A Memoir of Primitive Tea Making

After we got the tea farm in the late of March, 1971, because I had been a class monitor in school, when I was sent down to the countryside, I was appointed as the Youth League Branch Secretary and Deputy Manager of the tea farm. In reality, I knew nothing. I was a 17-year-old high school graduate who had only ever planted rice seedlings and chopped firewood; I knew almost nothing about farm work. But since there were 23 "sent-down youth" (Zhiqing) and only five local farmers, one of us young people had to take the lead.

A tea farm exists to produce tea. Yet before we arrived, this farm hadn’t produced a single ounce. The farm wasn't established because the land was suitable for tea; it was set up simply to fulfill a quota from the leadership and pass inspections. The leaders said, "Build a tea farm," so one was built. Whether the land was actually good for growing tea was a secondary concern. As a result, the tea bushes were uneven, small, sparse, and barely had any leaves. Naturally, no tea was produced.

The Training Course

In mid-April, just a month after we arrived, the county held a training course for tea farm technicians. The farm sent me to attend. The course was held at a tea farm in another commune.

Only when I arrived there did I realize what a real tea farm looked like. Looking out, I saw gentle slopes with deep soil, covered in lush, two-foot-tall tea bushes winding around the hills into the distance. The mimeographed handout stated that the ideal slope for a tea farm is under 15 degrees; anything over 20 degrees is unsuitable. The soil layer should be at least a meter deep, or the bushes won't thrive.

Looking at their farm, everything met the standards perfectly. Then I thought about ours: at least half the slopes were over 30 degrees. The soil was mostly just a foot deep, and in some places, you hit rock after digging just a few inches. At our place, you saw rocks and thatch everywhere, but hardly any tea bushes.

The training included theory, group discussions, and practical operations. It was scheduled between the solar terms of Qingming and Guyu (Grain Rain)—the time when new tea shoots turn green—specifically so we could get hands-on experience.

Guyu is the season for picking the first crop of new tea, known as "Guyu Tea." This is the highest quality tea of the year, perfect for making top-grade green tea. Picking tea is delicate work requiring nimble hands and patience, so it was mostly done by women. The best time to pick is early morning before the sun rises, while the dew is still on the tender tips. The pickers would pluck the dewy, tender "Maojian" tips and gently place them into baskets on their backs. You can't press the leaves down, so a full basket only held about ten catties (5kg) of fresh leaves. It took seven or eight catties of fresh leaves to make just one catty of dry tea.

Learning the Craft

After picking, the next step is processing. We learned to make both black and green tea.

Green tea (also called Qingcha) relies on "pan-frying" or "killing the green" (Shaqing). This involves using high heat to rapidly remove moisture, preventing fermentation and preserving the fresh aroma. There are machines for this, but they are expensive. Since most tea farms were new and small, none of us had them. We learned manual frying. The instructor told us that the very best tea is still fried by hand.

After frying comes rolling (Rou-cha). This twists the leaves into tight strips and squeezes out the juices. There are rolling machines for this, which aren't too expensive. The host farm had one: a metal barrel about two feet wide with a curved groove at the bottom and a rotating lid. You put the leaves in, cover it, and the machine spins and shakes until the leaves are stripped and juicy. The instructor demonstrated the machine but also taught us manual rolling. Again, he said the best tea is rolled by hand. The final step is drying. Green tea brews into a pale green color with a fresh, crisp taste—a favorite among Chinese people.

Black tea is fermented. Unlike green tea, which is fried to stop fermentation, black tea leaves are left at room temperature to wither and ferment slightly. Then they are rolled to bring out the juices, and finally left in a humid, ventilated place to ferment deeply until they turn dark red. The final step is baking or drying. Black tea brews into a dark, rich liquor. Chinese people didn't care for it much back then, but Europeans loved it, so it was mainly for export.

After processing, tea is graded. This requires years of experience. It involves smelling the aroma; looking at the shape and color of the dry leaves and how they float in water; and tasting the "mouthfeel." Much of it is indescribable and relies entirely on instinct. There are few top-tier tea tasters in the country, so we just listened to the teacher to get a general idea.

Hands-On tea making process

Then came the actual practice.

First, we learned frying—the key to green tea. Since we didn't have special machines, we used ordinary large cooking woks (1 to 1.5 meters in diameter). You heat the wok until it's red hot and smoking, then dump in a small basket of fresh leaves (7-10 catties). Immediately, you spread your palms, press the leaves against the bottom of the wok, and squeeze them toward the center. When the leaves form a ball about the size of a volleyball between your hands, you toss them upward. A cloud of white steam bursts out from between your hands as the leaves fly up and scatter back down.

You repeat this over and over. Slowly, the ball of tea in your hands shrinks as it loses water. The leaves turn soft. When you can squeeze them into a ball that slowly falls apart when released, and they feel sticky, you quickly scoop them out into a bamboo winnowing basket to cool. Once cooled to room temperature, you start rolling. You must roll in one direction only—always clockwise or always counter-clockwise—or the strips won't form. When the juice oozes out and coats the strips, making your hands sticky, they are ready for drying.

Drying was done on a bamboo frame about a meter high, covered with a damp white cloth. The rolled tea was spread 2-3 cm thick over charcoal fire. You had to flip it occasionally for 5-6 hours until dry.

Black tea skipped the frying step. Fresh leaves were spread on bamboo mats in the shade for 2-3 days until they lost their shine, turned dark, and smelled like apples. Then they were rolled (machines were better for this since you could do large batches) and fermented. Finally, they were dried.

Drying is tricky because tea absorbs odors easily. The charcoal must be smoke-free, or the tea will taste smoky. Low-grade tea could be sun-dried to save money on charcoal, but it would have a "sun taste" rather than the clean flavor of charcoal drying.

We studied with gusto for a week and received a "Tea Technician Certificate." We were still 108,000 miles from truly understanding tea, but we felt we had learned a lot.

Bringing the Knowledge Home

Back at the farm, I reported to the manager and we discussed how to make tea ourselves. He asked me to organize the group. I explained the theory and process to everyone. Even though our farm was far inferior to the one I visited, the prospect of making our own tea excited everyone.

The manager prepared the winnowing baskets and mats. A rolling machine was too expensive, so I took someone to a neighboring commune's tea farm to borrow one. I remember we stopped in Yanqiao town for lunch and ordered braised pork. Back then, going two weeks without meat was normal, so we ate a bit too much. Our stomachs, unused to grease, felt terrible afterward. When we arrived at the farm, the host brewed us some of their fresh "Maojian" tea. It felt like the most beautiful enjoyment in the world. Since then, whenever I eat a heavy meal, I love to brew a strong cup of green tea—it makes me feel light as air.

