All posts tagged in: Reminiscence
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Mdm Low grew up in a kampong with no running water, cooking over charcoal and reading by kerosene lamp. She watched her world change from wet markets to supermarkets, from cash to digital payments. Recently, standing at a hawker stall trying to scan a CDC voucher while people moved quickly around her, she felt that old, familiar feeling of catching up all over again. At 86, she is still learning, still adapting, one step at a time.
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She left a military desk job in her prime to raise three kids instead — hauling us through the market, fielding strangers’ stares and sympathy, just to keep us fed and whole. She never once complained, even as it wore her down. Her love showed up quietest at the dumpling table, hands folded into dough, family folded into her.
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By 2am my grandmother was already shaking her awake. The lorry, sixteen wheels, tall as a house, wouldn’t arrive until 5am, but timing it right across so many households near the water was never simple, especially with the flood water rising fast. My mother would wait in the dark and cold, half-asleep, until it was time to go. School didn’t start till 7.30am, but they’d already be there by 6am, napping on benches until the gates opened. Afterward came the cleaning, the ruined chairs, the tables, the small sentimental things the water simply took. It was enough to make a young girl swear she’d move to a city one day, and never live like this again.
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My mother sewed my wedding gown by hand, simple lace, no designer label, just her love stitched into every seam. My husband and I kept the celebration small: forty loved ones, four tables, a seafood dinner at East Coast. Some guests didn’t even realise it was our wedding until they arrived. What I remember most isn’t the dress or the venue though. It’s my two-year-old niece, mid-meltdown, patting her own tears away and whispering “don’t cry, don’t cry” to herself. That’s the moment our whole family still laughs about, decades later.
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He remembers when $350 a month was a good wage, when 50-cent chicken rice made it stretch, and when queuing an hour just to ride a train felt like the most exciting thing in the world. Sixty-three years old this year, he’s watched Singapore transform from kampong zinc roofs to underground trains — and NS, factory shifts, and roadside supper sessions along the way. His son finally asked him to tell the whole story.
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Dusty roads, sugarcane shadows, and hearts pounding with mischief. Aunt Carol and her friends crouched low, waiting for the exact moment a worker’s back was turned or a stray stalk tumbled from an overfilled cart. Then came the dash, the grab, and the scramble back into hiding. Under the shade of a banana tree, one bite of raw, syrupy sweetness made every risk worth it.
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Long days of hard labour, then evenings perched on parked lorries with friends who felt like family. My grandmother’s happiest years weren’t easy ones. They were simple, shared, and full of laughter along Amoy Street.
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It started at the circus arena in Guangzhou. Watching the stunts, dad mentioned those same acts were part of Singapore life in the 1970s, and a chain of sharing began.
Stories flowed of ancestors who made their way to Nanyang, of fishing villages and rubber plantations where great-grandparents lived simply off the land. Hard labour, humble living, yet none of the stress that weighs on us today. I was there to bridge the language gap between the generations, turning words into something all three could share. More than a holiday, it was memory, history and family woven into one unforgettable experience. -
Born in 1938 to a father who believed school was only for sons, my mother never spent a single day in a classroom. By eight, she was already sweeping floors, cooking, and raising her siblings while her brothers were sent to study. Long before she could read a single word herself, she made sure her younger sisters never missed a day of school and only in her twenties, through free night classes, did she finally learn to read and write.
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I grew up in a kampung near Yio Chu Kang, one of twelve children in a family where money was always tight. I went on to spend more than forty years as a dedicated assistant chemist, rarely missing a single day of work. My hope is simple: study hard, work hard, and doors will open that earlier generations could only dream of.
