Youthful Memories 

Sometime around 1974 or 1975, probably in our third year of junior high, the school organized us for military training — a long-distance march of over a hundred li on foot to visit Yunling and Maolin in southern Anhui, the former sites of the New Fourth Army. I was on the weaker side, and that grueling trek nearly did me in. I had never walked so far in my life, and the road seemed to stretch on without end. The line of students stretched for several li. Limping along, I counted every utility pole as I dragged myself forward, one by one. Finally, a classmate reported that our destination was in sight — just that hill up ahead. I summoned my last reserves of courage. But as the saying goes, the mountain that looks close can run a horse to death — even though it appeared right before us, we still walked for another hour or two, not arriving until nearly dark.

After dinner, the school settled us into a large auditorium to rest. The moment I sat down, I collapsed completely and, to my own amazement, could not get up again. Without even washing my feet, I was helped by classmates onto a makeshift bed and fell asleep fully dressed. The next morning, not a single muscle or bone in my body was free of pain, though I could just barely stand.

Rough as it was, life on the march still felt fresh and exciting. What I remember most vividly was visiting the New Fourth Army exhibition, pressed close to a female classmate — and the pounding heartbeat, the bewildered confusion that came with it.

In our era, an invisible line separated boys and girls, and they rarely mingled on campus. Still, as the academic monitor, I did have work-related contact with the female class president and the League branch secretary through class committee activities, and we held each other in good regard. Though academic subjects were no longer the school's main business, by force of habit, students who did well in their studies still drew natural admiration. But both girls were two years older than me, and they felt more like older sisters. The class president was a tomboy with a dark complexion and a brisk, no-nonsense manner — easy to get along with. The League secretary was poised and graceful, capable and seasoned yet quiet and refined. On my way to swim in the Houqiao River outside town, I would pass her house, and she was always sitting in the doorway knitting, her bearing serene and elegant. She would greet me with open ease whenever she saw me, but I always felt awkward and tongue-tied, never knowing how to respond.

Mark Twain's adventures contain a brilliant description of a boy's first stirrings of romantic feeling — how a twelve- or thirteen-year-old boy will pull out every trick he knows to catch the attention of the girl he fancies. Chinese kids matured later, and the strict separation of the sexes meant that the spirit was willing but the flesh was weak. Yet out on the march, boys and girls grew closer than they ever would on campus — and that was precisely the most thrilling part of those work-study-military training programs. On the second day, while touring the New Fourth Army exhibition, I somehow found myself paired with the League secretary. She was slightly taller than me, standing right behind, pressed close — I could feel the warmth of her breath near my ear. The two of us lingered at the back, studying and discussing each photograph and artifact with great care. In perfect unspoken accord, we advanced step by step, our bodies brushing together — sometimes deliberately, sometimes by chance. My heart itched like ants crawling over it, but I steeled myself to stay composed and never dared look back at her.

I was 14 that year. The Recluse of West Hill composed a poem:

What is field march training like?
A racing horse, a distant hill — a tender soldier's ordeal.
The aim of learning war is not war alone —
Li Wei's heart takes flight, caught in clouds and rain.

The summer jobs popular in those days were another occasion for boys and girls to meet. In high school, I went to work as an "assistant" at a rural grain station, where I met a girl who captured my heart. The mindset of a callow youth is a subtle thing. I had become obsessed with Dream of the Red Chamber, reading it five or six times, and I launched into animated discussions of the novel with her — I talked until the sky went dark and the earth spun, and talked the girl into a daze as well. Our friends, a little jealous, nicknamed me "Brother Red" and her "Sister Red" behind our backs. It was an entirely innocent friendship — we chatted for a whole summer and never even held hands. When summer ended and it was nearly time to leave, the ache in my heart was beyond words. That year there were earthquake scares and makeshift quake shelters were built everywhere, and I found myself hoping the earthquake would come soon. I thought: if the earthquake hits, wouldn't it be wonderful? Everyone would gather in that enormous community shelter and live a kind of commune life, and I would have the chance to keep talking about Dream of the Red Chamber with her, day and night, without pause.

Since the hoped-for earthquake never arrived, I had to leave the town grain station at summer's end and return to my home in the county seat. The day before I left, I was downcast and reluctant, but utterly helpless. Near the grain station flowed a small river, crystal-clear to the bottom, where we would frolic every evening. That last evening, as I played in the water one final time, who should appear but "Sister Red" at the riverbank, come to wash clothes. We had already said our goodbyes during the day, so her arrival felt like a lifeline — I wanted to seize this last moment, but had no idea how. So, heedless of what teasing I might invite from my friends, I slowly sidled up to her to make small talk. She, being young and naive, had no notion of what was in my heart and answered as casually as if nothing were amiss. Years later, she told me it was fortunate I hadn't confessed my feelings — by her understanding at the time, any middle-school student involved in romance was nothing short of a hooligan. Had I recklessly declared my love, I might well have been scolded roundly.

When she rose to leave, I panicked. I stood up, bare-chested, water still dripping from my shorts, and found some excuse — I no longer remember what — to follow her back to the grain station. She walked ahead and I followed behind, wanting to strike up a conversation but not knowing where to begin, acutely aware that someone might be watching and mocking me. To hide my embarrassment, I walked half-bent at the waist, every step of that arduous journey awkward and self-conscious, and in the end, I couldn't even muster the courage to call out to her one last time. And so we parted.

That was the summer of 1976. I was a high school sophomore, 16 years old.

Back home, I still thought of her constantly, as if in a dream. Two or three months later, I had just woken from an afternoon nap, still groggy, when she appeared at my door. I had been thinking of her that very morning, and now here she was in the afternoon — I could scarcely believe it and secretly pinched myself to make sure I wasn't dreaming. She had come to visit her aunt in the county seat (who also worked at our hospital) and thought to look me up for a chat. She even borrowed two books and promised her aunt would return them. What an innocent country girl — she had no concept of the boundaries between boys and girls, while my heart already held a hundred rabbits leaping at once.

As Li Shangyin wrote: "This feeling might become a memory to be cherished — if only I had not been so bewildered at the time."

— Written on February 19, 2007 (the second day of the Lunar New Year)

I had a classmate from Suzhou — a girl of delicate, ethereal beauty — who gave me a taste of the magic of the Suzhou dialect. How beautiful it sounded. What a pity she so rarely spoke her hometown tongue.

Once, by coincidence, we arranged to visit the Mao Zedong Memorial Hall together. Standing in the long queue, I asked her to teach me a little Suzhou dialect — the kind that makes you melt when you hear it.

Though she seemed almost too frail to withstand a breeze, she was a girl of genuine talent.

