A fan that cools a lifetime of love.

BPO - I remember when I was in third grade, my teacher assigned a craft homework: to make a paper fan. At the time, I simply thought it was a toy. Little did I know that from those bamboo strips and thin sheets of paper, my father had poured a lifetime of love into it.

Few children know how to whittle bamboo strips, measure paper, or straighten things properly. I fumbled around with the warped bamboo strips and the thin white paper, clumsy like a young bird learning to fly. My father sat there, under the dim yellow oil lamp, squinting as he watched me struggle. Then he smiled kindly, took the mess from my hands, and said, "Let me do it for you."

With his rough hands, my father began meticulously crafting the fan. He whittled each small bamboo stick, shaping them to be thin yet flexible; he cut and glued white paper to make the fan's surface, smooth and flat as if stretched on a canvas waiting to be painted, carefully folding each small crease. Then, with a skill I only understood much later, he added a pair of birds from colored paper, gluing them to the center of the fan, as if breathing life into this simple craft. That night, I sat beside my father, listening to the pleasant clicking sound of the knife whittling the bamboo, listening to his steady breathing blending with the sounds of insects in the garden. Something warm crept into my heart, a kind of love that, as a child, we only know how to receive, not yet know how to name.

A few days later, when I submitted my artwork, I was the only one in the class who had completed it. The other fans were just clumsily folded pieces of paper, while mine was sturdy and beautiful. The teacher carefully examined the fan, nodding in praise, her eyes shining with satisfaction. My classmates gathered around to look, exclaiming, "It's so beautiful! Who cut and pasted that bird?"

My face flushed, and I felt embarrassed. I didn't dare accept any of the compliments that day for myself. In my heart, I felt only overwhelming pride, pride in my father – a simple, illiterate man from the countryside, yet who had created a work of art with all his heart and finesse.

Years passed, and that paper fan was lost somewhere amidst house moves, school changes, and life's upheavals. But the memory of that night of doing handicraft homework remains intact, like clear water retaining the reflection of what has passed, never fading.

I grew up, leaving my humble cottage behind, traveling through glittering, brightly lit cities. But the further I went, the more I realized that the city lights could never warm my soul like a night spent with my father and the sound of his knife carving bamboo in the old days. There were nights when I sat by the window, watching the streets shrouded in mist, and I would remember my father's hands, the sound of the wind in the garden, and the way he silently gave me his love without needing words.

Then one day, upon returning to my hometown after years of hardship, I searched through my old house, in an old box, and found the old fan I once had – the paper yellowed, the bamboo ribs brittle, the paper birds faded, like memories that had withered with time. I held the fan tremblingly, as if grasping an entire childhood, grasping the image of my father who silently loved me with his hardworking hands.

My father is old now, his back bent like a taut bow. His hands are no longer nimble, but his eyes are still dark brown, persistent and full of meaning. I walked over, held out the old fan to him, and choked out, "Father, do you still remember this fan?" He squinted, looked at it for a long time, and smiled—a smile that contained summer, autumn, and all the seasons of love in a lifetime.

The paper fan – that small handcrafted item from days gone by – has turned out to be a treasure I carry with me throughout my life. It not only cools me on sweltering summer days but also soothes my soul during difficult times, reminding me of my father and childhood memories. And no matter how many years pass, even as my hair turns gray, I will always be proud of my father – the one who not only cooled me on hot summer afternoons but also cooled me with a lifetime of love…

Hello, dear viewers! Season 4, themed "Father," officially launches on December 27, 2024, across four media platforms and digital infrastructures of Binh Phuoc Radio and Television and Newspaper (BPTV), promising to bring to the public the wonderful values ​​of sacred and beautiful fatherly love.
Please send your touching stories about fathers to BPTV by writing articles, personal reflections, poems, essays, video clips, songs (with audio recordings), etc., via email to chaonheyeuthuongbptv@gmail.com, Editorial Secretariat, Binh Phuoc Radio and Television and Newspaper Station, 228 Tran Hung Dao Street, Tan Phu Ward, Dong Xoai City, Binh Phuoc Province, phone number: 0271.3870403. The deadline for submissions is August 30, 2025.
High-quality articles will be published and shared widely, with payment for their contributions, and prizes will be awarded upon completion of the project, including one grand prize and ten outstanding prizes.
Let's continue writing the story of fathers with "Hello, My Love" Season 4, so that stories about fathers can spread and touch everyone's hearts!

Source: https://baobinhphuoc.com.vn/news/19/173188/quat-mat-mot-doi-thuong