During that summer of 1987, a new neighbour moved in across the street, at the intersection of Hickory Crescent and Ponderosa Drive. The expansive house had slowly been erected upon a large hill over the previous months. For months, the loud double smack of shingles being stapled accompanied the constant hum of lawn mowers.

The new build was a mansion compared to the modest two-storey, three-bedroom houses planted on Ponderosa Drive. We heard from the workers that the house was to have six bedrooms and a large walkout basement. One day the construction stopped, and suddenly, there were moving and delivery trucks flanking the street. Several men were bringing in new appliances, furniture, and boxes. I was sitting on the front steps of our house when I saw a short, plump, bald Chinese man wearing glasses surveying the scene, his posture erect and firm. He was dressed in a suit. None of the men who lived on our street wore suits to work. He noticed my parents outside doing yardwork and crossed the street towards them. He walked with purpose, almost strutting.

Mother was weeding the garden, dressed in a rainbow tube top, high-waisted shorts, and a pair of clogs. She stood when she noticed the man approaching and took off her gardening gloves. Father was mowing the lawn, wearing a free T-shirt he got from last year’s Coal Miner Days celebration. It was white with a picture of a large dump truck. He looked up and turned off the lawn mower.

Mother was taller than the newcomer, who started speaking to her in in a language I didn’t recognize. I moved from the front step and hugged Mother’s side while she had a friendly conversation with the man. I looked up in amazement at the unfamiliar words flowing out of her. She seemed so foreign to me in that moment. Father walked up awkwardly with the lawn mower, his knees grass-stained, and introduced himself haltingly in the same language. I watched, fascinated, as he let Mother take the lead.

Switching abruptly to English, Mother turned to introduce me. “Lily, this is Mr Lau. He is moving in across the street with his family.”

The man looked at me and said, “Call me Uncle Sam.”

A woman emerged from the large house across the street, and a girl ran after her. Mrs Lau was Uncle Sam’s opposite. Taller than her husband, she was also so skinny that I imagined I could hear her protruding collarbone rattle as she spoke in her raspy but high-pitched voice. She was wearing a linen dress, green and sleeveless, betraying her slightly hunched back. The couple smelled like a new car, fresh, with lemon and vinegar.

After Mrs Lau said some words in the other language to my mother, she looked down at me and gave me a wide smile. Her teeth were large for her tiny mouth. They protruded slightly but were not unattractive. Like Uncle Sam, Mrs Lau had a refined air, her hair tightly and neatly bound atop her head. She switched to British English to introduce herself as Auntie Elizabeth and her daughter as Hilary. I was enamoured with her accent. She resembled an Asian actress from Coronation Street, glamorous and proper.