three hours by bus then another 2 hours of walking to get there, but I didn’t care. To me, it was a wonderful place where I could run and play and imagine and enjoy.
My uncle lived there too. They grew rice, potatoes, peanuts and vegetables. There was no electricity or running water. We rose and went to bed by the timetable of the sun. I didn’t like going to bed so early, but I enjoyed the days of never-ending discovery and fun.
At the end of the day, my grandpa would call me with his big, booming voice. I would come running to him and he would send me to clean up. Then we’d have dinner, stories and bedtime.
It was a wonderful way to escape the city, school and chores. After those years, I began my attempts to escape Vietnam, prompted by my mother. 30 attempts, 3 times in prison, 5 years in a refugee camp and, at last, freedom in Australia and America. But again, those are stories for another time.
I miss my beloved grandpa, his stories, his farm, and his love for me. My biggest regret is that I never made it back to Vietnam to see my grandpa before he passed away. He asked for me, he wanted me to come. I wanted to be there but I couldn’t make it back in time. I wish I could go back to that special man and that special place; to hear his booming voice, to feel his warm embrace, and listen to his wonderful stories one more time.
