Three Brothers: Part 3, Malcolm's ethics

"I wake up, do the best I can, go home and sleep with a clean conscience at night. The hell with what everyone else thinks. " I flashed a cynical smile. "Work is what it is; it is neither inspirational nor life-defining. The equations I solve, the code I write, they amount to nothing more than either academic details unread in obscure technical journals, or temporary fads simply for the churning of the company PR machine. In general, technology is no more than the fashion of the day; it will soon be replaced by another and be well forgotten. In the grand scheme of things, have we actually improved human lives by our scientific endeavors? I say no more than the undesired adverse side-effects we have created in the process. The combustion engine enabled convenient transportation like trains and automobiles, but it also meant unclean consumption of fossil fuels and subsequent uncontrolled emission of CO2 on a global scale that threatens our environment today. The proliferation of the Internet enabled the ease of disseminating information worldwide, but it also meant the perpetration of hate groups, terrorist organizations and sexual predators. At the end of both the industrial and information revolutions, are the human conditions better? I argue the answer is inconclusive at best."

"But surely you would agree that the GDP per capita, in real monetary terms, have increased over the years, and Luther here will tell you medical advances have cured previous deadly diseases and extended human lives. Would you not admit these are indications of strictly positive human progress?" Anthony spoke with a puzzled expression.

"What you just stated is simply that the quantity of material goods and the quantity of living hours per person have increased, and these numerical facts no one can deny. But what about the quality of life? Are people truly better off just because they have more things and more hours per lifetime? For example, can you say that you live a better life, or that you are a better person than the generations that come before you?" I asked in earnest.

"First properly define goodness, then I will tell ya whether I am a better person than my pops," Anthony smirked wryly, like a professor listening to a graduate student's argument that he knew beforehand was naively wrong.

"Aha, this leads to the definition of ethics; now we are getting somewhere," I smiled, welcoming the challenge. "I have studied enough philosophies to know that without the existence of a single omniscient God, there is no basis for absolute ethics. We can have social ethnics, where right and wrong are determined by popular votes, or utilitarian ethics, where right and wrong are determined by tabulating the net sum of utility in an ethical decision (I know: possible in theory, infeasible in practice). But without a God that knows all and exists for all time, these are just haphazard metrics determined by humans, each of whom has a finite lifetime, who can't agree as a race at any given time in history anyway. What I am interested, and what the real topic of the current conversation, is true right and true wrong, concepts that exist and are unchanging for all time and space. That necessitates the existence of God, which I still do believe."

"I think we are still in agreement here, right?" Luther looked Anthony and I in the eyes, seeking confirmations. Luther, Anthony and I met in a college church group as freshmen, and had subsequently struggled variously with our faith through the years. But Anthony averted Luther's question and asked curtly instead, "So you still believe in God--which is no big revelation in itself. How does this relate to the modern human conditions?"

"It matters because God offers an absolute metric for evaluation of the modern human conditions," I responded. "With God's ethnics, we can now theoretically measure, for example, our generation's goodness versus our previous generation's goodness. Now, Tony, tell me: are you better than your pops?" I broke into a sinister smile as the words slipped from my mouth.

Anthony, of course, was too smart to take the bait. "Hold your horses, Malcolm. You merely said what ethics ought to be, NOT what it is. In other words, you still have not define the term precisely." Anthony simply did not stir and calmly took a gulp of his iced water. "I think you were merely begging the question."

Unsettled with the direction of the exchange, Luther interjected, "Hold on. Surely we can extract meaning of ethics from the Bible. This is the basis of Christian ethnics, and Christians have been doing that for thousands of years. What is the big conundrum?"

I took a deep breath and spoke as steadily as I could, "What I am saying is simply this: If God exists and He is there, He is not saying much while we struggle in the vacuum. Let me explain."