Since there was other farm work to do, the manager led a group to plant vegetables, weed, and chop wood, while I led a team to pick and process tea. I assigned the girls to picking, as our sparse bushes required patience. Processing was more technical, so I led that myself.

(Photo Caption: Group photo with Zhiqing friends in front of the Monument at Zhijiang Martyrs Park, approx. 1978. I am in the middle of the second row; Chen Xiaohong is second from the left in the back row.)

It was just after Guyu—the golden time for tea. The bushes had stored nutrients all winter and were sprouting tender green shoots. Although our bushes were ragged, the first crop was tender enough for green tea. The leaves were brought to the kitchen, where two large woks normally used for cooking rice and pig feed were now repurposed for frying tea. We worked after dinner into the night. One person tended the fire, one fried, and one helped. Others handled the rolling.

I demonstrated how to fry tea in a smoking hot wok. At first, everyone was scared to see me grabbing leaves with bare hands in the hot pan. I explained: "Spread your palm, press the leaves, and squeeze. The leaves lift off the bottom and end up in your hands. You're touching tea, not the hot metal. The inside of the tea ball is hot, but the outside isn't, and you toss it immediately, so you won't get burned." After I fried a few batches, others tried, and soon several people could do it.

"Primitive" Innovation

Drying was our biggest problem. We had no drying beds and no money to build them or buy charcoal. So we used "primitive methods": we stir-fried the tea in the wok until dry. Later, when making black tea, we mostly used the sun.

When the best leaves were gone, I switched to making black tea. It was easier. We spread the leaves on mats in the attic for a day or two, then rolled them. We put the rolled tea in wooden bathtubs, covered it with a wet cloth to ferment until it turned rust-red, and then dried it in the sun or wind. If it rained, we had to stir-fry it dry.

Life on the tea farm was harsh. With a monthly ration of one catty of meat and four ounces of oil, it wasn't enough for growing teenagers doing hard labor. The farm felt like an isolated island. Boredom was common. But making tea brought excitement. By day, everyone worked happily. By night, the kitchen was alive with the glow of the stove reflecting on young faces. We chatted and laughed while frying tea. In that relaxed atmosphere, jokes flew, and some people started calling each other "brother" and "sister." This alerted the team leader, who called parents and organized "political study" sessions to nip any potential "puppy love" in the bud—to guard against "bourgeois ideology." Whether it was actually romance, nobody knew. That was just the political climate of the time.

Unknowingly, two months passed. We produced three or four hundred catties of tea. It was mostly Grade 3 or 4, sold to the state for 70 or 80 cents a catty. We kept a few catties of the best "Maojian" for guests. Compared to other farms, we had the lowest yield and worst quality. But relying on our own hands and extremely primitive tools, in a place full of rocks and weeds, we managed to produce hundreds of catties of tea. That was a miracle in itself.

Years later, after graduating from university, I chatted with a young lecturer at Hunan Agricultural College who specialized in tea. He was surprised I knew so much about the process. I told him, "I only know the primitive method: frying in a big iron wok, fermenting in a bathtub, and drying in the sun. I’m sure that’s not in your textbooks."

My Peasant Brother, Wawa（娃娃）

The man I call "Wawa" is Tang Shunyìng（唐顺银）, a young farmer from the Qingshuichong Production Team. This was part of the Shidan Brigade in Shuikuan Commune, where I was sent to live and work in the countryside during the 1970s.

The Rugged Landscape of Qingshuichong (清水冲)

Qingshuichong was the first gateway into the mountains from the hilly plains of Shuikuan. As you followed the plain road toward Shidan, a massive mountain wall rose up to block the path at the Qingshuichong border. To enter Shidan, one had to climb a pass with a vertical height of about 80 meters and an average slope of 45 degrees. Even with "Z-shaped" switchbacks, the steepest sections exceeded 35 degrees. At the midpoint of the slope, there was a sharp 90-degree turn; every year or two, a car or tractor would lose control and plummet down the slope, resulting in destroyed vehicles and tragic casualties.

Once you crested the pass, you were in Qingshuichong territory. On one side of the road were quiet, shady trees; on the other, a steep precipice. After winding along the road for a kilometer, the path began to descend, and the slope leveled out. In a small valley, tiny terraced fields appeared—some no larger than three ping-pong tables, the largest barely half a volleyball court. Further down, the valley widened, and at the confluence of two valleys sat the production team headquarters: a two-story wooden building on the left.

Wawa’s house sat on a small hillside just a few dozens of meters from the headquarters. Other farmhouses were scattered sparsely across the surrounding slopes. Because the mountains were high and the water cold, Qingshuichong relied entirely on weather-dependent fields. A good harvest depended on favorable wind and rain; a drought meant a poor harvest or none at all. There were no local specialties; while there was timber, the slopes were too steep to easily transport logs to the road. Back then, it was an impoverished production team. However, the high mountains and dangerous waters made it an ideal site for a reservoir. Professionals had surveyed it long ago, identifying two hills near the headquarters that were less than a hundred meters apart—perfect for a dam that could benefit the entire region.

The Reservoir and the Attic

In the winter of 1975, the commune launched the Qingshuichong Reservoir project. The entire commune’s strength was mobilized, and we "sent-down youth" joined the construction. We stayed at the home of Mr. Tang, an accountant. The female youth squeezed into two rooms, while the males climbed a ladder to the attic to sleep on the floor. There were no walls up there—only the roof tiles above. The freezing wind blew through without obstruction, but thanks to our blankets and youthful energy, we stayed for two months without anyone falling ill.

Our main job was digging and carrying soil to the dam. A large scale was set up at the site, and a dedicated worker weighed the loads. Carrying 8,000 catties (approx. 4,000kg) of soil earned you 10 "work points." This quota was a massive challenge for us; by 6:00 PM every day, our bones felt like they were falling apart.

The "Thousand-Head Ranch" Fiasco

After the reservoir was finished, we returned to our respective tea and forest farms. But the following winter, the tea farm youth were ordered back to Qingshuichong to establish a "Commune Livestock Farm." This was a project born from the fevered brains of commune leaders, launched without scientific proof or research. It was dubbed the "Thousand-Head Ranch," intended to raise over a thousand pigs.

It was a "zero-investment" project with no budget. There were only twenty-four of us youth and our farm manager. We lived in an unfinished wooden house borrowed from a farmer. The walls were made of rough, unshaped planks with gaps a centimeter wide, letting the cold wind pour in from all sides. The ranch’s location hadn't even been decided, and there were no blueprints. The only thing the leaders knew was that it should be made of brick and wood, so our first step was to bake bricks.

