On a cold morning in the middle of February, a little boy of seven or eight awoke, not daring to stir or clamor, for he knew they would hear him. He lay there breathing in, out, in, out, and stared at his breath rising, a vapor in the dank air. I remember this memory of Chinese New Year through the eyes of a boy as he discovers the true meaning of Chinese New Year. The family inhabited the mountains; the window held a palatial view of the grandiose Rocky Mountains. This day differed from all the other days of the year; picturesque scenes of ancient Chinese History elaborately decorated the walls, imported Ming vases lined the corridor, and colossal fans, the size of billboards, hung from the high ceiling.

He slowly opened the door and egressed expeditiously. As he turned the corner, the Noachian grandfather clock downstairs struck...