Three Brothers: Part 2, Malcolm's tale

And so I drove wearily towards the restaurant of our rendezvous, after hastily finishing the software patch that should complete the migration of our Japanese developed kernel to the US platform (disregarding the screen full of compiler-generated warnings until tomorrow, of course). The last rays of the setting sun penetrated the front windshield of the nondescript rental car and disturbed my tired eyes, but I was preoccupied only with the dilemma of what tale I would tell during the much anticipated reunion. We agreed that we would take turns telling our story, and on this fateful night I promised myself that I would start the communion with neither an obnoxious bang nor a meager whimper, but a simple, common tale that bears many reflections of the modern human conditions. I pulled slowly into the parking lot of a single-floor family-style Italian restaurant with gaudy but welcoming stripes of retro red-and-white decors. The moon was rising in the now darkened sky, dancing with her orchestra of stars in the disturbed water of the Gothic stone fountain, blown by the shapeless, wayward wind. Next to the fountain, a narrow cobblestoned pathway, surrounded by roughly maintained Bermuda grass and a scattering of wildflowers, enticed me to a dimly lit garden entrance. Inside the door hung a cracked, wooden welcome sign swinging freely. I took a deep breath and walked inside.

A jovial hostess in her mid-40's dressed in a similar red-and-white striped uniform dress guided me to a corner booth, where Anthony and Luther had already arrived and were chatting light conversations over sodas and snacks. Over the table hung a dust-covered electric lamp shaped like a blossoming tulip dangling upside down. The wall was covered with framed photos, autographs and vinyl records of notable Italian Americans dating back to World War II. A high-pitched soprano singing an obscure Italian opera permeated the fragrant air in the slow diner on a quiet Monday evening. As always, the quick-witted Anthony noticed my arrival and spoke first, "The big nerd, or is it the big kahuna now? Welcome back to civilization." We shook hands and hugged warmly. "He meant western civilization," Luther added with a smile. "How are you feeling? Jet-lag getting to you yet?"

"Don't worry, Doc, I can handle a business trip or two. Ain't that old yet," I shuffled up the booth seat next to Anthony. "Some joint you recommended."

"It's cozy, opens till late and has authentic Italian food served in generous portions. What's not to like?" Luther spoke matter-of-factly.

"Don't mind him, Luther, you know Malcolm's got to complain 'bout something," Anthony said. "Let's order! I am famished."

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Luther was right; what was lacking in food presentation was more than made up by the old-fashioned savory taste and outlandish volume of each dish. Landed in front of us on the worn checkered tablecloth, like space invaders, were mountains of leftover of thin spaghetti with meatballs, toasted garlic bread thickly sliced, charbroiled pork cutlets slightly burned on the edges, and the garden romaine salad dripping in olive oil. There was no doubts that everyone had had more than their fill, and now eyes were turned slowly towards me for the beginning of the real conversation. Anthony drummed his fingers rhythmically on the table, "So you gotta talk the talk, or you waitin' for the fat lady to sing?"

Luther chuckled, "I thought she just did in that last song."

"Smart Alec, Luther. Marriage has done wonders for you," I commented, mildly surprised. "So here we are again, gathering in beat-up restaurants and meditate on life and philosophies till wee hours, just like good ol' days." I stared my comrades in the eyes. "But we ain't young pups no more, and though surely you have your shares of fire and rain, listen first to my personal crusade in the land of the rising sun." I took a big gulp of ice water, steadied my nerve and continued. "This is Malcolm's tale."

Three Brothers: Part 1, the reunion

Malcolm stretched his aching back and stepped off the plane in Los Angeles after a torturous 9-hour flight from Tokyo. A large-limbed 6-foot-2 man was not meant to cramp into an economy seat with bad food and even worse service, especially when his neighbor was a sweaty middle-aged American businessman with a bulging waistline and a wheezing snoring problem. The pristine September morning air outside the plane in LAX was dry, crisp and clean, a far cry from the hot and humid stink of the torturing late summer heat in Tokyo. Malcolm took a deep breath and surveyed the bustling airport scenery--he had returned to the country where he labored four arduous years fighting and arguing and evolving with his would-be-lifelong friends within the fortified confine of a tradition-rich private university. Most of them remained in this land of silver and gold while he disappeared quietly to a strange and distant land. In the blink of an eye, six years had passed, and things, surrounding and people had all changed ... or maybe they had only acquire a jaded tint of glaze and are really the same in nature underneath? A spurt of familiar impressions lying dormant in his head awoke and rushed all at once to his senses, causing him a moment of mental lapse. "Bang!" a wavy blond-haired passenger clad in flopping beach sandals hurried past him exiting the gate, slamming his large well-traveled duffel bag onto Malcolm's head. Malcolm rubbed his head in pain as he watched the tanned, sturdily built teenager in oversized shorts and dark-rimmed sunglasses continued his trot in oblivion. "Land of the free. home of the brave, huh?" Malcolm smirked pertly and, recovering his coordinates, headed briskly towards the luggage carousel. A long workday in the Pasadena software development center awaited him.