None of us had ever baked a brick. A master was hired to guide us. We dug a kiln near the headquarters and set up a brick-making yard. Next, we dug a pit in a nearby field to mix the mud. Brick mud needs to be trampled by oxen until it is uniform, then cut into lumps, pressed into wooden molds, trimmed with wire, and dried.

We had no oxen. The leaders told us to use our feet. Despite the sight of oxen grazing nearby, we were a "pioneer" group using human labor to trample mud. An ox could finish a pit in four hours; we were so light that even after days of trampling, the mud wasn't as good as what an ox could produce.

Kindness from Wawa’s Family

Wawa’s house was only thirty meters from the kiln. His mother was about forty, tall, elegant, and virtuous. His father, in his late forties, was an honest carpenter. They were better off than most, owning two spacious tiled houses. Working so close to them, we saw them every day and soon became friends.

It was November. Though it didn't snow, the temperature was freezing. We spent hours barefoot in the mud pit, our noses running from the cold. Wawa’s mother watched us daily with great sympathy. She would have her husband invite us in for boiled water. Since I spent the longest time in the pit, she took a special interest in me. She often praised me for being hardworking and sensible, sighing about how difficult it was for such young people to leave their parents and do such grueling labor.

When they slaughtered a pig or a duck for the Mid-Autumn Festival, she would send Wawa to invite me to dinner. "Your parents aren't here," she’d say, "and you eat poorly. You need to nourish yourself." Sitting by their fire, chatting, I felt like part of the family. It was a stark contrast to my previous placement in Shuiniutian, where we were charged 80 cents a day for food—a massive sum back then—yet rarely saw a piece of meat. I was deeply grateful for the Wawa family's selfless care.

The 1977 College Entrance Exam

The "Thousand-Head Ranch" soon fizzled out—typical for that era of impulsive planning. We were disbanded after one kiln of bricks. I was sent to teach at the brigade primary school. Wawa was working in the agricultural science team, and we became teammates. We learned about hybrid rice—terms like "male sterility" and "self-pollination." After two years in the countryside, I finally looked like a local: thin, tanned, and comfortable with farm work.

In the autumn of 1977, it was announced that the National College Entrance Examination (Gaokao) would be reinstated. We studied by candlelight. One day, Wawa saw our scratch paper covered in "X, Y, and Z" and was amazed, thinking we knew foreign languages. We were just doing math.

I passed the exam and moved to Beijing for university in early 1978. In April, my mother wrote to me at Peking University. She said that Shuiniutian had sent word that I was owed 100 yuan and 300 catties of rice from the final distribution. I was thousands of miles away and didn't know how to collect it. I thought of Wawa. He agreed immediately. He took my power of attorney to the accountant, collected the money, turned the grain into rice, and personally delivered it to my family in the county seat—a 25-kilometer trip. He refused any payment for his time and effort.

The Reunions: 2014 and 2016

I didn't see Wawa again until decades later. In 2014, while visiting my ailing father in China, I drove back to Qingshuichong. I found Wawa’s house, where his wife welcomed me warmly. "Wawa talks about you all the time," she said.

Wawa’s mother was now 80. She was still elegant, with a straight back and clear speech. She was moved to tears: "What wind blew you here? To think you still remember us after 30 years." Wawa arrived shortly —no longer a youth, but a tanned middle-aged man. We sat in front of the house. From there, I could see everything: the dam, the old ranch, the headquarters, and the mud pit where I once stood. Before leaving, I gave them two $20 bills as souvenirs. We took a photo together with the dam in the background. As we posed, Wawa’s mother gripped my back tightly. I felt her love, her joy at seeing me, and the lingering sadness of an 80-year-old who knew this might be our last meeting.

In 2016, I returned again. This time, my former student, Zeng Xiangrong—who had risen to become a high-ranking official but remained humble—drove me. Wawa prepared a feast: a whole sheep, chicken, duck, and cured meat. It was a scene unimaginable in the 1970s.

His mother remarked again, "It’s been forty years, yet you still remember us. You treat Wawa like a brother; it is his blessing." I replied, "It was my blessing to know you. Thank you for treating me like family when I had no one."

After dinner, we walked onto the dam. Looking at the pine-covered mountains reflected in the still water, I felt a deep sense of nostalgia. But what I miss most isn't the scenery—it’s the people. Wawa, his mother, and my student Xiangrong. They gave this land meaning. No matter where I go, I will always remember that in this place, I received selfless love and found my truest kin.

Note：Wawa‘s Mom died in 2018 0r 2019, Wawa passed away in 2023 due to stomach cancer at age 65. 

Love at the wrong time

The Shuikuan Commune where we were "sent down" (to settle in the countryside) was located on the western side of Xuefeng Mountain, at the edge of the Yunnan-Guizhou Plateau. It wasn’t wealthy, but it wasn’t a desolate wasteland either. By 1975, the Cultural Revolution had been going on for nine years. The era of "storm-like" movements had passed, and while the peasants still lacked food and clothing, life had become relatively peaceful.

The small commune town sat on a slope beside a stream. On the walls along the street—actually just a gravel highway—slogans painted in white lime were everywhere: "In Agriculture, Learn from Dazhai," "Take Grain as the Key Link for All-around Development," "The Line is the Key Link; Once it is Grasped, Everything Falls into Place," and "More Pigs, More Fertilizer, More Grain." These slogans were also painted on high terrace walls, visible from a great distance.

Most of the area consisted of hills, with some small mountains and flat plains. Near the border of the neighboring county, there were high mountains that produced timber and coal. Qingwan, within Shuikuan Commune, had a coal mine with high-quality coal and shallow seams. The road beside the mine led directly to the county seat.

The highway cut through the commune town. On either side of the road sat a small restaurant, a two-story red-brick department store, a small hardware store, and a company for agricultural means of production. The Commune Headquarters was on the north side of the road; to its west and rear was the Commune Health Clinic, a two-story wooden building. To the right of the headquarters entrance, up a slope, was the Supply and Marketing Cooperative—the only new building made of brick and stone, which primarily handled banking business.

After climbing a few steps, you would find a very bright room. Behind a counter that stood waist-high, there was always a young woman, about twenty-five or twenty-six years old and roughly 1.6 meters tall. She had large, bright, watery eyes that held an unconstrained gaze. With a full, upright figure and slightly dark, reddish skin that radiated health, she brimmed with youthful vitality. However, people noticed she wasn't particularly approachable; there was a slight, constant furrow in her brow.

She was Juan, a rare sight in a commune workplace. She was like the azaleas that bloomed wildly across the mountains in spring—vivid red, full of energy, and possessing a wild, expressive beauty that stood out remarkably in the dead atmosphere of the government office.