Last night, I went to visit this "younger school sister" of mine. We had only just reconnected after twenty years apart. Before meeting, I told her I had aged and that she probably wouldn't recognize me on the street. Her voice hadn't changed — still as lovely as ever. She said, "We've all grown old. When I went back to China and saw my university classmates, I couldn't believe it."

Yet when we met, she was still so slender and petite, untouched by the years, and she insisted I hadn't changed much either. We listened to old songs together, ate hot pot, and sighed at how life passes like a dream. Her boyfriend from back then, now her husband, still remembered the favors I had done him: I had helped him copy the Chinese operating system CCDOS and the Chinese version of WordStar (in those days, nobody had any notion of software copyright — the developers at the Academy of Sciences' Computing Institute who created CCDOS had no idea how to make money from an operating system). What's more, I was on especially good terms with Teacher Han, who ran the computer lab — when she wasn't around, she authorized me to manage the lab for her (which housed a single IBM PC-XT), and she even gave me a private room next to it. The young couple back then would get the key from me to enter the lab and play games all night, all under my protection.

The feeling of seeing an old classmate again is truly wonderful. After I returned, I sent her an email:

"We are now in an age when memories and life mix together all the time. Time flies. Life is short. Moments are treasured. Thanks are given."

She felt the same as our generation does, and replied:

"We were very happy to have you over. Old friends take on new significance as we age. The other day, as we could hear Christmas carols in the air, I was telling my son those were the first English songs I learned to sing at college. Guess what he had to say? 'Mom, when your memories exceed your ambitions, you know you're going downhill.' Gosh, he's brutally honest with me. Now I have to hide the fact that I keep thinking back in time, refuse to be on the downhill yet."

— Written: a forgotten month, 2006

青涩少年记事 & 吴语软侬20年

上个世纪74-75年左右，大概是初三的时候，学校组织我们学军，长途拉练，步行100多里路，去皖南新四军旧址云岭和茂林参观。我比较弱小，那次长途跋涉，真把我坑苦了，一辈子也没有走过这么远的路程，似乎没有尽头。学生队伍前后拉了好几里路长。我一瘸一拐，一根一根电线杆数着往前挪动。终于，有同学报信说，目的地已经在望，就是前面的那座小山。于是，鼓作最后的勇气。可望山跑死马，看着就在眼前的山，还是走了一两个小时，直到天快黑了才赶到。

吃罢晚饭，学校把我们安排在一个大礼堂里面休息。一屁股坐下去，就瘫软在地，居然再也起不来了。脚也没洗，在同学帮助下，挪到临时搭起的铺子和衣睡下。第二天早上，全身没有一块筋骨不疼，勉强可以站立。

虽然很狼狈，对于拉练在外的生活还是感到新鲜兴奋。特别难忘的是参观新四军事迹展览时和女同学耳鬓厮磨的经历，连带当时的心跳和惶惑。

我们那个年代，男女生有一条无形的界限，在校园很少交往。不过，我是学习委员，在班委会活动中还是跟女班长和女团支书有工作往来，彼此印象都不错。尽管文化课已经不是学校主业，大概是惯性，学习好的同学还是自然受到青睐。不过她们都比我大两岁，感觉是姐姐一样的形象。女班长是个假小子，面色黝黑，作风泼辣，相处很愉快。团支书端庄秀气，能干老练而不失文静。我平时到城外后桥河去游泳，每次经过她家门前，总见她在门口坐着织毛衣，仪态娴雅。她见到我也总落落大方地招呼一声，可我总自我感觉灰溜溜的，不知如何回应。

小男孩情窦初开的表现，记得在马克吐温的历险记里有精彩描述，说的是十二、三岁的男孩，总是使出全身解数吸引心仪女生的注意。国人晚熟，男女界限也分明，只能是心有余而力不足。可拉练在外，男女生就比较亲近起来，不象在校园那样拘束，这是当年学工学农学军最让人兴奋的地方。第二天参观新四军展览，不知怎的，跟团支书混在一起。她个头比我略高，站在身后，挨得很近，耳边是她温热的气息。我们两个人拉在最后，仔细切磋揣摩那些展示的图片和实物。两人很默契，一步一步向前挪动，有意无意身子碰到一起。我心痒如蚁，强作镇定，不敢回视。

那一年我14岁。西皮居士有诗云：

野营拉练知何似？跑马望山苦嫩兵。 学军之意不惟军，立委心飞云雨情。

当年流行的暑假打工，也是少男少女接触的场合。高中时我去了一家农村粮站当"协助员"， 遇到一个心仪女生。青涩少年的心态很微妙。我当年看《红楼梦》入迷，看了五六遍，就跟她侃红楼梦，直侃得天昏地暗，把那女孩也侃晕了。小伙伴们在旁多少有些嫉妒，背后给我起外号叫"红大哥"，叫那个女孩"红大嫂"。那真是纯洁地交往，侃了一夏天，连手都没有拉过。暑假结束快要离开的时候，心里那份难受，就甭提了。当年闹地震，到处搭防震棚，我当时就盼望地震早点来到。心里想，地震一来，该多好，大家就都集中到那个硕大的防震棚里面过共产主义生活，我也就有机会跟那个女孩不分昼夜地继续侃红楼梦了。

由于盼望的地震没有来临，暑假结束我不得不离开小镇粮站回县城的家。回家前一天，郁闷不舍，可又无可奈何。粮站附近有一条小河，清澈见底，是我们每日傍晚戏耍的所在。那天傍晚最后一次玩水，没想到"红大嫂"也来到河边洗衣。白天已经说过再见了，她这一来，我感觉是看到救命稻草，想抓住这最后一刻，可不知如何是好。于是，我不顾同伴可能的取笑，慢慢蹭到她面前搭讪。这个妞也怪，少不更事，根本不懂人家的心事，没事人一样答话。多年以后她告诉我，当时我幸亏没有挑破，按照当年她的认识水平，任何中学生谈恋爱都是流氓行为。倘若我冒失示爱，保不准会臭骂我一顿。

后来她起身要回，我急了，站起来，光着膀子，短裤衩滴着水，不知找了个什么借口，就跟着她回粮站。她在前面走，我跟在后面，想答茬也不知从何说起，老觉得有人在盯着取笑我。为了遮掩，我只好半弯着腰，枝枝杈杈地走完这段艰难的路程，最后连再招呼她一声的勇气也没有了，就此别离。

那是1976年的暑假，我高二，16岁。

回到家，还做梦一样时时想着她。两三个月后，一天下午睡午觉刚醒，懵懵懂懂的，她居然登门来访。早上还在想她，下午真来了，简直不敢相信，暗自掐自己，发现不是做梦。原来她到县城姑姑（也是我们医院的）家来，想起来找我聊一聊，还借了两本书，答应看完让她姑姑还我。这真是个淳朴的乡镇姑娘，根本没有男女界限的概念，而我的心里却早已揣了100只兔子。

