Monochrome complex-buildings; blocks of precisely trimmed greenery; clattering of metal gates and the punching of elaborate passcodes. Home for me had always been the seventh floor in one of those tall buildings, where I had gazed through the windows with satisfaction and comfort at the rolls and columns of trees below me.
Yet I spent my third year of elementary school living with my aunt and uncle, in Framingham, Massachusetts, a city in the suburbs where snow tasted like sweet tears from heaven. There, I received my first impression of a wilder world, full of indescribable, eccentric phenomena.
There’s no mistaking Adele’s voice. It refused to be contained. And such a charismatic voice reverberated against the window panes on that yellow school bus. Sometimes, the ceiling shaft would be opened to let in some fresh air, and I’d glide my gaze along the telegraph wires and forget about everything else. The vehicle beneath me swayed to the longing melodies as I propped my face up to the window sill, watching houses swim past my vision. I hear the shuffles and cheery chatter of younger kids behind me, including that of my brother, who in studying his collection of Pokemon cards attracts the jealous gaze of nearby boys.
Summers in Framingham were scorching, especially in our backyard. My brother and I liked to dangle our feet in the pool, just letting the water calm our restless makers of mischief. We seemed to have inexhaustible energy. Under the heat, we chased each other around the pool, taunting the other with fake swords. We were fearless warriors. Grandpa sometimes joined us, feigning rage, chased the two of us round and round with a rake. Running short on breath, we choked on laughter, until tears blurred our vision.
Our backyard was a source of endless fascination—full of thrilling happenings. Although I have never made the acquaintance with the water monster who lives in the deep end of the pool inside the pool drain, it has nonetheless been a frequent guest in my dreams. Many times, I barely escaped being sucked into the drain by its tentacles. That is, in my dreams of course. But I never doubted the existence of our little friend. My poor little brother broke into tears when Grandpa dragged his floating ring closer and closer towards the pool drain.
Beyond our two-story house was a patch of woods. This wild forest invited us to become adventurers. Stepping over that one snake-like tree, which twists and sweeps close to the ground, Grandpa warned us that it comes alive at night. Well, my brother and I found it a perfect meeting spot because, hey, in the daytime, it is just another tree!
Seemed like all sorts of creatures like to frequent our house. Rabbits disappeared under bushes; snakes hissed in our garden. Grandma and I slept in a foldable couch on the first floor, with a big window facing the fences. One morning, waking up, I looked into Grandma’s sleepless eyes, and she told me how, last night, she saw the emaciated face of a wolf staring at her through the window... Even today, I cannot make out if she had in fact made it up.
Then there were the weasels by the creek, though I have never seen one. Kiera, our neighbor’s daughter, one year junior to my brother, often led us to one spot by the creek where we’d swirl up some moss from the stream with a short branch and transfer it carefully onto a rock. We took it upon ourselves to prepare the weasels’ food, lest they should starve.
In autumn, Grandpa would stroll around the pool and use a long-handled net to scoop out fallen leaves. One midmorning, Grandpa gathered the kids around, who with Nutella smears around their lips listened to him vividly describe how, with that same net, he had dragged out two drowned wolves from the bottom of the pool... We were all eager to know what he did to the bodies. But Grandpa shrugged and just said, “somewhere far away in the woods...”
As kids, we liked to build little nooks. We built one in the basement. I’d never seen a basement before. I’d come so far away from home to find the exact same damp but historic smell which I found when popping my head into one of the cabinets of my grandparents’ TV set at home in China. A makeshift office table, supplies including crayons, paper, books and toys were all set up. My brother and I protested the pure joy such an escape gave us when Grandma suggested for us to get out of the dark and damp place. I told her I don’t mind! At least not until a black spider started to crawl towards me. I was out of there that instant! My heart was awash with fear and my back drenched in sweat. Grandma or Auntie must have helped me carry my drawing supplies up again because I never dared go near the basement door after that.
Salsa and chips at Kiera’s house, the purr of her cat, playing hide and seek with it behind the sofa. Rainy days and being dragged by the hood from underneath someone else’s patio all the way home. My memories rest on these peculiar incidents. But most of all, I recall how when the heat faded away, we put on snow boots and went playing in the knee-deep snow. The gentle “tuff tuff” sound of snow beneath our feet marked our secret ingredient of happiness for winter. Lying in the middle of that white world, I had already begun to dream up a new snow monster.
