Another PostBlog from Hong Kong

From the formation of the earth to the People's Republic taking control of a chaotic British ward, Hong Kong has a rich and varied history.

Today was educational. We took the Star Ferry across Victoria Harbor to go to the Hong Kong Museum of History.

The most interesting thing that I'd never known anything about was the Japanese occupation during World War II.

It's no secret that Japan invaded China and subjected its people to the most terrible occupation. Hong Kong was no exception. Britain put up a fight but was no match for the formidable Japanese who attacked on December 8, 1941, the day after Pearl Harbor.

Not only did the people of Hong Kong suffer the humiliation of being occupied, they were subject to conditions which resulted in shortages, dissolution of institutions like the educational system, cholera, and starvation.

While the Brits seemed like the good guys at that point, it wasn't always so. The way they got Hong Kong in the first place is arguably as disgraceful and underhanded as probably anything they ever did during their sketchy empirical past. Basically, the Chinese wouldn't do international trade with Britain, so those wily Brits flooded the area with opium, getting the population so addicted that the locals would agree to anything.

On a side note, because it was a weekday, we were surrounded by school groups. Most of the children looked to be in kindergarten or first grade. Clyde pointed out in contrast to what you might see at home, the adults supervising these groups weren't engaged in crisis management, yelling at the kids to pay attention or stay together. They were, instead, interacting with the children about the exhibits. All of the children were writing on worksheets presumably answering questions about what they were seeing. And though there were hundreds of them, I at no point felt stressed or inconvenienced by their presence. In fact, they were just cute as could be.

So back to the exhibits ...

Fortunately, according to the museum, Hong Kong is no longer ruled by Britain. You see, during the second half of the 20th century, after WWII, Hong Kong was a chaotic place of floods, fires, and riots. Thanks to the wise negotiations of the People's leaders with the rulers of the UK, Hong Kong was ceded back to China in 1997.  The very last exhibit in the museum is a movie describing all of this, ending with a great show of celebratory fireworks.

I had no quibble with any of the history presented up through WWII. In fact, it reminded me of how much I don't know about the world. Even the point of view describing the post war years was important to see. This is why it's important to travel. Seeing first hand how others see the world, learning what they value, and learning what they're taught, helps us understand each other better. When you get right down to it, it's harder to go to war  (or justify a stupid, unnecessary, counterproductive trade war, which yes, is affecting Hong Kong) with people that you've met in person.

Connected by Stories

... her skillet is a tangible reminder that there really were people then, as now, who came to this country looking for a better life.

While visiting my sister recently, we came across an old cast iron specialty skillet used for making ebelskivers, a kind of pancake, muffin thing with fruit (or chocolate or cheese) inside. We remembered that our mother made these every July 4th holiday while we were growing up. Seeing the skillet conjured images of July 4th breakfast parties in our back yard with dozens of people sitting around in lawn chairs eating home made ice cream and playing in the pool.

The skillet originally belonged to Mom's grandmother who came to this country from Germany more than a century ago. For all we know, it was passed to Grandma Rickertsen from a previous generation. It could be older than we think. It's black and heavy and indestructible.

I never knew Grandma Rickertsen. She died before I was born. But I knew her son, my grandfather, who, when encouraged, would tell stories. Mom would occasionally chime in with details and editorial.

Having arrived in Nebraska shortly before World War I, Grandpa's family had to keep pretty close to the farm for their own safety. Americans at that time didn't take kindly to people with German accents. They could be agents for "the Hun."

100 years ago, just like now, immigrants were welcomed with prejudice and ridiculous ignorance. Why would there be German spies in Lexington, Nebraska?

Grandpa told me other stories from his youth: about mischievously digging up hidden beer buried by bootleggers during prohibition in the 1920s - he claimed he emptied the bottles and used them for rootbeer; and about waking up in the 1930s to see his new wife covered in dirt because during the drought induced dust bowl it literally blew through the walls overnight.

Without those stories, the dust bowl would only be a black and white photo. Prohibition would be nothing more than a cartoon. But because someone I know lived though and described them, I see those events as real, happening to living, breathing people.

And even though I never knew Grandma Rickertsen, her skillet is a tangible reminder that there really were people then, as now, who came to this country looking for a better life.  And they weren't just crowds waving on a ship in a crackly old newsreel. They were human beings who carried personal items, like skillets and recipes, with them.

Now we tell countless stories about my mother. There's the time a neighbor shot at her while she walked the dog; and the time she packed a lunch for me and my friends for a day of skiing. When we opened it at noon, we found a note that said, "Keep cold or die," a subtle warning that the mayonnaise might spoil and make us sick. The sandwiches were frozen solid.

Stories about Mom help us to remember her.

On the way home, Clyde and I stopped to see my niece, who I can't quite believe is all grown up and has a child of her own. My great-niece is not yet a year old, but has a winning smile and charming personality. Naturally, the entire world revolves around her. I was eager to hold Kaycee and couldn't help but think about how pleased Mom would be to meet her.

My mother is Kaycee's Grandma Rickertsen. I hope Kaycee gets to enjoy the stories about her great grandmother. Perhaps one day she'll inherit the ebelskiver skillet. I hope she knows it was Grandma Rickertsen's and what a treasure it is.

In case you're wondering, we made ebelskivers for July 4th,  using the recipe Mom attached to the skillet years ago before wrapping it up for posterity. They were delicious.

The Get Off My Lawn Guy

When I was a young man, I was the cool gay guy. People would ask me how they should decorate their homes. I never had any idea, but it was nice to be asked.

Now, I've become the older, less attractive, "get off my lawn" guy. You know - the grumpy old man who lives on the corner and has a fit whenever neighborhood kids cut across his lawn while they are playing. No matter how much he yells, the kids ignore him and keep running across his grass while he grumbles about the downfall of society.

Ok, I live in a condo instead of a house, and I'm not on the corner. But I still seethe just inside the screen door until I can take it no more.

I hear the whispers of the children. "Stay away from that door. That guy doesn't like kids."

In my defense, I don't hate kids. Or more accurately, I like most kids but not all - just like other people.

It's not the simple act of children playing and laughing outside that sets me off. A happy child is a joyous thing to see.

It's when, for example, they start screaming that I begin to get irritated. Here's a question: do little girls scream all the time because they are socially conditioned to or is it somehow biological in nature? In any case, during all the running around, there's always one little girl screaming her head off. It literally hurts my ears.

But what really gets me out of my recliner and on the front step is rock throwing. Thanks to brilliant landscaping around the condo, the bushes are planted amongst decorative stones which fit perfectly in a child's hand. Most conveniently, these bushes are right outside my ground level, breakable, windows.

Aside from being grumpy, I really have no recourse with the children. Their parents aren't supervising and I'm not allowed to. After I recently advised a herd of young people that throwing rocks at my window is not ok, I was visited by an angry mother who felt compelled to protect her child from me. I don't know where she was during the actual rock throwing.

Maybe she was supervising some of the other neighbors.