Grandmother's Home Deep in the Mountains

When I was small, every second day of the Lunar New Year, my father would carry me and my brother on a shoulder pole, one of us in each wicker basket, to visit my maternal grandmother's home. We crossed mountain after mountain, walking a long way before arriving. Later, after my maternal grandfather passed away, my uncle took grandmother and the whole family to the county town outside the mountains, and we never went back.

But when my mother was gravely ill, I still longed to take her back to her old home for a visit. Grandmother's house was deep in the mountains, and getting there was no easy matter, so the wish was long deferred; by the time my mother died, I had never taken her back. After her death, I constantly wanted to find a chance to see grandmother's old house, to visit her old home on her behalf. But every trip home was rushed, and I could never make the time to go to grandmother's village.

On this visit home, I finally decided not to rush as usual. At my father's request, I stayed several extra days with him, which gave me the time to go to grandmother's village. I had not been there for over thirty years, and hometown roads had been built and rebuilt so many times that I no longer remembered the way. I had to rely on navigation.

Grandmother's village is only seven kilometers from ours in a straight line, but more than half of those seven kilometers lie in the mountains. The mountain roads twist and turn, and it is easy to take a wrong turn. I remember that as a child, getting to grandmother's village meant crossing several mountains; I cannot recall those roads at now, and it was always my father who led us. Looking back, I truly admire the father of those days, who could carry two sons to grandmother's village on a shoulder pole—it must have been grueling all the way.

I again used a combination of navigation and asking directions. Concrete roads have now been built into the mountains, which is convenient. After uncounted turns, cresting one hill after another, asking whenever I met someone, I did not get lost and finally reached grandmother's village. On the hills I saw yellow cattle I had not seen in years; they moved in herds, grazing leisurely in the mountain forest.

Although I was born in the countryside, I had not seen a cow in nearly twenty years. With the mechanization of farming, people like us, "outside the mountains," no longer keep draft animals. But grandmother's village is "inside the mountains," and they still raise cattle. Though they probably no longer raise them for plowing, but to fatten them for beef.

Grandmother's village lies deep in the mountains, quiet and serene, as if cut off from the world. The village is named after the first ancestor who settled there—Ziyuan (Self-Remote). How much that name seems drawn from Tao Yuanming's line, "The mind being far, the place itself grows secluded." As a child I never pondered why my maternal ancestor chose such a place. Now I roughly understand: perhaps that ancestor was a hermit. His name inadvertently revealed his inclination. He chose a place of clear hills and waters to settle down, living a life untroubled by strife.

At its peak, grandmother's village had only a few dozen residents. Fewer than ten remain there now. My arrival was a great surprise to them. The first to see a stranger enter was my cousin's wife (by marriage); she no longer recognized me, and I did not recognize her. She asked whom I was looking for, and I told her I was a grandson of the village, come to see my maternal grandfather's old house. After she asked my mother's name, she smiled and said, "Then you are my nephew," and told me her husband's name—my maternal cousin's. I remembered his name; as a child I had eaten many meals at his home. I had some faint memory of her face, and once she said who she was, I recognized her.

The changes in society are so vast. Relatives who once dined together now "meet without recognizing each other," which is truly lamentable. Once she recognized me, she was especially warm and invited me to her home for a meal; I politely declined, not wanting to trouble her. We asked after each other's families and chatted about everyday life. Then an older elderly person joined our conversation. Together they lamented my mother's death and told me many old stories about my maternal grandfather and mother, things I had never heard before.

They told me that my maternal grandfather had studied the I Ching (Classic of Changes) and was known near and far. He was reasonably well-off, but when choosing husbands for his four daughters, he prioritized men with some education over men from wealthy families. On reflection, this was true: my eldest aunt and second aunt both married teachers; my mother married my father, a rural intellectual with some schooling; my youngest aunt married a veteran. So grandfather did favor scholarly families.

They said grandfather also had a way with educating his children. Once, after my parents married, they quarreled and my mother ran back to her parents' home. Grandfather asked about the cause, decided she was making a mountain out of a molehill, criticized her, and sent her back to my father's side, telling her not to sulk. My parents had been introduced by a matchmaker, but in their later years they were deeply affectionate; father cared for my sick mother with meticulous devotion, which moved her and moved us children. By contrast, many today who marry for love end up with less affection than my parents had.

My mother had a wonderful personality. She was loving, kind, hardworking, thrifty, positive, optimistic, and easily made happy. She passed these genes on to me, which is why I share her traits. I have been fortunate all my life to have such a mother. Had she not had these fine qualities, the many hardships I have endured would each have been enough to break me.

I sat on a high slope behind grandmother's village, taking in the scene, and wondered how my mother, growing up in such a small environment, developed such a personality. It seems that people raised in the village culture of a small state with few people understand how to live better than those raised in urban civilization. So many people I meet now have adjustment disorders; many of them lacked nothing in material terms growing up, yet went on to develop various psychological or psychiatric problems.

We can no longer return to rural society; the wheel of history rolls on, and village culture is being neglected and eliminated. I truly wish time could flow backward, letting me return to childhood and feel once more the way life used to be.