Quiet love

My parents met on a blind date set up by a mutual friend. Dad was an established translator of German literature.  Mom read several of his works.  She agreed to meet him out of admiration.

Dad must have made some effort to dress for the occasion.  Yet, according to mom, his dark suit was fading into gray and his white shirt yellowing.  She thought that his steps were unusually quiet until she noticed the thick layer of mud on his shoes.

Mom was born and raised in Taiwan when it was a colony of Japan.  Dad came from mainland China but had lived in Japan for years pursuing his higher education.  Japanese was their common language when they first met.  On a family outing, we visited a well-known temple 圓通寺 (Yuantong Temple).  Mom recalled hiking up there with dad and spent an afternoon without saying much to each other.  It was dad’s all-embracing gentle manner that won her heart.

Mom called dad by his courtesy 海嵐 (Hai-Lan), known only to family members and a few close friends.  It means “ocean mist.”  I always thought it was the most romantic name.  However, in Japanese kanji, the character 嵐, made up of 山 (mountain) on the top and 風 (wind) underneath, means “storm.”  Storm over the ocean?  I could count with my hands how many times dad raised his voice.  Like all couples, my parents didn’t always agree on everything.  They managed to compromise.  Mom ran the household when dad quietly read and wrote.

The steadiness of my parents’ relationship provided a safe environment for me and my brother.  We did not even have to think about being “carefree.”  We were carefree.