Juan was born in the nearby countryside, but it was said her father was a regimental-level officer in the military. As a child, she had traveled to many places with him and had read many books; she possessed a more "scholarly" aura than the local village girls.

As a teller at this savings office, she was a state worker who "ate state grain" (received state-allocated rations and a salary). It was an enviable job—easy, respectable, and stable. People assumed she got the position because of her father’s military rank.

As the saying goes, "When a man grows up, he marries; when a woman grows up, she weds." Although late marriage was encouraged then, a woman of twenty-five was certainly eligible. Yet, Juan didn't even have a boyfriend. In a small town like Shuikuan, her "credentials" were beyond reproach: looks, temperament, an enviable job, and a good father. Naturally, she wanted a partner who was also a state worker—someone educated, cultured, and reasonably handsome. But in this remote town of only two or three hundred people, there were only a few dozen state workers—mostly commune officials and middle school teachers. The number of unmarried young men of the right age was minuscule. Some came to propose through matchmakers; others introduced themselves. But they were either too short, uneducated, or possessed incompatible personalities. None moved her heart. Over time, people began to say her standards were too high and that she was too proud.

On the surface, Juan was calm, but inside she was anxious. It wasn't that she feared the gossip—there was no stopping that anyway. She believed she couldn't just "settle" for someone for her life’s most important decision; she had to truly like him. But as she grew older and no satisfactory person appeared, she felt stifled. This gloom showed on her face, making her appear arrogant and cold to others.

Then, one early summer—just as the commune’s film projection team was touring the brigades to show the movie Chunmiao, and the song "Green bamboo covered in the morning glow, young sprouts emerge to meet the sun" was echoing everywhere—a university graduate from the provincial medical college was assigned to the Shuikuan Commune Health Clinic.

The young man was Dr. Wen. He was about 1.78 meters tall, in his late twenties, tall and thin, with a fair complexion. He wore white-rimmed glasses and had a strong scholarly air. If he took off his glasses, gained a bit more confidence, and got a tan, he would have been a carbon copy of Da Shichang—the lead actor in the then-popular movie The Unforgettable Battle.

Dr. Wen had a gentle personality and spoke elegantly. He had read many books and traveled widely. Shuikuan had never seen such a handsome and refined young man. Combined with his broad knowledge, humility, and decent manner of speaking, he quickly won everyone’s affection—and caught Juan’s attention.

After Dr. Wen arrived, Juan, who rarely visited the health clinic, suddenly developed a fondness for going there. Whether she was actually sick or not, she would always find different excuses to chat with him for hours whenever he was in. Both were people who had seen the world and loved books; in this remote mountain village, it was rare to find a kindred spirit with so many shared interests. Naturally, they had endless things to talk about.

From then on, a smile always hung on Juan’s face, her cheeks flushed like a blooming azalea. She began to greet people proactively and became very friendly.

People often saw Juan's silhouette at the health clinic. If there were patients, she would sit quietly, watching intently as Dr. Wen treated them. If there were no patients, she would talk to him incessantly. Dr. Wen would lean forward from time to time, listening closely. Their heartfelt laughter could be heard even outside the clinic. It was a silent announcement to everyone: "We are in love."

In those days, romance between men and women was criticized as "bourgeois decadent thought." The heroes in "Model Operas" never fell in love. Their uninhibited romance was a bold challenge to the mainstream moral norms of the time.

But they seemed unaware of—or simply didn't care about—the opinions and gossip of others.

In this remote mountain village, far from the center of power, people were generally kind. Most felt that being so high-profile wasn't great, but they also thought the two were a perfect match and that falling in love was normal. Many who cared for her were happy she had finally found someone she liked. However, some felt uncomfortable—those who had pursued her and lost out felt a bit bitter. Others simply couldn't stand how "flashy" they were being.

The rice seedlings in the fields around the commune grew day by day—budding, filling, and ripening. After the late rice harvest, the "slack season" of the agricultural year began. Aside from building reservoirs, this was the time officials held meetings. There were many: from the commune level down to the production teams. They covered everything from studying central government documents to discussing year-end distribution, work-point evaluations, and cadre elections. In December, all brigade cadres received notice to go to the commune for a week of "Party Rectification."

I was "sent down" to the tea farm of Shuikuan Commune at the time, but I was designated as a representative of the "Educated Youth" (Zhiqing) to attend the rectification meetings. I was one of the few non-Party representatives and the youngest. Since it meant no manual labor, no need to speak, and better food than at the tea farm, I went. Every morning, I woke up early and walked 30 minutes to the commune for the meeting. I ate lunch there; if the meeting ended early, I went back to the farm for dinner; if it ran late or into the evening, I ate dinner at the commune.

In addition to the peasant Party members from the villages, all commune staff were required to attend, including medical staff from the clinic and employees from the Supply and Marketing Cooperative.

Party Rectification happened every year. Usually, it was hosted by the Commune Secretary. We would listen to reports and read documents. There might be some "criticism of the matter, not the person," and generally, nothing happened. We would summarize work, express our determination, kill a few days, have a few group meals, and it would be over. Many saw it as a break—a time to chat and have a "feast" without having to work or worry.

But everyone soon realized this rectification was different. Vice-Secretary Y of the County Party Committee had personally brought several county officials to oversee it.

"He who comes is not friendly; he who is friendly does not come." It was the first time county officials had come to Shuikuan for rectification. Something big was happening; otherwise, why would a County Vice-Secretary stay for a whole week? It seemed this wouldn't be a "walk-through" where we just studied documents.

On the first afternoon of registration, everyone looked solemn; no one dared to speak much.

The small meeting room directly facing the main gate of the commune courtyard was kept tightly shut. County Vice-Secretary Y and the commune secretaries were inside. Occasionally, someone would come out to use the restroom, walking in a great hurry. The hundred or so brigade cadres were arranged in the auditorium on the right to study documents and discuss in small groups.

The attendees were grassroots cadres, and at first, they weren't entirely sure why the county had sent people. As they cautiously exchanged news, the reason for the rectification became clear.

The county had come because the Shuikuan Commune leadership had disagreed for years with the county leadership regarding coal mining in Qingwan. This had angered the county, so they came to "rectify" the Commune Party Committee.

As it turned out, Shuikuan produced coal, and people had been mining in Qingwan for a long time. Later, the commune set up its own mine to make money for the local area. But eventually, the county seized the mining rights, arguing that mineral resources belonged to the state. The commune mine became a county mine, though a small portion of the profits was given back to Shuikuan. Although the commune wasn't happy, they didn't do much about it.