李商隐有诗："此情可待成追忆，只是当时已惘然"。

记于2007年二月十九日（阴历大年初二）

我有个女同学是苏州人，人长得秀气轻灵，让我见识了苏州话的魔力，真是好听。可惜的是，她很少说家乡话。

有一次赶巧，约好一起去看毛主席纪念堂，排着长长的队，我就请她教我点苏州话，听了让人发酥那种。

虽然弱不禁风的样子，这可是个才女。

昨天晚上去拜访这位"表师妹"。刚联系上，分开已经20年了。见面前我说我老了，要是在街上碰到大概认不出来了。她的声音未变，还是那样动听，说："我们都老了。上次回国见大学同学，简直无法相信。"

可是，见面一看，她还是那样纤弱小巧，岁月无痕，她坚持说我也无大变化。我们一起听着老歌，吃着火锅，感叹人生如梦。她当年的男友，现在的丈夫，还记得我的好处：当年我帮助他拷贝中文软件CCDOS 和 汉化的 WordStar 帮了忙（当年根本不懂软件还有版权一说，CDDOS的开发者科学院计算所根本不知道如何从操作系统上赚钱）。另外，当年我跟机房韩老师关系特好，她不在的时候，由我管理机房（只有一台IBM-PC-XT），还给我在机房旁边配了一个单间。同学夫妇当年从我处拿钥匙进机房通宵玩游戏，全仗我的掩护。

老同学见面的感觉真好。回来后我发了个伊妹儿：

"We are now in an age when memories and life mix together all the time. Time flies. Life is short. Moments are treasured. Thanks are given."

同辈人感受相同，她回道：

"We were very happy to have you over. Old friends take on new significance as we age. The other day, as we could hear Christmas carols in the air, I was telling my son those were the first English songs I learned to sing at college. Guess what he had to say? "Mom, when your memories exceed your ambitions, you know you're going downhill." Gosh, he's brutally honest with me. Now I have to hide the fact that I keep thinking back in time, refuse to be on the downhill yet."

记于2006年忘月

From Morning Glory at Noon (朝华午拾). Original Chinese: 《朝华之九: 青涩少年》.

Morning Glory at Noon — Ch.9: A Callow Youth (Part 1) 

Spring Feelings 

My "first love" was a girl like the elder-sister Bao Chai. Strictly speaking, it doesn't count as love — most would agree that love must be mutual. A one-sided childhood crush isn't love; if you drew a dependency tree diagram, it would be an asymmetrical relation. But during the Cultural Revolution years, if you excluded unrequited infatuations, those qualified to speak of first love were remarkably few — perhaps less than five percent, roughly the same proportion as “class enemies”. Most of them were the so-called "bad kids" branded as young hooligans. We revolutionary students, representing ninety-five percent of the youth population, disdained such pursuits. Of course, those people eventually got married when they grew older, but the kind of courtship aimed at finding a revolutionary partner bore little resemblance to "first love" — even less relevant than a secret crush, so let's not speak of it.

Yet Mao Zedong Thought could not govern secret crushes and the stirrings of spring. My crush first sprouted in the first grade, when I was six years old, precisely in 1966 when the Great Revolution erupted. That year our entire family followed our parents from the county seat down to Hewan, a small town, to support the founding and building of a rural clinic. In this remote town surrounded by mountains on all sides, the Little Red Guard rebellion was just as vigorous, determined to overthrow the school's capitalist-roader authorities. Too young to participate in this revolution, I occasionally played the role of paste-bucket carrier, helping the older brothers and sisters put up big-character posters. Since the revolution didn't have much use for me, there was room in my childish heart for petit-bourgeois tenderness, and it all began with the arrival of Elder Sister Bao.

Elder Sister Bao was brought over by a neighbor auntie, who said she was the daughter of a cousin from the county seat, coming to the countryside for a few days' visit. The first time I saw her, it was less Elder Sister Bao than a Sister Lin who had fallen from heaven. But she truly was two years older than me, and unmistakably carried the poise of an elder sister. Elder Sister Bao looked nothing like the snot-nosed, timid country girls around us — you could tell at a glance she was a city child. She wore her hair in little braids, delicate and elegant, well-mannered and poised, and what amazed most was her many talents. When the auntie asked her to recite Chairman Mao's quotations, she rattled off "Serve the People" in flawless standard Mandarin, word for word. Then the auntie asked her to perform a model opera piece, and she sang a passage as Grandma Sha, with perfect feeling and flavor. I was transfixed. At this point, it still couldn't be called love — you could only say that such an enchanting girl planted the seed of love in a six-year-old brat's heart. Like countless life encounters, Elder Sister Bao soon returned to the county seat. Although my older brother's rebel organization, the "Dagger Squad," was growing and striking out, with the campus revolution raging full force, the small town in my heart returned to stillness, undisturbed.

A year later, our whole family moved back to the county hospital, just in time for the real, bloody factional fighting. The county elementary school had more days off than on. By the time the armed struggle subsided and the nation was all red, with the various revolutionary factions in great unity, we muddled our way up to third grade. I've searched my memory, and for the life of me I can't recall how I reunited with Elder Sister Bao at school. It's a bit of a regret, but that's how life is. In any case, one unknown day, I suddenly discovered that Elder Sister Bao was right there beside me, in the same class. She clearly didn't remember me at all, and from the moment I recognized her until we later went on to middle school together, I never once mentioned that we had met in the small town. Though countless times the words reached the tip of my tongue, I swallowed them back in the end. That meeting in the small town had made me look up to Elder Sister Bao, and it was this reverence that kept me from ever having the courage to bring up our earlier encounter. To tell or not to tell, that is a question — over this I fretted and hesitated more than Hamlet ever did. Eight years passed, until I left home for university, and in the end I never spoke of that earlier connection.

Among the girls of the county seat, Elder Sister Bao wasn't actually that beautiful, but she was lively and outgoing, wrote with a bold hand like a boy's, and her artistic talent was universally recognized. Her specialty was playing elderly female roles. During the school's field training marches, around the campfire, it was always she who would sing a cappella as Grandma Sha or Grandma Li — she was truly the star of the propaganda troupe. In fifth grade, when the school organized the propaganda team to stage the full-length "The Red Lantern," she was naturally the only choice for Grandma Li. During open auditions, I got into the cast because word had it I could recite all eight model operas backward and forward, but the director soon discovered that while I could deliver every line, aria, and percussion cue in one seamless flow, I was simply not a performer — no voice, no stage presence. As a makeweight, I was assigned to play a walk-on, Japanese Soldier A, with not a single line in the entire play, merely kicking over a chair or table when I came on. The cast had three stars: a dashing boy playing Li Yuhe, Elder Sister Bao as Grandma Li, and a petite girl as Tiemei. These three not only commanded everyone's attention but also enjoyed special treatment during rehearsals, receiving all kinds of perks that made others envious. Playing a walk-on was somewhat discouraging, but at least I could observe Elder Sister Bao and little Sister Tiemei up close, sometimes holding their coats or bringing them water, earning a "thank you" that felt rather wonderful. This was the only time in my life I ever joined a theater production, and many years later, when I occasionally look in the mirror, I still can't shake the unsightly face of Japanese Soldier A.