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Anthony pressed redial mechanically on his cellular phone the minute he stepped inside the gate after his red-eye flight landed from New York in Los Angeles. On the other line was his new manager enveloped by a large vintage red leather chair in a posh lower Manhattan office, verbally coercing Anthony to start his new position as soon as possible. Anthony, with one hand casually sratching his sleepy head, quipped with confidence, "Listen, John, the mini-break between jobs was part of our negotiated deal. The drones ... I mean my clients will survive one way or another for two weeks without me." John, who exhausted every trick in the trade to recruit Anthony away from his rival security firm, was every bit as insistence, "The hell with them drones, Tony! We paid through our noses for you to bleed green for the firm. The market churns Monday to Friday, and an empty Tony's office a day is a million bucks unearned." Anthony chuckled at the half-praise, half-blackmail insinuation, "Don't think I don't appreciate your appraisal, but even a hangman needs a breather once in a while. Besides, I am within Blackberry range in case of emergencies. I am out, John. See you next Monday," Anthony flipped his phone inside his carry-on and let out a loud yawn as he stretched his arms skyward. Dressed in jeans and a loose-fitting navy blue polo-shirt--a refreshing change from the dreary charcoal business suits he wore during his 60-hour workweeks on Wall Street, Anthony's hands had no wedding bands. Instead, his right ring finger was burdened with the weight of his scratched and weathered college ring, reminding him the bygone era of simpler times on the occasions that he serendipitously glanced at it, as he did just now. A quick impulse woke his half-dormant mind, and Anthony narrowed his eyes and scanned like an eagle through the bustling morning travellers walking to and fro. "That big nerd Malcolm should arrive 'bout the same time," Anthony thought to himself, "Ah, hell. I will tease him at dinner. I need a nap." He marched with his carry-on luggage to the rental car center by the exit.

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Luther checked his watch after he guided an elderly woman walking gingerly to the clinic's exit. Luther started his office early on Mondays, as older folks always found new aches and pains over the weekends and were eager to have Luther attended to them bright and early the following day. In response, Luther was more than happy to accommodate their sometimes persistent and demanding requests. After all, this was why he became a doctor--to care for the sick and the old, and besides, he could use the money to undo the mountain of student loans he accumulated during college and medical school. Is this the fruit of his labor after years of burning midnight oil and dissecting cadavers? Is this the perpetual and unchanging state of his life from this moment onwards? Luther stared after the patient in deep thoughts as she paced slowly away. "Doctor So, are you ready for your 9am?" Nurse Nancy spoke from the reception desk, waking Luther from his mental occupation. "Yeah ... yes. Send the next one in," Like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar, Luther smiled embarrassingly at his wife at he returned to his office. Nancy and Luther met in medical school and got married soon after Luther's graduation. Nancy, a tall slender and good natured woman with pertly cut short black hair, was the morning sunshine to Luther's night serenity. "Oh, and I need to .... " He began to speak as he stepped inside his office. "I know, get you outta here by 6pm for your dinner date, right? Don't think I'd forget the long-awaited reunion of the three musketeers! Or was it the three stooges?" Nancy laughed heartily as she returned to her work. Luther bumped his head as the office door closed.

Fall Semester: Part 5, Deep Winter

The wind howled with a screeching scream; the heavenly sky was covered with menacing dark clouds that forever blacked out the mid-day sun. Snow had turned wet and heavy, falling down intermittently like Autumn rain, weighting down on each passerby like a rusty medieval coat of armor. Bare trees, striped of their Fall glory, bearing the daily punishment of harsh wind and frigid frost, bent low to mutter their misery to the frozen land. In mid-December, the winter had turned into a cynical old man on his last stand, unleashing his furious anger and thundering his soliloquy on the emptiness and meaninglessness of life and the cruelty of fate.

It was final exam week for the students in St. Stephen's, and everyone was gathering their last strand of energy and concentration for one last push for academic excellence before the start of the long-awaited Christmas vacation. For many, this meant the reunion with loving families during the most joyful season after months of separation, of isolation and quiet struggle in the microcosmic world of teens versus teens. It was a time of peaked anxiety and anticipation.