At that time, a "Chen Yonggui-style" cadre named Z emerged in the neighboring Q Commune. His deeds were frequently reported, and his fame spread. He was promoted to Secretary of Q Commune and later to Vice-Secretary of the County Party Committee. Shortly after Z took office, Q Commune proposed coming to Qingwan to dig for "humus"—organic matter from rotted trees used for fertilizer, which is also a precursor to coal. It is usually found near coal mines.

The Shuikuan leaders disagreed: "How can you come onto our turf to dig things up?" But the county said, "This stuff isn't worth much, and you can’t dig it all yourself anyway. What does it matter if others take some?" Under heavy pressure, Shuikuan had no choice. Q Commune sent people to Qingwan to set up a site.

Unexpectedly, after a year of digging, Q Commune found coal beneath the humus. They were thrilled and prepared to pivot from digging fertilizer to digging coal. Shuikuan wouldn't have it: "How can you just dig coal as you please? If there’s coal on our land, we should be the ones digging it!"

The dispute went to the county. The county backed Q Commune. Their reasoning: "Underground coal resources belong to the state. Since they belong to the state, Q Commune has the right to mine in Shuikuan."

Shuikuan couldn't mine on its own land, yet Q Commune could. This was hard for the locals to swallow. Many believed it was only because Z was the County Vice-Secretary and Shuikuan had no "connections" in the county, so the county was bullying them into accepting Q Commune’s encroachment.

"The arm cannot twist the thigh" (The weak cannot win against the strong). Under high pressure from the county, Q Commune’s people marched into Qingwan to build a mine. From officials to the common people, everyone in Shuikuan was furious but powerless.

The resentment simmered from top to bottom. Vice-Secretary Li of the commune was the angriest and most outspoken. In his early 50s, he had joined the underground Party in the 1940s and was one of the most senior cadres in the county. Most county officials were younger and less experienced than him. But because he was blunt and outspoken, he was always offending his superiors and had never been promoted. He criticized the county committee for its "patriarchal" style of one-man rule, trampling on internal Party democracy, and ignoring the opinions of the masses. He even mocked the county leaders for their "airs," saying they wouldn't go to the countryside without a Jeep. He noted that in the 1950s, county leaders walked or, at most, rode bicycles to the villages.

While Vice-Secretary Li stood up to his superiors, he cared deeply for the common people. He often rode a bicycle or walked (where there were no roads) to the brigades to understand the situation and help solve problems. Grassroots cadres and the public loved him.

Besides Shuikuan's resentment, the county’s own mine in Qingwan was also unhappy. Suddenly, a second mine had popped up right next to them. Two mines operating at the same location—how was that supposed to work?

So, the two mines locked horns. Normally, mining requires unified planning. If it were one mine, it would be easy to manage. But with two, and the original mine feeling Q Commune’s presence was illegitimate, coordination was impossible.

Both sides raced to reach the coal seams first, ignoring the other. As a result, they dug closer and closer to each other, reaching dangerous proximity. Mining often requires blasting; because they were so close, one side had to notify the other to evacuate before a blast. As the conflict escalated, they would frequently notify the other: "I'm about to blast, get out," only to wait a long time before actually blasting, or not blast at all. This ensured the other side couldn't get any work done.

In addition to the friction with the county mine, the Q Commune mine received no support from the local villagers. They soon found themselves restricted at every turn. Buying supplies or finding someone to repair equipment locally became extremely difficult. Q Commune complained to the county, and the county ordered Shuikuan to support the mine. Shuikuan leaders replied: "That is just the sentiment of the local people; we didn't tell them to do that. It’s hard for us to control their actions, but of course, we will try our best to educate them."

However, over the next few years, the situation never improved. Q Commune workers often complained that tools vanished or equipment mysteriously broke down. Eventually, they couldn't continue. Q Commune complained to the county again. Seeing the situation worsening, the county—already annoyed by Shuikuan—finally decided to "rectify" the Shuikuan leadership. They specifically sent the senior Vice-Secretary Y to lead the team.

Secretary Y was not much younger than Vice-Secretary Li. Although his seniority didn't match Li's, he had started working around 1949.

Party Rectification was supposed to be an internal Party matter, but this time, all cadres and staff—regardless of Party membership—were required to attend. Thus, employees from the Supply and Marketing Cooperative and the Health Clinic had to attend unless they were on duty. Even the "Educated Youth" had to send representatives. Clearly, the county committee wanted to maximize the impact of this rectification.

Every time Vice-Secretary Y and the other county officials sat on the stage, the first row of the audience was occupied by Shuikuan’s Secretary Gong, Vice-Secretary Li, and the head of the Armed Forces Department. Though they weren't wearing placards or "dunce caps," everyone knew they were the targets of the rectification.

While reports were being given on stage, people in the audience would whisper. This was usually common, but the county leaders on stage felt the local cadres were being passive because they felt the commune leaders were being wronged. Partly aimed at the leaders, and partly out of frustration with those drifting off, Vice-Secretary Y would suddenly slam his hand on the table with a thunderous BAM!

"Secretary Gong! Why do you pay lip service to the county's instructions while secretly defying them? Is this still under the leadership of the Communist Party? Do you still have the principle of subordinates obeying superiors?!" After a pause, he added, "Your indulgence of the people below in sabotaging the Q Commune mine—if we don't handle this, it is our dereliction of duty, a crime!" THUMP! His fist hit the table again.

The commune leaders didn't dare breathe, hanging their heads low. Those whispering or daydreaming quickly shut their mouths in fear.

The audience sat by unit. Thus, Juan and Dr. Wen were separated by seven or eight rows. Sitting in the front, Dr. Wen couldn't contain his passionate love and frequently turned his head to look back at Juan. Juan boldly met his burning gaze. They looked at each other with deep affection, feeling utterly sweet.

They were immersed in their own world of love, completely oblivious to the shifting political winds around them.

This oblivious behavior and the intense eye contact were easily noticed by those around them—and didn't escape the eyes of busybodies. Whether accidentally or intentionally, the news soon reached the ears of Vice-Secretary Y. Of course, the version he heard was much uglier: "During the rectification meeting, they don't listen to the leaders' speeches; the man and woman are making eyes at each other, and they are even openly turning their backs to the county leaders."

Over the next few days, the meetings continued. The commune leaders spent all day with their heads down, listening to Vice-Secretary Y’s criticism. Those who weren't paying close attention to Juan and Dr. Wen didn't notice anything unusual. But those who had been watching them noticed they were no longer attending the meetings, and they weren't at work at the clinic or the cooperative either.

The rectification continued, and the atmosphere grew even more severe.

In the days that followed, Secretary Y’s fury was focused almost entirely on Vice-Secretary Li. He accused him of disregarding Party discipline, leading the opposition against the county, and being so arrogant about his seniority that he thought he was a "tiger whose backside no one dared touch." Y said, "I came here specifically to touch that tiger's backside."