My infatuation with Elder Sister Bao grew slowly and stubbornly, spanning my entire elementary and middle school years, but it was an absolute secret buried deep in my heart. Male and female classmates were separated as if by the Chu River and Han border; the distance between Japanese Soldier A and Grandma Li was vaster still — I wouldn't have dared dream of reaching so high. But then in middle school, we enjoyed a little over a year of good times known as the "Revisionist Resurgence," when teachers, parents, and students all began to value academic study once again. Students who did well in their lessons saw their social status soar. As study monitor and math class representative, I began to distinguish myself. My writing was read aloud as model compositions. The homeroom teacher, who also taught math, assigned me to lecture from the podium during self-study periods, tutoring classmates, and even let me grade homework and quizzes — I became something of a little teacher, swelling with pride. Elder Sister Bao, along with the female class president and the female Party secretary, were all on the class committee with me, and we began to interact. The distance between us gradually narrowed; she was now just a step away. Even so, I could only bury my feelings for Elder Sister Bao deep in my heart, until one day I nearly gave myself away. It was during the school sports meet. Seeing her watching the high jump finals, I drifted over to watch her. The universe floated away with the wind; the cheers sounded like voices from another world, flickering in and out. I sank into my own world, studying that face — not stunning, yet I could never look at it enough — acutely aware of my own guilty thoughts, and utterly brazen. Just then, she seemed to sense something and glanced back at me. That one look was sharper than a needle. I felt my secret pierced, found nowhere to hide, and fled in panic. For months afterward, I avoided her, never daring to meet her eyes even once.

By the time I took the college entrance exam in 1977, out of over two hundred classmates in our grade, only three were admitted to undergraduate programs in the first round. My brother and I occupied two of those seats. Classmates streamed to our home to offer congratulations. She came too, giving me a small notebook. On the first page she wrote: "Fly, favored child of heaven!" — a bold, sweeping hand, ethereal as if touched by the immortals.

— Written on October 10, 2013

Disappointed Sunshine 

From elementary school through middle school, I was always a class officer — either study monitor or vice class president. After holding office so long, I took it for granted. When I entered high school, two schools merged, and a batch of students from No. 2 Middle School joined us. The new homeroom teacher was a bald old man — whether I had somehow offended him or he simply hadn't studied my record, the result was that he decided to exclude me from the class committee (the equivalent of the Politburo Standing Committee or senior management) and gave me the title of group leader (roughly equivalent to an alternate Politburo member or a supervisor at the grassroots). A class had four group leaders, each responsible for collecting homework from their group, but unable to participate in class committee decisions unless a major matter called for an "expanded standing committee meeting." At the time, I truly felt the sky was falling. The gloom of adolescent disappointment was something I couldn't share with anyone. Disheartened and listless, with no outlet, I turned somewhat cynical. Now I understand — politics is exhausting. No wonder those who flounder in officialdom seem so anguished.

In this time of political difficulty, one warm remark has stayed with me, never forgotten. There was a new female classmate from No. 2 Middle School, with two thick, dark braids, a poised and graceful manner, and a brilliant smile. She was the newly elected arts and culture committee member of our class, able to sing and dance, and all the boys liked her. Somehow, she sensed my disappointment and said to me: "It's all my fault, I'm the one to blame. I took your slot." To this day I have no idea why she said this — that by becoming the arts committee member, she had taken my place on the class committee. The study monitor position was held by a brat from No. 2 who was decent at Chinese; but the vice president post, an honorary role, could certainly have accommodated a six-term veteran like me if I had been admitted. Yet it was the homeroom teacher's dictatorship — whether I made the cut was entirely his call. In any case, that she could say such a thing truly moved me, especially coming from a girl of such sunny disposition whom everyone adored. She had a wonderful temperament, perceptive and empathetic, putting people at ease. Several later interactions only deepened this good impression.

Once, coming downstairs from the second-floor classroom, I casually spat — and to my horror, it landed right on her sleeve as she happened to be at the bottom of the stairs. In those days, nearly everyone spat wherever they pleased, and no one thought it a bad habit. But spitting on a female classmate's clothes — I was mortified beyond words. Yet she wasn't the least bit annoyed, simply wiped it off herself, and walked past me with the same smiling nod, as if nothing had happened. This small incident made her image towering and luminous in my mind — in my heart, she was like a saint.

— Written on December 7, 2008

朝华午拾 · 第九章：青涩少年（上）

春情

我的“初恋”是一位宝姐姐样的女孩儿。严格地说，不算恋，一般以为，“恋”必须是双向的。初次暗恋不算“恋”，画成树形图的话那是依从关系，不对等。不过，在文化革命年代，如果排除单相思，有资格谈初恋的怕是所剩不多了，大概不到5%，与阶级敌人的比例相当，主要分子多是被称为小流氓的“坏孩子”。占少年人口95%的我们革命学生不屑此道。当然，这些人岁数大了也还是结婚了，但为了结婚找革命伴侣的那种交往，与“初恋”意趣相去甚远，比暗恋更文不对题，不提也罢。

可毛泽东思想管不住暗恋和春情。我的暗恋萌芽于小学一年级，当时我六岁，正是大革命爆发的1966年。那年我们全家随父母从县城下放到何湾小镇，支持乡镇医院的开创和建设。在这个四面环山的偏远小镇，红小兵造反运动一样有声有色，要打倒学校走资本主义道路的当权派。这场革命，我太小无从介入，但也时而扮演那提浆糊桶的角色，帮助大哥哥大姐姐贴大字报。既然革命没多少我的事儿，童心中就有了小资温情的空间，这一切应该从“宝姐姐”的到来谈起。

宝姐姐是邻居阿姨带过来的，说是县城表姐的女儿，来乡下玩几天。第一次见她，与其说是宝姐姐，不如说是天上掉下来一个林妹妹。但她确实大我两岁，而且显然有小姐姐的范儿。宝姐姐长得与身边拖着鼻涕怯生生的乡镇小姑娘完全不同，一看就是城里人。梳着小辫儿，清秀端庄，乖巧大方，最让人赞叹的是她的多才多艺。阿姨让她背毛主席语录，她就伶牙俐齿用标准的普通话背诵《为人民服务》，一字不拉。阿姨又让她表演一段样板戏，她就唱了一段沙奶奶，有滋有味。我看得呆了。事到此，还不能算恋，只能说这样可人的女孩儿，让六岁的小屁孩儿心里种下了恋的萌芽。与无数人生邂逅一样，不久，宝姐姐就回县城了。虽然我老哥发起的造反组织“匕首小分队”成立壮大，不断出击，校园革命正如火如荼，但我心中的小镇却重归平静，不起波澜。