Joseph and Ben exited the examination room with long sighs of relief. It was their last exam -- Canadian history, and after weeks of force-feeding names of sparsely populated cities and shanty towns, dates of regional significant events, and persons of local interest like William Lyon Mackenzie King and Pierre Elliott Trudeau, they could now put aside the historic scripts of the young immigrant country and look forward to a return to the broader world of civilization, one where the warmth and richness of loving families awaited. Stepping outside into the piercing winter day, desolated by the many already departed boarders, it somehow did not feel unbearably cold; rather, only a breath of freshness representing the imminent start of a new order lingered. "I guess this is it," Ben exhaled summarily, "So long, Deifenbaker, or whatever the hell his name was." Joseph smiled in equal relief.

Suddenly, a tightly packed snowball hit Ben squarely in the face, sending his glasses to the ground and knocking his fragile body backwards. "Haha, Got'em!" Louis stood behind a bush and screamed victoriously in a mischievous smile. Ivan and George were not far behind. "Scram, you worm. You are not the one we want," Ivan spoke in a low, threatening tone. "Run along now, Ben. It's not your fight," Joseph commanded his only ally and turned towards his fateful nemesis. Reluctantly, Ben picked up his glasses and ran towards the dorm.

"I've been waiting for this," Ivan continued. "What's with you, huh? Proud 'n full of righteousness. Show your allegiance, Joseph. You follow me and I will let you walk." Ivan fleshed a look of sinister supremacy, staring at his smaller peer in arrogance. Louis and George, circled Joseph slowly like a pack of wolves and cracked their knuckles in anticipation of the upcoming demolition.

Joseph paused, looked around and somehow found strength within himself. He stared back at his larger foe. "I don't even know you, Ivan. I never did and I never will." Joseph spoke in a barely audible voice. In doing so he sealed his own fate.

"Well said, Joseph. But you ain't perfect and you'll never be. We'll show ya." Ivan lunged forward like a gazelle and launched a right jab at Joseph's left shoulder. Defenseless, Joseph collapsed to the ground in sharp pain. Ivan landed his knees on Joseph's chest with his tremendous weight and threw a well practiced left-right combination at Joseph's cheeks. Blood soon streamed out of Joseph's nose. Caressing his right hand with his left, Ivan stood up and uttered coldly, "Finish him." Louis and George moved in like hungry vultures ready to devour their dying prey. Soon, countless punches and kicks landed with the falling snow on every part of Joseph's body. Hugging his head with his arms, Joseph curled involuntarily like an innocuous baby. In the distant, a large black bird circled a tall leafless Maple, let out a sorrowful scream and flew away.

The deed was completed; Louis and George got up panting and heaving like tired animals from their free-willed act of violence. Ivan spit on Joseph's face as he muttered these words, "Remember your measly role in the great pyramid of food chain, fool. And remember me." The gang departed, leaving Joseph lying helplessly on the ground, trying hard to breath on the snow smeared with a Christmas shade of red.

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Ling-lai and Wah-hong arrived at Joseph's dorm early evening. Ling-lai could not recall the last time Wah-hong had driven so fast, or spoke so little during a long drive. Running to the infirmary, they found Joseph lying motionlessly on the bed heavily wrapped staring blankly at the ceiling. Housemaster Mr. Harrison was strolling back-and-forth at his side with spastic, jittery movements, looking troubled and puzzled. "Mr. and Mr. Chang, thank you for coming in a hurry. We found Joseph lying outside Building Six ... don't worry, the nurse said there is no internal bleeding or broken bones. It would be a good idea to check with a doctor tomorrow, however..."

Wah-hong and Ling-lai stared at their son, unable to believe that before their eyes laid their beloved son, bruised, battered and disfigured, in the very school they had chosen with the very best intentions.

Uneasy with the awkward silence, Mr. Harrison said, "Mr. Chang, I assure you that the incident is not racially motivated. Our school has no history and tolerance of such bigotry."

"I ask you sir, what relevance does that have now with my son lying on the bed in pain?" Wah-hong could not withhold his anger and confronted the Housemaster.

