Good morning everyone, and thank you for being here today to celebrate the life of my dad — a remarkable man, someone who could turn his hand to absolutely anything.
Before I begin, I want to briefly explain what I mean when I say I’m about to share a tribute. A tribute is simply a way to honour someone special by sharing what made them unique, remembering their life, and saying thank you for everything they gave us. So today, I’m here to celebrate Dad — to tell you about the man we all loved and admired.
You may recall the song I sang earlier, Bright Eyes by Art Garfunkel. That song holds a deep meaning for me — it feels like a quiet way to connect with Dad’s spirit, his light that’s still shining even now. As I share this tribute, I hope the connection between the song and Dad’s incredible life will become clearer.
Dad was like a true masterchef — he could taste a dish once and tell you exactly what was in it: every herb, every spice, every little touch. It was a rare gift that shaped the beautiful food he made at home and in the family restaurant. I recall the main reason Dad let the restaurant go was to care for his elderly mother — a devoted son to the end. Around the same time, he also gave up smoking cold turkey — just like that. William has followed suit and has been the devoted son to both Dad and Mum — for which I am so grateful.
As we were always busy working in the restaurant, I didn’t realise how much Dad respected the Chinese customs as we never spoke of them, but several years ago when I came to help William with my parents, Dad was saying he didn’t need my help, because William is doing everything for him and he was so proud of William.
As William said, Dad didn’t learn his skills from books or formal training. He learned by observing, asking questions, and giving things a go. Every job was a chance to create, solve, and improve. Life for him was one big, hands-on adventure — and there was no project too big, too small, or too awkward to take on. My husband will tell you that Dad passed this can-do spirit onto me, because I’ll tackle anything.
I still picture him crawling under the house, squeezing into tight, dusty spaces to fix pipes or cables without fuss or hesitation. When I bought my first car from Mum and Dad, he washed it for me and warned me to always keep the fuel tank above half to avoid clogging the engine. He even came with me to the Gold Coast to help me buy my first investment property.
When Mum took William and Christine to Japan for a holiday, I stayed behind and worked alongside Dad in the restaurant. He was always protective of me — especially when male customers misbehaved — appearing from the kitchen with his nunchuks to scare them off! I was terrified of cockroaches as a child, and Mum would say, “Wait till Dad gets home — he’ll sort it.” Sure enough, he’d pick them up like a pet. Apparently, they used to race cockroaches in China!
My uncle once told me Dad tried to swim from China to Hong Kong, but was caught and sent back — brave and determined even then. He also endured tragedy — his baby sister died in his mother’s arms while they were fleeing unrest. With his father away working on British merchant ships during the wars, Dad became the man of the house from a young age.
He loved horse racing — often sitting on his “throne” in the bathroom studying the form guide. I once asked him to teach me kung fu and he made me hold the horse stance for ages, telling me the foundation was everything. William gave me a Bruce Lee poster for motivation, but when Dad went to hospital for an operation, he lost his two restaurant jobs, and Mum stepped in to start our own family business. I still remember them going to Flemington Markets early in the morning and working all day.
Like William, I also remember Dad having a great sense of humour. I remember about 25 years ago when he proudly took me to see their new house in Pine Grove and have lunch there in the gazebo. It was only when I arrived that I found out it was a burial plot for his ashes.
And now, Dad is moving into his final house — beside his friend Daniel, who paved the way. A place of peace. In the Chinese Garden Gazebo. A place of rest. His final project is complete, and he can stand back — as he always did — and quietly smile.
The greatest thing Dad passed on to me wasn’t just his skill — it was his spirit. The belief that you can take on anything, learn anything, and get things done if you face it head-on. Every time I pick up a tool, tackle a tough job, or mend something instead of throwing it away, I hear his voice in my head: “Go on — you’ll surprise yourself.”
And because of him, I usually do.
A few years ago, when there was a hole in the dining room wall, I helped patch it. And even though others said Dad had dementia — and yes, he would sometimes say “I don’t know” if he didn’t want to engage — my experience was different. He still remembered exactly where the right tin of paint was stored in the garage.
Dad leaves behind more than recipes and projects. He leaves behind a way of living — one full of patience, courage, and quiet determination. Every time I create something new, enjoy something wonderful, or mend something with my own two hands — I’ll think of him, smiling that quiet, knowing smile.
Thank you, Dad — for everything. Enjoy your new home.