一年后，我们全家回到县城医院，正赶上真刀真枪的武斗岁月。县城小学停课多于上课，等武斗消停，全国山河一片红，各派革命大团结的时候，我们也糊里糊涂地升到了三年级。我搜索记忆，无论如何也想不起来如何与宝姐姐在学校重逢的了。这多少有些遗憾，但生活就是这样。总之，不知何年何月何日，我突然发现宝姐姐就在身边，与我同班。她显然完全不记得我了，而我从认出她那一刻起，直到后来一起上了中学，一直也没有跟她提起我们曾经相识于小镇。虽然很多次话到了口边，终于还是咽回去了。小镇上的邂逅让我对宝姐姐仰视，是这种仰视使得我一直没勇气提起我们以前曾经相遇。To tell or not to tell, that is a question, 为此比哈姆雷特还苦恼犹疑。一去就是八年，直到离乡上大学，终于未曾提起这段前缘。

在县城的女孩子中，宝姐姐其实并没有那么漂亮，但她活泼大方，写得一手男孩子一般的好字，文艺天赋是公认的。她最拿手的是老旦。学校组织拉练野营在外，围着篝火，清唱沙奶奶李奶奶的准是她，算是宣传队的腕儿了。五年级的时候，学校组织宣传队排演整场的《红灯记》，她自然是李奶奶的不二人选。海选时，我由于据传可以把八个样板戏倒背如流，也进了剧组，可导演老师很快发现我虽然道白唱段连锣鼓歌门儿均能一气呵成倒背如流，但实在不是文艺人，要嗓子没嗓子，要扮相没扮相。滥竽充数被指派跑龙套，扮鬼子甲，整台戏没一句台词，就是上场踢翻一两桌椅而已。剧组的明星有三：一个英气袭人的小子扮的李玉和，宝姐姐扮的李奶奶，还有一个小巧女孩儿演铁梅。这三位不仅千人瞩目，而且在排练中吃小灶，有种种优惠，让人羡慕。跑龙套多少有些让我气馁，但好在可以近距离观察宝姐姐和铁梅小妹妹演戏，有时给她们拿个衣服，递个水什么的，博得一声谢谢，感觉颇不赖。这是我一辈子唯一一次参加剧组，后来很多年以后，我偶然照镜子看自己，依然不改鬼子甲的不雅面相。

对宝姐姐的痴迷缓慢而倔强地增长，涵盖了我整个的小学和初中时代，但那是一个深藏心底的绝对秘密。男女同学楚河汉界，鬼子甲与李奶奶间更有天壤之遥，做梦也不敢高攀。可是到了初中，赶上了一年多“修正主义回潮”的好时光，一时间老师、家长和同学都开始重视文化课的学习。功课好的同学，社会地位就扶摇直上。我作为学习委员和数学课代表，开始在班级崭露头角。我写的东西作为范文被朗诵。班主任兼数学老师指派我每天自习课时间，上讲台讲解习题，辅导同学，还放手让我批改作业和测验题，俨然成了小老师，令我春风得意。宝姐姐、还有女班长和女支书和我都是班委会成员，开始有了接触。两人的距离逐步拉近，伊人只在一步之遥。尽管如此，我对宝姐姐的恋慕也只能深藏心底，直到有一天差点露馅儿。那是学校举行运动会的时候，见到她在观看跳高决赛，我也围过来观看她。宇宙随风飘去，欢呼声有如天外来音，时隐时现。我沉浸在自己的世界里，端详着这张并不艳丽却总也看不够的脸，自我感觉心怀鬼胎，而且放肆。就在这时候，她似有察觉，下意识地与我对视一眼，这一眼比针刺还厉害。我感觉天机被戳穿，无地以自容，赶紧仓皇逃离。此后的几个月，我总躲着她，从来不敢正眼瞧她一次。

到我77年考大学的时候，全年级200多同学，第一批只考取本科三人，我家兄弟占据两席，同学纷纷登门祝贺。她也来了，送我一个小笔记本，开篇写道：飞翔吧，天之骄子！龙飞凤舞，飘逸似有仙气。

记于2013年10月10日

失意阳光

从小学到初中，一直是班干部，不是学习委员就是副班长。这官当长了，就觉得理所当然。升高中，两个学校合并，加入了一批“二中”的人。新班主任是个秃老头，不知道哪里得罪了他，还是他没有研究我的履历，总之是他决定把我排除在班委会（相当于政治局常委或高管）之外，给了我一个小组长的头衔（相当于政治局候补委员或基层管理人员）。一个班有四个小组长，管本组收作业，但不能参与班委会决策，除非遇到大事召集“常委扩大会议”，才介入决策过程。当时真觉得天要塌了。少年失意的心情无法跟任何人叙说，心灰意懒，无所排解，转而很有些玩世不恭的样子。现在理解了，搞政治是很辛苦的，难怪见官场不顺的人显得那么痛苦。

在这仕途艰难之时，有一句温暖的话，让我至今感怀不忘。有一位二中新来的女同学，梳着两条又粗又黑的长辫子，为人落落大方，笑容很灿烂。她就是我们班新当选的文娱委员，能唱会跳，男生都很喜欢她。不知怎么，她察觉了我的失意，跟我说：“都怪我，都是我不好。是我占了你指标。” 我至今也不知道她怎么会有这样的说法，觉得是她当了文娱委员，把我的班委会入围指标占用了。学习委员的位置是二中来的一个语文不错的臭小子占据的，倒是副班长这个虚职，如果我入围，应该可以安置我这样的六朝元老。可是那是班主任独裁的体制，入围与否他老人家说了算。无论如何，她能这样说话，真地让我感激得很，尤其是出自这样一个性格阳光和人见人爱的女孩。她的性情特别好，善解人意，让人舒服。后来几次交往也加深了这种好印象。

有一次从二楼教室下楼，我随口一啐，没想到她正好在楼梯口，不偏不倚落在她袖口上。当年不懂五讲四美，几乎人人都随地吐痰，并不觉得是恶习。可口水吐到了女同学身上，还是羞得我无地自容。可她一点不恼，自己擦去，一样笑吟吟地从身边点头走过，好像什么事也没发生。这件小事使女孩的形象高大光辉起来，在我心目中有如圣女。

记于2008年12月7日

From 朝华午拾: Morning Glory at Noon. Original Chinese: 《朝华之九: 青涩少年》.