"Let's just go home Wah-hong. It's Christmas." Holding back tears, Ling-lai helped Joseph up and gathered his belongings. The snow continued to fall hard outside, as the sky grew dimmer by the minute. The white flakes, danced and twinkled under the street lights in seemingly well rehearsed and coordinated patterns, reminded all that there was beauty to be found in the worst of weathers. After loading Joseph's luggage in the trunk, Wah-hong steadily pulled the family Accord away from the driveway and headed towards their humble home in Scarborough. Lying in the back with blankets covering his wounded body, Joseph looked outside at the moving scenery upside down. The snow hit the windshield in odd and unusual angles as the car swirled, imparting nature's authentic imprints on the see-through canvas. "Hey, it's Christmas outside," Joseph spoke as he looked up the sky. Ling-lai and Wah-hong listened attentively. "Merry Christmas," Joseph said. Wah-long drove away silently.

Fall Semester: Part 4, First Snow

In the still of the night, it happened. The yellowing green grass, long disfigured with frozen mud stomped countless times by soccer cleats and desperately yearning for a makeover, received a sanctification of pure white that drifted slowly and noisily from Heaven. The first snow always descended unexpectedly without warning, bringing along its definitive wintry character, strong and silent. Light as feather, each ghostly flake, crystallized into an intricate hexagonal pattern designed by angels, drifted here and there until settling haphazardly on a chilled tree branch or an exposed ledge, leaving behind a faint but personal signature. As the young boarders dreamed with boundless imagination in their sleep, the powder snow, overjoyed and free-willed, continuously sought out every corner on the earthly world under the pitch-black sky, each claiming his own territory. When Joseph woke slowly from his restful sleep, the bedside window revealed the long awaited and captivating view of a winter wonderland. No matter how many years he had previously witnessed, the annual christening of his universe was always breathtaking.

Deep into the heart of the Fall semester, the first snow brought the boarding house renewed energy and spirit, and as the youngsters headed towards the dinning hall for breakfast, they bounced and hopped and skipped, eager to leave behind the first footprints on the white welcoming carpet rolled richly under their feet. Joseph and Ben approached the dinning hall starry-eyed, mesmerized by the new backdrop in nature's theatre. Gathering the white crystals in their hands from the sidewalk, the powder composition was too light to form snowballs, so they simply threw them playfully onto each other's head, like rice thrown during wedding ceremonies to shower the new bride with a lifetime of blessings and happiness.

"Boy, Stephen King will have a field day writing 'bout this setting. Imagine: mischievous boys trapped away from home in an old English boarding school, teens daily battling forces of nature and the animal in each other, first snow bringing new danger and intrigue ... so fresh and ... creepy," Ben muttered as melted snow dripped onto his forehead.

"and beautiful. Nature is neither good nor evil--that's man's talk--it is just as simple as it looks, beautiful beyond words," Joseph reflected out loud to himself. Ben looked at his companion dumbfounded.

In the historic dinning hall, where clans' emblems were proudly displayed on the far wall, proclaiming achievements and excellence of a bygone era, Joseph and Ben sat at their usual seats in the corner, looking out to the ceaseless falling snow outside. The high wood chairs, each carved with the name of an alumni of yesteryears who had since achieved greatness and donated generously, seemed to mock the youngsters cynically, saying they had long seen enough of the wind and the rain and the snow in their times, that nothing was new under sun anymore. Yet Joseph and Ben, in their naive innocence, ate their breakfast in simple exhilaration, conjuring possible implications of the gentle powder in their version of the enclosed school community.

"Hey, bookworm, how 'bout some more sug'r for ya cereal, eh?" Louis suddenly sneaked up from behind and dumped a handful of snow in Ben's cereal bowl. It splashed milk onto Ben's shirt and face, causing Ben to pull back reactively, bumping his head on the back of the high chair. In the distance, Ivan's and George's laughter could be heard. "They don't teach ya to put snow in cereal in them books, eh? What a shame," George spoke sarcastically.

The commotion soon caught the attention of the teacher on breakfast duty, who approached quickly and spoke in an assumed air to no one in particular, "What's with the racket? What's goin on 'round here?"

"Mr. Stuart, Joesph was there the whole time. He should know," George spoke matter-of-factly, standing a few feet away like an innocent bystander. During the brief exchange, Louis had already sneaked out of the dining hall deftly without notice. "Joseph, explain yourself. What happened?" Mr. Stuart inquired impatiently. His tired face, burdened by heavy spectacles, reeked of petty annoyance. "Nothing's the matter, sir ... just having breakfast," Joseph spoke calmly in an even tone, sending a reassuring glance to Ben. "Just finish your breakfast and go. You have chapel at 8:30," Mr. Stuart turned and walked away.