Vice-Secretary Li and the others were in the first row, their backs to the crowd, heads bowed. No one knew what he was feeling. The people below sympathized with the commune leaders, knowing they had offended the county to protect Shuikuan’s interests.

As the week drew to a close, whispers circulated: the county was determined, and it seemed unlikely the commune leaders—especially Vice-Secretary Li—would keep their positions. At the same time, rumors spread that Juan and Dr. Wen had been suspended for "disrespecting the leadership."

The final morning was the summary meeting, followed by a group lunch, after which everyone could go home. Early that morning, at the entrance of the commune courtyard, a dozen people were gathered around someone speaking excitedly. It was a commune cadre in his thirties, of medium build.

Squatting on the ground, he said: "We made them confess separately. They had to write self-criticisms in great detail, and their stories had to match, or they wouldn't pass."

Someone asked, "How detailed?"

He replied, "For example, asking who was the initiator? What was said? When was the first kiss?"

"Oh!" An exclamation rose from the crowd.

He continued, "The woman took everything upon herself. She said she was the initiator and it had nothing to do with the man." He showed a hint of admiration as he spoke.

He paused, then said, "We also asked about the entire development of the relationship and made them write it down. For example, when was the first kiss, who started it, when was the first time they 'did it,' and how many times in one night?"

"Really? You asked that too?" someone asked in shock.

"Of course. That guy is really something—six times! Six times in one night!" The speaker’s face was filled with immense surprise. The onlookers were dumbstruck. I and the other unmarried young men were at a loss, our faces turning beet red with shame.

Seeing many young people present, he explained: "Usually, twice for a man is very impressive." He paused and sighed to himself, "Six times!"

Everyone asked what their punishment would be. He said their mistake came at the wrong time. Normally, it would just be a "lifestyle issue" or a "matter of male-female relations"—a warning or a minor demerit. After all, they were both unmarried and in a relationship. But now, they had an additional charge: "contempt of leadership during the Party Rectification." This was very heavy, and no one dared to plead for them. Since the woman took all the blame, she would likely be fired and sent back to her rural hometown. The man might get off easier but would likely receive a major demerit.

Everyone felt sorry for them. Their futures were ruined at such a young age. Someone couldn't help but sigh, "What a shame!"

At the summary meeting, Vice-Secretary Y announced the county's decision: Secretary Gong was given a major demerit; Vice-Secretary Li was expelled from the Party, dismissed from public office, and sent back to his ancestral home. Other cadres were given demerits or warnings. The entire leadership of Shuikuan Commune had fallen.

Shortly after, another document arrived. Juan was dismissed from her job, expelled from the Youth League, and sent back to her village. It seemed her regimental-officer father hadn't been able to help at all. Dr. Wen was dismissed from his job but kept on "probationary status" for one year. He was transferred away from Shuikuan to a health post at a remote reservoir construction site.

The vigorous Party Rectification ended, and the equally vigorous romance between Juan and Dr. Wen came to a sudden halt.

The hills remained lush, and the stream continued to flow slowly. By the time the Q Commune mine was flourishing, Vice-Secretary Li was gone, and Juan and Dr. Wen had vanished. Shuikuan was no longer the Shuikuan it once was.

People whispered behind their backs. Dr. Wen had talent and looks; in a year, his official status would be restored. By then, there would be plenty of matchmakers, and he’d have no trouble finding a beauty. But Juan, now a peasant woman, would likely be ignored, destined to marry a farmer and spend her life in the fields.

A year later, Dr. Wen indeed had his status restored and worked at another commune’s health clinic. Juan remained a peasant in her hometown. Life went on; everyone was busy with their own work and lives. Gradually, the memory of them faded.

Three years later, on a Sunday, it happened to be market day at Q Commune. This was the most important market within twenty miles, a place people from Shuikuan often visited—usually held once every ten days. I happened to be passing through Q Commune on business and went to the market, though I didn't buy anything.

It was summer, and in the morning, people swarmed the market from all directions. Some carried vegetables they had grown, chickens, ducks, puppies, or local specialties to sell; others carried empty baskets to buy goods. Some brought eggs to trade for a bit of money for salt, soy sauce, vinegar, needles, or even grain and cloth coupons.

Shuikuan was only a dozen or so miles away. Every market day, many Shuikuan peasants and workers came. In the bustling crowd, one could always spot a few familiar faces.

After 4:00 PM, the crowd began to disperse. I started heading back to the tea farm. Suddenly, about a hundred meters ahead, a familiar figure caught my eye. It was a young woman who looked like a peasant, dressed simply and carrying bags. Her posture and manner looked exactly like Juan, though she looked much older and more "earthy." Because she was far away, I couldn't see clearly.

Then I saw a tall, thin man not far behind her. He looked refined, wore glasses, and was carrying a shoulder pole with two baskets. In one basket, several chickens poked their heads out; in the other were vegetables. His build and gait were identical to Dr. Wen's. She stopped from time to time to talk to him. The way she tucked her hair behind her ear—that was absolutely Juan. The way he lowered his head to listen—it left no doubt it was Dr. Wen. And those glasses—in this remote countryside, who else but Dr. Wen would be wearing them?

The fact that they came to this commune market showed they were not afraid to return to the place where their reputations had been ruined. They were immersed in their own world, seemingly uncaring if anyone noticed them. They talked incessantly, as if they would never run out of things to say.

 

June 22, 2008

Revised January 22, 2018

 

Postscript:

Shortly after the rectification, Secretary Li fell ill and passed away a few years later. Secretary Gong was not even 40 at the time, but he later developed cancer and died before reaching 50.

Because it was a small-scale operation, the Qingwan mine was completely closed in late of 1990s.

Juan and Dr. Wen eventually married and have lived together ever since.

 

 

Days Fragrant with Ciba (糍粑）

Ciba is a traditional food for the Chinese New Year period in my hometown of Zhijiang. It is made of glutinous rice, round and white, about ten centimeters in diameter and about one centimeter thick. In more refined households, auspicious characters like "spring," "good fortune," "happiness," and "auspiciousness" are dyed with red rice flour on the surface of the ciba, making it a fine gift for others.

 

 

Ciba and the Spring Festival are like mooncakes and the Mid-Autumn Festival, or zongzi and the Dragon Boat Festival. Not eating ciba during the New Year period is like not eating mooncakes during the Mid-Autumn Festival, or not eating zongzi during the Dragon Boat Festival; it feels like something is missing. However, people's preference for ciba far surpasses that for mooncakes and zongzi, so ciba is kept for a long time. Often, even until March in the spring, some families still have ciba to eat.