Morning Glory at Noon — Ch.8: Bits of Morning Glory (Part 2)

"Never Forget Class Struggle"

I remember it was around 1970, when I was in fourth or fifth grade. Our teacher led us to visit a "Class Struggle Exhibition Hall" to give students a living education. The exhibition hall had explanatory panels, diagrams, and physical objects, all designed to make us feel that class struggle was right beside us — something that needed to be talked about every year, every month, every day.

The first thing we saw was a landlord's "heaven-changing ledger." It was an old land deed that had been dug out from a landlord's cellar. Keeping the deed, naturally, meant he was waiting for the day heaven would change so he could settle accounts with the poor and lower-middle peasants. The guide's script said this old landlord, who normally nodded and bowed before everyone, was in fact old and crafty, his crimes deserving of death ten thousand times over.

There was also the diary of a so-called "rightist who slipped through the net." The commentary said this outwardly respectable teacher had a dark psyche. The several thick volumes of diaries seized from his home were filled with the cloying, decadent sentiments of the bourgeoisie — the diary recorded the author's experiences of romantic love. Even more despicable, it contained poems longing for the Kuomintang reactionaries. The item on display was a poem titled "Yearning for the Sea." What I saw was a lyrical prose poem in elegant handwriting. The parts I vaguely remember went something like: "Oh sea, my homeland, my destination, my longing, my hope!" The entire piece revolved around the theme of the sea. The guide's script asked: why would this rightist who slipped through the net so nauseatingly extol the sea? Obviously, he was yearning for the Kuomintang bandits across the sea in Taiwan, hoping they would launch a counterattack on the mainland. At the time, none of us doubted that the sea in "Yearning for the Sea" symbolized the unnameable Kuomintang. He was one of the "Stinking Ninth Category" of intellectuals, with bourgeois sentiments — surely he was dissatisfied with reality, and his class nature determined that he yearned for the Kuomintang reactionaries. Wasn't this the kind of ill-concealed intention that everyone could see?

The most explosive item in the exhibition was the material of an active counter-revolutionary case: a draft party platform for an underground counter-revolutionary organization called the "Democratic Justice Party." The two principal culprits — the party's chairman and vice-chairman — had just been sentenced to death at a public trial, paraded through the streets, and publicly shot. The party's platform was to overthrow the Communist Party and establish democratic politics. This was, of course, a heinous and unforgivable heresy — nothing less than execution would satisfy the people's righteous anger.

On the day of the annual public sentencing, under a blazing sun, our small county town in the mountains of southern Anhui buzzed with a festival-like excitement. The public trial was held at the town's largest athletic field, grandly known as "Zhongshan Park." Several thousand people packed the field so tightly not a drop of water could seep through. The criminals, heads shaved and heavy placards hanging from their necks, were escorted onto the stage. After sentencing, the placards of those condemned to death were marked with a red cross before the parade through the streets. What interested everyone most was the death penalty — the kind of event that could thrill a crowd. Seven or eight criminals were sentenced to death on the spot, including the two young counter-revolutionaries, several murderers, and a production team leader convicted of "seriously undermining the Up to the Mountains and Down to the Countryside campaign" — a crime that referred to using one's position to rape or seduce young women sent down to the countryside. Each time a death sentence was announced, two burly men behind the condemned man on stage would force his head down and stuff something into his mouth to prevent him from struggling at the last moment or shouting counter-revolutionary slogans. The death-row prisoners' varied reactions were a major spectacle. Some collapsed into a heap on the ground and had to be kicked and dragged before they could just barely kneel onstage for the public shaming. Others struggled with all their might — their heads forced down, then raised again. It was said that these were the type most likely to shout counter-revolutionary slogans if not gagged.

After the public sentencing concluded, the parade through the streets began. Four or five criminals were pressed against the front railing of each truck as it slowly rolled down the county's main street. Nearly everyone who could leave their home came out. Those who hadn't made it to the field to watch the trial live had long since staked out good spots along the main street near their homes, waiting for the parade convoy. The young people, bursting with energy and excitement, simply followed alongside the trucks. The clever ones brought bicycles so they could catch up with the best part — the execution scene. Although these were public executions and onlookers were tolerated, the execution site was kept secret, presumably to prevent overcrowding that might interfere with official business. Executions were generally carried out within an hour after the parade. Based on past experience, there were two or three likely execution sites about ten li outside town, and people were stationed at each one, waiting like the proverbial farmer who saw a rabbit dash into a tree stump and decided to wait there for the next one. I was not so clever. Carried along by the crowd, I rushed east then west, and by the time I finally made it to the scene, there was nothing but heads upon heads — the proceedings were already over. People formed circles, listening to those who had witnessed the execution with their own eyes describe every detail. After the execution, a medical examiner in a white coat would verify the death on site and sign the death report. Later, a rumor spread that the dictatorship authorities demanded that the families of executed counter-revolutionaries pay for the cost of the bullet. At the time, we thought this was perfectly reasonable. A bullet might not be worth much, but this was a just punishment for the counter-revolutionary's family.

Many years later, I still wonder whether a thirst for blood is rooted in human nature. How else to explain the excitement and frenzy of the spectators at the execution ground? There was a saying back then: the revolutionary masses' day of carnival is the class enemy's day of suffering.

Speaking of bloodthirst, I'm reminded of La Espero ("The Hope"), by L.L. Zamenhof, the creator of Esperanto. This poem became the anthem of Esperantists worldwide — their "Internationale." I once had my master's machine translation project translate this song into English and Chinese:

(099) LA ESPERO : ESPERANTISTA HIMNO ( POEMO FAR ZAMENHOF ) .

(100) EN LA MONDON VENIS NOVA SENTO ,
TRA LA MONDO IRAS FORTA VOKO ;
(101) PER FLUGILOJ DE FACILA VENTO ,
NUN DE LOKO FLUGU GHI AL LOKO .

(102) NE AL GLAVO SANGONSOIFANTA ,
GHI LA HOMAN TIRAS FAMILION ;
(103) AL LA MOND' ETERNE MILITANTA ,
GHI PROMESAS SANKTAN HARMONION .

(099) THE HOPE : ESPERANTIST'S HYMN ( POEM BY ZAMENHOF ) .

(100) INTO THE WORLD CAME NEW FEELING ,
OVER THE WORLD GOES STRONG VOICE ;
(101) BY WINGS OF EASY WIND ,
NOW FROM PLACE LET IT FLY TO PLACE .
(102) NOT TO SWORD BLOODTHIRSTY ,
IT PULLS THE MAN FAMILY ;
(103) TO THE WORLD EVER FIGHTING ,
IT PROMISES SACRED HARMONY .

