It’s no secret that my father has grand plans to re-create the farm experience he had as a kid at the Ranch. And now with the village in working order, he is ready to put his plan into action.
“Kids, I have a surprise for you,” my father calls out as the spring warmth chases away the winter. He opens a cardboard box as we gather around. There are tiny chirping sounds. He pulls out a small, dirty white fluff ball and places it in my cupped palms. Its tiny, sharp talons poke my six-year-old hands, but I’m mesmerized. “Daddy, what is it?”
“These are baby geese,” he says as he hands one to nine-year-old Mary and the last one to Aaron, who is now ten. “They are cute now, but they will grow up to be good guard animals.”
I want to put my face to the fluffy fur, but I’m hesitant of its pointy beak. I hold it very still, trying to calm it. “Don’t worry,” I say as it wiggles, trying to escape. “You’re safe here.” I smile with pride as the little chick settles in my arms. I can’t wait to show Patrick!
“It’s you kids’ responsibility to feed and take care of these goslings. Can you do that?”
“Yes, Daddy,” we chorus.
Mary and I sprinkle feed in their box every day. We let them out to run around and get some exercise, but we always put them back in their box, then eventually their cage, so the wild dogs in the neighborhood don’t eat them.
After five months, my father praises our results: “You girls are doing very good taking care of your geese. You don’t need to worry about a dog getting them now.” He laughs, seeing the huge gray-and-white geese flapping their wings and honking menacingly at one of the neighbor’s dogs who wanders close to our farmyard.
The older boys are annoyed at the extra work hosing down the goose poop that drops all over the yard. But Mary and I ignore their complaints. For once we each have our own pets that we raised from babies, even if they are too big to pet now, unlike our Dobermans, who belong to everyone.
One evening a few weeks later, as we all gather around the dinner table, Josh and Caleb are nudging each other. I notice Aaron is staring miserably into his bowl.
“What smells so good?” I ask.
“It’s goose!” Josh crows evilly.
“My goose? You killed my goose!” I scream.
“Quiet!” my father shouts. Then more softly, “It was time, girls. Animals are for food when you live on a farm. They are not pets. Don’t get attached to them. You need to learn this young.”
The three geese had become a nuisance in the village, so it was time to let them go, and our father saw it as an opportunity to teach us a good lesson about life on a farm.
Mary and I gaze at each other helpless in horror as our geese are served up. We shake our heads when offered a piece of meat, thankful the adults don’t force us to eat like they normally would. Staring down at our empty plates, tears streaming down our faces, neither of us can imagine eating our pets.
The twins chow down on their drumsticks, smacking their lips extra loudly while staring at Mary and me.
“Cannibals,” I mouth at them. Mary and I are for once united in hatred. The retaliation I might normally execute—dumping a basket of leaves on their head, putting frogs in their bed—seems paltry against the magnitude of their crime and my broken heart. But I learn his lesson.
When my father unloads a truck of goats from China, which are later joined by a crate of chicks; a coup of pigeons, myna birds, and parakeets; and a baby calf, I tamp down my excitement. I can enjoy them but not love them. Death is always around the corner.
Hoping to distract me from the loss of my pet, my mother takes my hand. “Want to come see what Uncle Ashok is working on?”
Uncle Ashok has been working for weeks now in one of the old sheds in the area that used to be the garbage dump.
I hear a roar and chugging sounds that get louder as we approach the shed at the top of the farmyard. By the time we enter, the roaring is so loud, I could not be heard shouting over it.
Uncle Ashok’s sweaty back is facing us as he tinkers with a monster machine that is bigger than he is. I cower a little, covering my ears with my hands. His strong hands, covered in pink burns and black grease, lay down the metal wrench to lift me over his head. He hits a button and the noise sputters out.
“What do you think?” he asks, smiling into my face.
“What is it?” I ask, still shocked and confused.
“This is your new generator. I made it from a diesel taxi engine,” he says proudly, in his posh British accent.
Uncle Ashok, one of the best engineers in the city, builds Formula One race cars for the Grand Prix. Of course he would know you could make a generator out of an old car engine.
“That’s amazing!” My mother leans in to give him a kiss on the mouth.
It is going to be very noisy, but the steady source of electricity will allow us to finally, after over a year with almost no electricity, have a refrigerator again, so we don’t have to buy our fresh food daily and can run lights and fans during the night. Before long, Uncle Ashok’s taxi engine generator is powering half the village.
Ah Gong and Amy, Lok Keen’s kids, come over to our house to enjoy the perks of our new electricity. Most days, they play hide-and-seek with us, but sometimes they learn English seated around the green, water-warped ping-pong table that doubles as our school and dining table. My brothers chat easily with them in Cantonese, but I’m struggling to remember the words. At six, I am still shooed away by my brothers when I try to tag along with them as they roam the village, so I console myself playing Matchbox cars and Playmobil with Patrick.
Of course, there are some problems with having neighbor kids as playmates. On their way home from public school, they stop off at the snack cart outside the school gates to buy candy. Our parents warn us repeatedly about the evils of white sugar, and that if it’s offered, we should accept politely and throw the candy away later. But if Mommy Esther doesn’t see Lok Keen’s wife slip me a Sunburst, I’ll hide it in my pocket until I can eat it by myself in the bathroom.
Today, though, something is really wrong. The adults are whispering. My father is angry, and even Mommy Esther is angry. And she rarely ever gets angry. My siblings and I don’t know why, but even we are speaking in whispers, catching each other’s eyes with questions, waiting for the lash to fall.
“Where is Mary?” I whisper to Aaron.
He shrugs his skinny shoulders, to say, “I don’t know.”
“Boys! Come to the living room,” our father’s voice booms out.
I reluctantly trail in behind them, knowing I am included in this.