 

During those years, everything was in short supply, and ciba was also rare. At that time, there was a shortage of food, and there wasn't enough surplus food to make ciba. People in the city didn't even have the tools to make ciba, and although people in the countryside had the tools, food was even scarcer there, so only families with slightly better conditions made ciba. At that time, there was also no market to sell ciba because there was no free market; buying and selling things was capitalism. People in the city could only rely on relatives and friends to give them ciba, or secretly buy them from farmers in the countryside. Our family didn't have relatives locally, so we could only occasionally eat ciba.

 

Yang Xianzhi was my neighbor, one year older than me. We were both students at Zhijiang Normal School and often played together. That year, I was seven years old and in first grade, while he was eight years old and in second grade. Xianzhi's father, Teacher Yang, was from Xinhong County, and they had relatives in the countryside who often brought them local specialties. Of course, there was also ciba.

Around the time of the Spring Festival, every time I went to Xianzhi's house, his father would say, "Xianzhi, Lewei is here, go get two cibas." Xianzhi would then bring out two cibas, place them on the fire tongs over the charcoal brazier, and slowly roast them. Once roasted, one side of the ciba near the fire would slowly soften. After roasting for a few minutes, they would flip the ciba over until both sides were golden brown and the entire ciba slowly expanded, causing a fragrant aroma to fill the room, making us salivate.

 

 

We would eat those hot, fragrant cibas together and feel like it was the most delicious and happiest thing in the world. In addition to glutinous rice cibas, there was also a type made from millet, golden and delicious when roasted. However, this type of millet ciba was rare. Whenever Xianzhi's family roasted millet ciba and gave me some, it would make me happy for several days.

 

That was an era without television or video games, so children were willing to go out and play. We liked to play by the pond behind the gymnasium. In spring, we watched tadpoles slowly turn into frogs in the pond. Sitting on the grass by the pond, we watched water droplets roll into shining pearls on lotus leaves, which was very beautiful. We also liked to take a small tile, hold it flat against the water's surface, and give it a flick. The tile would skip across the water, leaving behind a string of circles, and we competed to see whose tile left the most circles on the water's surface.

 

One day we went to the pond. Xianzhi suddenly asked me, "Lewei, what's three plus three?" I said, "Three plus three? Two threes should be six." Xianzhi said, "Our teacher says three plus three is nine. But my dad says that's wrong. Three plus three should be six. How could it be nine?" I was confused too. It wasn't until the next year, when I learned the multiplication tables, that I understood why three plus three was nine. I suppose Mr. Yang was asking him why three plus three wasn't six to see if he understood the concept of multiplication.

The Cultural Revolution began the year before, and Zhijiang Normal School moved from the city to Wood Oil Hill in Seven Mile Bridge, which was the former base of General Claire Lee Chennault's Flying Tigers during World War II, exchanging campuses with the original Zhijiang No. 2 School. Xianzhi's family lived on the slope near the airport, while my family lived on the slope near the riverside road, both in former dormitories of the Flying Tigers. Although we were a bit further apart, it didn't affect us playing together.

Xianzhi's father was very capable and cooked delicious meals at home. Whenever the food was ready, he would shout from the high bank next to the house, "Xianzhi, it's time to eat!" It could be heard from far away, and Xianzhi would quickly run home.

The Cultural Revolution quickly disrupted everything. When the school was filled with big-character posters everywhere, they moved away without even saying goodbye. My father was also criticized and sidelined. Originally, there were more than ten children, but one by one, they all left, leaving only me. Without children to play with and no good food to eat.

In the summer of 1968, I followed the adults to the Water Wide Commune for a large-scale criticism meeting of "ox ghosts and snake spirits" at the Zhijiang Sports Stadium. People were constantly being brought up onto the stage. I suddenly saw Xianzhi's father being brought up onto the stage amidst the slogans of "Down with the wealthy capitalist roaders like Yang Guoxing!" Then he was pushed down to kneel in front of the stage with a large sign hanging around his neck that read, "Yang Guoxing, the wealthy capitalist roader." The Red Guards announced: "Sending Yang Guoxing, the wealthy capitalist roader, back to his original hometown."

Although I had seen many such immediate arrests and deportations, seeing Xianzhi's father being sent away still shocked me. He was such a good person, kind to Xianzhi and to me, always giving me ciba whenever I visited. How could he be a bad person? Why send him back to his rural hometown?

Xianzhi's parents originally had incompatible personalities and often quarreled. His mother was young and beautiful, outgoing and active; his father was honest and silent. Later, they divorced. I heard that Xianzhi and his sister followed their mother to Longping Commune in Hexi to study, but we never met.

In the spring of 1975, I was sent to Water Wide Commune as an educated youth, a title for all graduates from high schools in China at that time without job, about 12 miles away from the city. To get from the city to the educated youth residence in the commune's tea plantation, we had to pass through Seven Mile Bridge, the site of the Japanese surrender memorial archway. However, at that time, the memorial archway had been smashed, and we were unaware. We had to cross the Wushui River there, to the opposite Square Garden, and then pass through Stone Bridge Commune to reach our educated youth residence.

 

Once, after returning home and heading back to the educated youth residence, I was amazed to find Xianzhi operating the ferry at the Seven Mile Bridge crossing. It had been seven or eight years since we last met, and we had grown from children to eighteen or nineteen-year-old young men, feeling a bit awkward. Plus, there were many people on the ferry, so I didn't feel comfortable asking him anything. When we parted ways, he insisted on not taking my ferry fee.

 

Later, on another occasion when I crossed the river, I coincidentally caught him on duty. He told me they were having braised pork for dinner in their canteen and asked me to wait for him to finish work so we could have dinner together. It was already past 4 o'clock, so I sat on the grass by the riverbank, watching the flowing river as I waited for him to finish work. Back then, we could hardly afford to eat meat even once in half a month, and braised pork was something we could only enjoy during holidays like Chinese New Year.

 

He bought braised pork and some side dishes from the kitchen, and we went to his room to eat. While we ate, he told me that he came here after graduating from high school. I had heard that his stepfather was the commune secretary here. Although ferrying wasn't a great job, there were hardly any job opportunities at that time, and this ferry service was also subsidized by the state. It was stable, especially during times of drought or flood, better than being a educated youth. His father had already been assigned to teach at Zhijiang Second School at the time; he said he occasionally went to visit his father.

