"You better hang up now! Do that now!" he yelled. "You better not think bad about me," he said to remind me to hang up for
"I wasn't really doing anything. I need to talk with my friend about the assignment that's due soon," I responded, at the same
time covering the speaker of the phone, so my friend couldn't hear my fuddy-duddy Yeye. After finishing talking on the phone, I
looked around the living-room. There was a carpet, hand-made by my grandmother, in the center of the living room. Right on it
was a little coffee table. On the wall there were most of the pictures of our ancestors. Some dressed in Qing dynasty's clothing.
Nothing luxurious in the room except for one picture of Yeye and his comrades. Most of them died during the war. He took
good care of that picture and washed the frame at least once a day, but I always thought that Yeye neglected all the other stuff
in the house. They needed to be cleaned, too.
There was a slight light snaking out from the gap of the kitchen door hitting Yeye's bedroom door. It assured me that Yeye was
still in his asylum. He always yelled out behind the door, like the phantom of the house. In his eightieth year, he still had the extra
energy to waste by yelling and disciplining people. He always said, "If you are strong enough to fight against me, why not fight
against the Carrot Head." Carrot Head was the nickname for the Japanese. Yeye lived through about three-fourths of this
century. He was about five feet six. But maybe he was a well-trained soldier through WWII, for his back was still straight.
Sometimes I felt that he was still in the armed forces.
It was in the middle of summer; muggy weather depressed me. My eyes were half way closed. I lay down on the sofa. For
some reason I looked up to the ceiling, and I saw the fragile rusty copper-gold fan hanging down. The paint was mostly
stripped off, and it made annoying noises when turned on. Spider webs had cla...