Ivan observed the unfolding of the events with great curiosity and interest. He walked up, stared at Joseph and Ben for an instant, and then said, "You could have ratted Louis out and I wouldn't have give a damn. So don't expect me to thank ya," Ian spoke nonchalantly. Joseph replied without turning his head, "Ben and I just wanta grab breakfast, Ivan. We don't mean no trouble." Ivan bent down slowly and whispered in Joseph's left ear, "You say your time has not come. The time will come, and I will surely be there to witness." He joined George waiting at the door and departed.

Fall Semester: Part 3, Thanksgiving

Joseph leaned lazily against the windowsill watching the sun set in the distance. A grey Volvo carrying the next-to-last remaining boarder back home for Canadian Thanksgiving sped away down the driveway across lower fields towards the lone highway leading south to Toronto. Joseph playfully squinted his eyes to make out the outline of the vehicle, shrinking gradually in the distance, against the waist-high white posts with red painted tops that lined the long, winding driveway like loyal school guardians bidding farewell to the departing party. The Maples shook courteously against the late afternoon wind as the car exited the school gate, waving a last heart-felt goodbye. The rustle of them died away as the matchbox car disappeared into the sunset. Then there was dead silence; the rowdy boarding house that usually rocked with music, laughter and screams was reduced to a haunted house where the drop of a needle could ring through the length of the long corridor. Joseph awaited his father, who could only make the journey north to retrieve his son after his long work day in downtown Toronto. Joseph never complained, and had instead long ago gotten used to and loved the silence, a precious and secluded time and space for contemplation. Taking a deep breath, Joseph continued to stare outside as the setting sun played his only silent companion, warmed his face gently with a blow of radiant orange. The familiar triangle grass field in front of the boarding house where countless footsteps were scattered about suddenly took on an eerie solemnity in subdued loneliness; Joseph stared at sections of footsteps now half-covered by long tree shadows, recalling the bygone activities that have left their indelible marks.

“Joseph! Sorry, dad is late again,” Wah-hong breathed heavily after climbing the steps hurrily to Joseph’s room on the second floor. A tender smile wrapped his otherwise tired face. “Dad! Actually you are early today,” Woke from his contemplation, Joseph remarked merrily and grabbed his long prepared duffel bag stuffed with spiral notebooks, textbooks and unwashed laundry. “No, dad is late, just not as late usual,” Wah-hong laughed heartily, flung Joseph’s duffel bag over his shoulder and headed towards their car with Joseph. Wah-hong stole a long glance at his beloved son walking beside him, secretly relieved that Joseph had grown and matured safely and surely away from home. Though convinced that a well established private boarding school was the best education for Joseph, it was never easy for Wah-hong and Ling-lai to part from their young son.

As the car sped along the highway towards Toronto, Joseph stared blankly out of the passenger’s side window at the scenery flashing by like a moving picture at double speed, The Canadian Fall color was at its full glory; the trees had shed their outer garments, lavishly layering coatings upon coatings of multi-color leaves on the ground. Lindens and Oaks, of course, used their shear sizes to impress with their large volumes and coverages, but the slender Birches and Mulberries swayed in their unique dances, drawing attention to their fallen lots. But it was the Canadian Maples who did the best work and highlighted the cool earth with a multitude of red shades. Joseph quietly retrieved one such leaf from his left jacket pocket and admired it; by touching and feeling a discarded leaf, Joseph felt he was breathing and growing with the boundless natural world that lived and regenerated itself continuously till eternity. "We're almost home, Joseph," Wah-hong spoke blissfully as he drove on, "looking forward to mom's dinner?" "You bet," Joseph smiled broadly. "Mom's cooking is the best."

When Wah-hong and Joseph arrived home, Ling-lai was just about finished preparing their Thanksgiving dinner. Replacing the Canadian traditional turkey was a roasted duck from the Chinese market; turkey was much too dry for Chinese's taste. Also on the dinner table was a freshly steamed fish sprinkled generously with slice ginger and scallion and seasoned with soy sauce and hot cooking oil, stir-fried Chinese broccoli heavy with garlic, and easy tossed jumbo shrimps with ketchup and Chinese wine. "Come on, come on. Wash your hands and come over. Dinner's best when it's still hot," Ling-lai wiped her forehead as she welcomed her family home. Wah-hong and Joseph took their place at the table with wide eyes; a feast as such was a much too rare affair. Living in Canada meant diligently following local customs and culture to the Chang's, and celebrating Thanksgiving was one they were delighted to oblige. Unexpectedly, Joseph asked inquisitively, "Can I say a prayer before dinner, mom? We do that at school before set lunches," The question slightly startled both Wah-hong and Lin-lai at they looked at each other. Wah-hong broke into a gentle smile, "Please do, Joseph. Pray for us." The family closed their eyes and held hands awkwardly for the first time as Joseph spoke these words:

God grant us the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; the courage to change the things I can; and the wisdom to know the difference.

