My father has always reminded me of his talents.

When the first man, Armstrong, landed on the moon in 1969, a lot of people in my village who came to my house and watched it.
I will never forget this historical moment.

My father was a handyman, an electronics expert. He could magically make useless things useful. He also liked to take photos. One time, he won an award in a contest with a picture he took of my younger baby brother.

He got the first video camera of our neighborhood, one purchased secondhand from a market. He could fix radios, watches, electronic products... anything. Like my mom, he could even sew clothes. He was usually hammering away at a problem; sometimes, he even forgot to eat.

“Hey! look the way she walks… just like her father!” An aunt would always say about me. He had planned to visit us. It was his dream to come to the United States and fix my TV. But, during his process of planning the trip, he learned that he had lung cancer.
Six months after the surgery, he died in 1985.

Before he died, he had prepared his photos for his seven children. Now this photo is hung on the wall of my home.

My younger brother had mailed some letters from Taiwan; letters without words inside, only my father’s picture on the face of the envelope. He said that where the letter goes, my father was: in Houston, San Francisco or his hometown. He would always be with us.