Chapter 3: Grandpa—The River Philosopher

My grandpa farmed. He was fit until his last days.

If my grandma was a top-notch artisan, my grandpa was a jack of all trades. He could build houses, make furniture, fix roofs, shape apricot trees—it was similar to the bonsai art, just ten times bigger. Among all the things he did, I loved seeing him practice traditional medicine the most. He collected herbs from everywhere—leaves, roots, bark—anything nature offered to reduce pain.

I often followed him to the Red Cross Association in town, where he donated those remedies. On the way back, if luck was on my side, he would buy me sweets or a comic book. He was also the one who bought me my first doll and my first model toy car. 

Long before the internet invented nicknames for loved ones, my grandpa was already ahead of his time. He called me ‘Gấu’—Bear.

Whenever I played in the yard and heard him call out from the background,

“Lại đây hun ông ngoại cái coi, Gấu!” (Come here and give grandpa a kiss, Bear!)

I vanished.

Instantly.

As if I possessed actual magic.

He never gave up.

Next time, same invitation.

He carried me on his shoulders. Paddled me down rivers. Let the world slow to the sound of water.

That’s where my calm began—not from meditation, but from sitting on a bony man’s shoulders while he sang badly.

I loved sneaking into his hut and stealing his coconut candies and biscuits. People say food taken this way always tasted better. It was true. And he always knew I was the culprit because, who else? Next time, he hid things at a different place, and I would still find them. This was like our hide and seek game and I missed it so much. Now, he is hidden in a place I clearly know but can never find.

The most valuable object in his life was his radio. That’s how he stayed connected to the world.

Surprised?

Every day, he hosted what I can only describe as a round-table discussion—neighbors, relatives, whoever passed by—debating politics, history, soccer, and whatever news the radio delivered that morning.

My grandma hated it.

“If he’s so smart,” she complained, “why doesn’t he solve the family’s problems first?”

It didn’t shake him.

The discussions grew bigger.

So did my grandma’s complaints.

Unlike my grandma, who barely glanced at my certificates, my grandpa read everything.

Every line. Every stamp. He said nothing to me. 

But the next day, at his round-table discussion, the opening topic wasn’t world affairs. 

It was my achievement.

By evening, the entire village knew.

Most of the time, my grandpa worked alone because according to him, it was faster. He didn’t like help. But he taught me small things—how to hold tools, how to fix loose boards, how to cut wood. I loved working with him.

There was no pressure for perfection. I could play with his tools. Or simply be there.  Being his companion was enough.

People joke that in Vietnam we only have two seasons: the hot season and the rainy season. 

But in my hometown, where we lived close to the river, we had a third one.

The flood.

It came to visit us once a year.

As a child, I loved it. Flood meant sampans instead of roads, water up to the knees, and the morning ritual of shoe-hunting—because the river always borrowed them overnight and returned them somewhere else.

We treated floods the way you treat inevitability: you prepare, you adapt, you don’t complain too much. 

That was life. Our life.

One year, during flood season, I got sick—really sick. Burning with fever in the middle of the night. My family rarely trusted hospitals. But this time, even my grandparents knew we needed help from people in white coats.

The nearest medical facility was about forty-five minutes away by foot. In normal weather.

That night, my grandpa didn’t hesitate. He lifted me into his arms and ran—barefoot—through dark water and rising currents.

I was unconscious. 

But the strange, beautiful thing about the body is this:

it often knows before the mind does.

Even though I saw nothing but darkness, even though I felt the push of water against his legs, I felt safe. Completely safe.

I knew—without thinking—that I would survive. 

I recognized that same feeling years later, when a stranger carried me to the hospital after I was hit by a motorbike—an accident that gifted me twenty stitches on my forehead and a brief resemblance to Harry Potter.

But that night, in the flood, when my grandpa carried me through darkness and water, was when I met the best marathon runner in the world.

Not on a track. Not in daylight. But in floodwater, carrying love instead of a finish-line number.

Love made him strong.

Love made him fast.

Love made him run.

My grandpa didn’t accept love easily. He questioned everything. 

In the family, he was famous for returning gifts. Relatives or the children of my aunts, who didn’t live with us, would visit with tea or biscuits—a common sign of respect in our culture.

He rarely accepted them. 

“They’re bribing me,” he would say. “Their mother hasn’t visited me in years, and suddenly their kids bring biscuits and tea?”

To him, respect was not equal to tea… 

Or biscuits.

Or money.

But somehow… he always accepted what I gave him.

No hesitation.

No suspicion.

Even though my mother and he were mostly distant…on and off. Mostly off.

With me, love didn’t need proof. 

It just arrived.

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