"Thank you Joseph. That was wonderful." Wah-hong was amazed how Joseph was growing up before his eyes. He smiled as the family ate quietly.

Fall Semester: Part 2, Autumn Wind

Autumn wind in Toronto was as mysterious as the origin of this great, vast land over which it has blown for thousands of years; it was nature’s Utopia preserved in its pristine state fearfully and reverently by its aboriginal inhabitants until the eventual and fateful arrival of European traders. Sure, in the greatness of modern western civilization, the wild grass was now periodically trimmed, the streams and rivers were now well drained and diverted, but the seductive scent of the wild lilies and the stoic bravery of the Sycamore white bark now seemed a touch over-tempered to be truly indigenous. Or maybe the souls of natural things were still alive and well, only more cautious and hidden than their ancestors'?

Stealing time on the lower fields before soccer practice, Joseph lay on his back, hands behind his head, staring skyward at the changing face of the afternoon sky. The clouds entered the stage from a scattering of century-old Pine trees in the south appearing youthful and confident. The clouds, manipulated by the orchestrating wind, merged and diverged in random successions, moved fast and furious to the north like soldiers too young for battles marching to war. Yet at the edge of the fields guarded by Lindens and Oaks, the clouds soon disintegrated into a sea of countless pieces, ending their short-lived journeys with a meaningless whimper rather than a triumphant bang. Just then a tiny cricket appeared from no where and landed squarely on Joseph's stomach, drawing a surprised giggle from the young observer. Joseph sat up, cradled gently the little intruder in his hands and softly deposited it on a bed of wild flowers to his right. The cricket seemed overjoyed and hopped from flower to flower with enthusiasm. Joseph watched with mesmerized attentiveness and infinite fascination.

In the distant, footsteps of soccer cleats stamping haphazardly on dried mud were heard slowly approaching Joseph. Instinctively, an ominous presentiment welled up uneasily in Joseph’s stomach. "Well, what da we have here -- the prince of peace himself,” a high-pitched squeaking voice pierced through the slightly moist air like a metal ice pick. Joseph recognized Louis’s shrill voice, and knew well that his companions, Ivan and George, were not far behind. “The fortunate son! Be still my beating heart!” George spoke with aplomb, walking up to Joseph as he slowly got up. Joseph instantly noticed the lighted cigarettes in their hands and looked away quickly. “I stare at the sky and the sky stares back. What brought y'all here this early, fellas?”

"Joey boy, you never learn, do ya? Speak when you are spoken to,” Ivan spoke condescendingly without responding and stepped closer to Joseph, towering over Joseph's diminutive statue with his awesome physique. "Anyone can enjoy the sun and the air and the lush green grass, right? We're nature freaks like you, that's all," Ivan mocked Joseph casually. Louis and George snickered lightly.

"I'm no tree hugger myself. Just wanta watch the grass grow after a long day," Sensing imminent trouble, Joseph smiled awkwardly.

“Always a man with words, Joey," Ivan commented. "Old Fate has brought us together again. So why not do me an honor and take a drag? It's on me, all me all the time!” Ivan coughed a little while pretending to laugh. He nodded to George standing in amused silence. On cue, George carefully retrieved a black lacquered cigarette box out of his left coat pocket, opened it, and took a long Marlboro out for display. A shimmering lighter with skulls and bones carved on its body stood waiting next to it in anticipation.

“I'll take a rain check, Ivan. I do quite fine without one. Have so far. Certainly not now, anyway,” Joseph spoke uneasily but firmly, waving his hand for emphasis.

“As you like, Joseph. Pleasure is all mine,” Ivan froze his stare at Joseph for a moment, "I don't ask often, so it's your loss, not mine." He then turned with others and walked away. “And remember this,” Ivan turned back after ten steps, “Squeak and you will hear from me. Real fast. Enjoy the evening.” The gang continued their trot across the field.