(099) 希望: 世界语者的颂歌 (柴门霍夫所作的诗歌)。

(100) 新感觉来到了世界,
有力的声音走遍世界;
(101) 用顺风的翅膀,
现在让它从一个地方飞到另一个地方吧。

(102) 它不把人的家庭
引到渴血的刀剑;
(103) 向永远战争着的世界,
它允诺神圣的和谐。

— Written on May 18, 2006

Homespun and Factory Cloth

When I was a child, in the 1960s and 1970s, I still wore clothes made of tubu — "homespun" cloth. This was fabric hand-woven by farmers, bought and then sent to the dyeing workshop to be dyed blue or black. It was coarse, not sturdy, and tore easily, so you had to patch it to wear it for long. There were no patterns, of course. The dyeing workshop was like a giant bathhouse, thick with steam. The dyed cloth bled color badly, often staining other clothes black.

Later, in the late 1960s, state-supplied machine-woven khaki fabric — which required ration coupons — began to appear. It was much nicer-looking and sturdier. Since it required coupons, homespun didn't immediately exit the market. Still later, synthetic fabrics like diqueliang (Dacron) and nylon began arriving. I remember the first time my parents bought Dacron cloth to make shirts for us brothers — around 1970 — I flatly refused to wear it, thinking it was too revisionist, so shiny, like what a bourgeois young master would wear. From childhood we were taught to learn from Lei Feng's example of hard work and plain living: "three years new, three years old, another three years of mending." Wearing nylon socks for the first time also felt too extravagant, yet they felt wonderfully comfortable once on. (Only later did I discover they weren't breathable and caused foot odor.)

Synthetic fabrics became popular in the 1970s. Their greatest advantage was durability — Grandma no longer had to spend the whole year mending the family's clothes, shoes, and socks. Around that time, Japan began exporting a chemical fertilizer called "Urea," and the farmer brethren discovered that the fertilizer sacks were excellent synthetic fabric. They eagerly turned urea sacks into bed sheets and blankets — and they worked surprisingly well. The only drawback was the giant Chinese characters reading "UREA" that accompanied people into their dreams every night. Later, when reading about the history of DuPont's invention of nylon in the 1930s, I learned that American GIs in places like the Philippines used nylon goods as gifts to woo local girls — enormously popular.

By the late 1970s, you could still occasionally see homespun cloth, but as the price of factory cloth fell and ration coupons were abolished after the Cultural Revolution, homespun simply couldn't compete.

How times change. Today in the West, handmade products of pure cotton, pure linen, or pure silk have become fashionable — things only bourgeois young ladies and gentlemen can afford, while the impoverished proletariat must make do with cheap, shiny, durable synthetics. My online friend Xiaoshan tells me that homespun-style products are now quite expensive. There's a children's clothing brand called Hanna Andersson that touts its "organic cotton" and charges a premium for it. At Whole Foods, a shirt of the most ordinary linen design sells for nearly two hundred dollars. Xiaoshan says: "I think clothes made from handwoven cloth — rough cotton shirts, casual pants, women's skirts — would be absolutely cool. No one else would be wearing the same thing as you." What was once an unavoidable hardship has now become a trend.

— Written in October 2011

The Art of Arguing

One of the pleasures of being online is watching the "old-timers" argue. Old-timers don't like to argue, but once they get going, their sharpness never loses its humor, and you often can't help but laugh. Some of the young folks' arguments, on the other hand, leave much to be desired — foul language, zero technical content, let alone humor — worse than a fishwife's street brawl. The times have changed, heaven and earth have turned upside down, yet the quality of arguing has not improved. Maybe I'm just a cranky old man, but I always feel today's young people can hardly reach the "self-oblivious" realm of arguing that we attained back in our day. Old ginger is still the spiciest. Yesterday, online, I saw our elder brother talking nonsense — probably a bit drunk. I couldn't resist jumping in with a jab, fully expecting him to come after me. Unexpectedly, the old fellow was quite receptive, humbly accepting my opinion, and ended with: "Looks like I'll have to argue with myself now." Brilliant — now that's a realm! When arguing reaches such a state, it truly does justice to the brothers and sisters gathered around to watch. In my youth I was even more extreme — I argued so hard I actually changed my sex. Such self-oblivious passion could truly move heaven and earth and make ghosts weep.

I've loved to pick arguments since I was little — from elementary school through college, it never stopped. In elementary school I was a shrimp, not really able to get a word in edgewise. Still, having been through the revolutionary baptism of the Great Cultural Revolution, I especially loved going to the streets to listen to the young Red Guard debaters, and I admired the masters of debate with all my heart.

I remember in high school, during one of our "Learn from the Peasants" sessions, we were all staying at a farm when a great debate erupted in the dormitory one night: "Are humans animals?" Having thoroughly studied Marxism-Leninism, I knew that humans are the sum total of social relations, that humans use tools, and that this is the fundamental characteristic distinguishing humans from animals — and so on. I thought anyone who insisted that humans are animals must have water in their brain — practically mentally deficient. Armed with truth, righteous and stern, I never imagined my opponent would also be a fiercely competitive type who simply would not admit error. I was absolutely furious. Wave after wave, the debate went on the entire night. By daybreak, I already felt my breath failing, no longer knowing what I was shouting, still less able to hear what the other side was saying. Like holding a position, I felt the moment I let up, the enemy would seize the opening and pour in.

The next day, the debate finally stopped — not for any other reason, but because I had completely lost my voice. My throat was congested and inflamed, the pain unbearable. Classmates suggested I gargle with salt water, but it didn't help. For an entire week, I became a mute. Later, when I finally regained my voice — no one could have guessed — I had gone from a male voice to a female voice. Not the kind of pleasant, melodious female voice, mind you, but one closer to the old witch in Disney's Snow White.

I've loved music all my life. When I hear something that moves me, I can't help but sing along — I have to let it out to feel fully satisfied. I quickly discovered that my satisfaction was built on other people's suffering. Fortunately, I'm fairly self-aware. I voluntarily keep my distance from karaoke and only occasionally let loose at home. I'm deeply grateful to my wife and daughter, who are quite tolerant. "As long as we see you're happy," they say.

Now, whenever I'm on the phone and the other person says, "Yes, Madam," I'm reminded of my youthful, headstrong days.

— Written on December 11, 2008

Work-Study

Work-study during summer vacation was already popular when I was in middle school. My first job was helping sell pears at the collective supply-and-marketing co-op, at one yuan a day. The old clerk criticized me for being too honest, saying you had to size up the customer and shortchange them appropriately. Roughly speaking, for a jin the customer asked for, giving them eight liang was about right — and you had to make the scale beam look high, so the customer felt satisfied. This kind of petty swindling was the norm in a small-time collective enterprise like the supply-and-marketing co-op. I found that most customers were easy to fool; only a few were sticklers. If you got caught, you just pretended it was an honest mistake, smiled and made it right. That was my first lesson in life. Looking back, the old masters who taught me to shortchange customers were fundamentally good people, yet they carried out these deceptions as if they were perfectly natural and justified.