 

I continued to work at the commune's tea plantation as a educated youth. Besides the educated youth, there were also a few farmers from production teams at the tea plantation. There was one we called Grandma Luo, kind-hearted and always bringing us snacks. She often invited the educated youth to her house to hang out. Her house wasn't far from the tea plantation, but I had never been there. In the middle of December, we talked about the Lunar New Year. She said they were going to make cibas at home. I got interested and asked how to make them. She explained, but since there were no physical materials, some explanations weren't clear. So she said, "Why don't you just come to my house and see how we make cibas? Once you see it, you'll understand everything." I thought, why not? I hadn't had a chance to visit her house, so I agreed. We agreed to meet on the 24th of December at her house to make cibas.

 

Usually, after the 23rd of December, the cibas would be soaked in water after being made to keep them fresh until spring. Before the 23rd of December, the cibas soaked in water would spoil. So, from the 23rd to the 30th of December was the time to make the cibas.

 

Since I was going to Grandma Luo's house to see how to make cibas, why not make some myself? So I told Grandma Luo I wanted to make some too. She agreed, and we made them together. Later, Xiao Ming, a female educated youth, heard about it and wanted to join, and Grandma Luo agreed.

 

I went to a production team more than twenty miles away to collect 80 catties of glutinous rice, processed it into 60 catties of glutinous rice, and brought it to the tea plantation. After finishing work on the 23rd of December, Xiao Ming and I followed Grandma Luo to her house. I carried my 60 catties of glutinous rice, while Xiao Ming, fearing she couldn't carry much, only prepared 20 catties.

 

After about half an hour, we arrived at Grandma Luo's house. Their house was a typical local wooden tile house with three pillars and four hanging poles, with a small courtyard in front, a large hall in the middle, a kitchen at the back, and bedrooms on both sides. It was backed by a small mountain, surrounded by green trees, and terraced fields extending into the distance along the hillside.

 

Grandma Luo was 58 years old at the time, her husband was in his early 60s, of average height, healthy and hospitable. Their eldest daughter was married but lived nearby, and she and her husband were also there. The youngest daughter had not yet married, a year or two older than us, resembling Grandma Luo, with a round face, big eyes, and a sturdy and cheerful demeanor.

 

After having dinner cooked by Grandma Luo, their family began to prepare. They took out several large jars, put the glutinous rice into them separately, and soaked them in water. They told us that the glutinous rice for making cibas needed to soak overnight before steaming, otherwise, it would not cook well and would be difficult to pound.

 

Early the next morning, people from Grandma Luo's family began to steam the soaked glutinous rice. Because we had to rush back to the city, they arranged to pound ours first. After steaming, the steaming hot glutinous rice was scooped out into a large basin and poured into a large stone mortar. Two people used wooden pestles to pound it. Both the mortar and pestles needed to be greased with butter, otherwise, the glutinous rice would stick and couldn't be pounded. The butter was made by boiling vegetable oil and beeswax together, appearing yellowish.

 

 

Pounding required two people to cooperate tacitly because even with butter, the glutinous rice would still stick to the pestles, much like toffee, very difficult to separate. So when one person pulled the pestle up, the other person needed to aim at the glutinous rice dough at the bottom of the pestle and pound it down to break the pestle and the dough. Timing was crucial; too early, and the dough stuck to the pestle; too late, and the dough was brought out of the mortar by the pestle. Glutinous rice was very sticky, very laborious, and required full concentration, something only strong men could do. In the cold December weather, everyone pounding would get hot even wearing just a single layer.

 

 

I also helped with pounding the glutinous rice. At the beginning, I was a bit clumsy, but I quickly got the hang of it. After about four or five minutes, a plate of glutinous rice was pounded into a sticky mass. Together, we transferred the wooden pestle and the rice to a wooden board that had been pre-buttered, and the women, with their hands coated in butter, vigorously pulled the still-hot rice from the pestle. Xiao Ming learned from the women and joined in to help. Because the rice paste was too sticky, we needed to use hemp ropes coated with butter to tie down the rice at the bottom of the pestle and then pull hard to "cut" the rice mass. Then, we would break open the rice paste into fist-sized pieces, roll them into balls, and place them on the wooden board. Once all the rice paste was kneaded, another buttered wooden board was placed on top, followed by a large stone on top of it. After about ten minutes, the top board was removed, revealing perfectly round cibas.

 

 

After the cibas were flattened, they were left to cool naturally.

 

By that time, I had been in the countryside for ten months, and combined with my previous fondness for exercise, my physical strength was not bad. However, I could only pound for about ten minutes each time before getting tired. Grandma Luo's husband, her son-in-law, and a friend they invited helped out, taking turns with the pounding. But I pounded the least; one, because they took care of me, and two, because I really didn't have their physical strength.

 

There was no time to cook during the ciba pounding, and the pot was being used to steam the glutinous rice. When we got hungry, we would break off a chunk of freshly pounded rice paste and mix it with white sugar while it was still hot. This was a rare delicacy at the time, as white sugar was hard to come by. It must have been Grandma Luo who brought out her precious white sugar stash.

 

We pounded the cibas from early morning until nearly 3 p.m. Finally, our cibas were done. I and Xiao Ming carried our own cibas back home. Only then did Grandma Luo's family start making their own cibas, which touched us deeply.

 

When passing by the ferry crossing at Seven Mile Bridge, I wanted to give some cibas to XianZhi in gratitude for the cibas he gave me when I was young. But he wasn't there; he said he had gone back to his mother for the New Year.

 

Because the rice absorbs water during steaming, the 60-odd pounds of glutinous rice pounded into cibas probably became 80 or 90 pounds. After pounding cibas for most of the day and then carrying the heavy load for 12 miles, by the time I got back home, it was already dark, and I was exhausted. My family was surprised that I had brought back so many cibas and were very happy. In the past, we relied on others to give us cibas, and later when they were available for purchase, we would only buy a few dozen pounds at most. Now, we finally had our own cibas, and so many of them.

 

The next day, we gave some cibas to our neighbors and friends who had given us cibas before, and the rest were soaked in a water jar.

 

That was the year our family ate the most cibas. In addition to roasting them, they could also be fried in oil until crispy and then coated with sugar. Another way was to slice the cibas, boil them in water with some oil, salt, Chinese cabbage leaves, and green onions to make ciba soup. Or boil the ciba slices with glutinous rice wine, which was like sweet rice wine cibas.

 

That year, I was 18 years old. It was the first time I had eaten glutinous rice I had labored to produce and cibas I had pounded myself, and the taste was especially fragrant.

 

Since going to college, I rarely ate cibas. I had never eaten cibas since coming to the United States. But every New Year, the warmth of Grandma Luo's family, the hospitality of Xian Zhi and his father, along with the fragrance of cibas, formed the most beautiful image of that era in my memory.

 

Completed in New Jersey on 12/25/10 (Christmas), revised on 1/25/11.