Later I worked twice as a "helper" at a rural grain depot, always doing the least skilled work, called daicang — leading peasants who had just had their grain weighed to the designated spot in the designated warehouse. I also helped the warehouse keeper shuffle the grain around. Grain in storage had to be regularly turned — the bottom brought up, the top sent down — to prevent mildew. This was fairly exhausting work. The air inside the warehouse was foul, thick with dust and haze.

My work-study experience after going abroad was following the herd during my studies in the UK — working in a restaurant, still doing the least skilled job of washing dishes. Weekend shifts ran from 4 p.m. to one or two in the morning, at fifteen pounds a shift. By the time I got home, I was falling apart. Anyone who has washed dishes in a restaurant will never again believe in restaurant hygiene, especially on weekends. Sometimes the water in the dishwashing sink wouldn't be changed the entire evening. When it got too dirty, you'd just pour in massive amounts of detergent until it was full of foam, then wipe things glossy with a dry cloth. It wasn't that we were lazy — we simply had no choice. Dirty dishes came flooding in like a mountain; there was no time to change the water. Some restaurants had dish-drying machines with a sanitizing cycle, which made things relatively more hygienic.

— Written on October 1, 2011

The Art of Drinking Beer

Twice in my life I have had beer that was unforgettable — truly fine brew. The first time was in 1989, when I went to Munich, Germany for a conference (see "Morning Glory at Noon: A Journey to Europe"). The conference organizers took us to the outskirts of the city for an outdoor beer festival. Before this, I had scarcely touched alcohol, but Munich's draft beer — such wonderful taste, and not intoxicating either — captivated me instantly. I also loved the atmosphere: beer mugs the size of buckets, and the meat that accompanied the drinking — roasted whole or half pigs and sheep — you couldn't ask for anything more magnificent. The utensils used to cut the meat were like the great swords our ancestors once swung at the Japanese devils' heads. You held out your plate and one swing of the blade sent two jin of meat onto it. Half-tipsy, half-dreaming, I was always reminded of the heroes of Mount Liang, weighing out silver by the scale and drinking wine by the bowl. On that midsummer night, fair-skinned girls in brightly colored, elaborately layered traditional dress wove through the crowd, all smiles. What night was this? I no longer knew where I was.

The second time was a few years ago in Hokkaido, also for a conference. An old Japanese friend took me to an antique-style beer house, where we savored Sapporo beer alongside simple snacks like boiled edamame. Sapporo is famous for two things: beer and king crab. Sapporo's dark draft was dry, mellow, and refreshing. Two large mugs down, I returned to the hotel with blurry, drunken eyes. Undressing and collapsing onto the bed, I felt my body floating upward, as if I'd just come out of a sauna — steaming all over, vapors rising, as though every impurity in my body was being purged. An indescribable sensation, as if about to take flight — "drifting as though having left the world behind, sprouting wings and ascending to the immortals."

A friend once asked: how exactly do you beer drinkers get a buzz out of it? My answer is: it's far more than a buzz — drinking beer is conducive to world peace. Every time I reach a mild tipsiness, I feel that all people are my family. Mild tipsiness, that floating sensation, is the optimal state. Li Bai, the great immortal poet of the Tang Dynasty, probably composed his timeless masterpieces like "Drinking Alone Under the Moon" in precisely this state:

A jug of wine among the flowers,
I drink alone, no friend close by.
I raise my cup to invite the moon,
Who with my shadow makes us three.
The moon, alas, knows not to drink;
My shadow follows me in vain.
With moon and shadow, friends for now,
Let's seize the joy before spring ends.

— Written in October 2011

朝华午拾 · 第八章：朝华点滴（下）

"千万不要忘记阶级斗争"

记得大概是1970年左右，小学四五年级的时候，老师带领我们参观一个"阶级斗争展览馆"，对学生进行活生生的教育。展览馆里面有讲解、图示和实物，让我们感觉到阶级斗争就在身边，需要年年讲，月月讲，天天讲。

首先看到的是地主份子的变天账。这是从一家地主家地窖里面搜查出来的老地契。保留地契，当然是想变天，将来好对贫下中农反攻倒算。讲解词说，这个老地主，平时见人点头哈腰，其实是老奸巨猾，罪该万死。

还有另外一份"漏网右派"的日记。解说词说，这个道貌岸然的教师，心理阴暗，查抄出来的几大本日记，充满了卿卿我我的资产阶级腐朽没落的情调（日记记录了当事人的恋爱感受），更可恶的是还有向往国民党反动派的诗词。展出的部分就是这样一首题目叫做"海恋"的诗歌。我看到的是字迹娟秀的一首抒情散文诗，隐约记得的部分有，大海啊，我的故乡，我的归宿，我的向往，我的盼望！通篇就是大海这个主题。解说词说，漏网右派为什么如此肉麻地讴歌大海呢？很显然，他是向往大海那边的台湾国民党蒋匪，盼望他们反攻大陆。当年我们毫不怀疑《海恋》作者的大海象征着不能明说的国民党。他是臭老九，又有资产阶级情调，肯定对现实不满，阶级本性决定他向往国民党反动派。这难道不是「 司马昭之心」路人皆知么？

展品中最具有爆炸力的是一份现行反革命的材料，地下反革命组织"民主正义党"的党纲草案。两名主犯就是前不久公审宣判死刑被游街示众、当众枪毙的该党的主席和副主席。党纲宗旨是推翻共产党，建立民主政治。这当然是十恶不赦的异端，罪大恶极，不杀不足以平民愤。

一年一度的公审那天烈日炎炎，我们这个皖南山区的小县城，象过节一样热闹。公审在本城最大的操场（号称"中山公园"）举行。几千人把操场挤得水泄不通。罪犯们剃光头，挂着大牌子被押上来，死刑犯的牌子上在宣判后游街时被划上红叉。大家最感兴趣的还是死刑这种可以给公众带来兴奋的事件。有七八个罪犯被当场宣判死刑，其中包括那两个年轻的现行反革命，还有其他杀人犯和一个严重破坏上山下乡的生产队长（破坏上山下乡罪是指利用职权强奸或诱奸下乡女青年）。每当宣判一个死刑，台上那个死刑犯就被身后两个彪形大汉摁住头颅，并往口中塞进物件，防止他们临死挣扎，呼喊反动口号。死刑犯表现各异，是一大看点。有的软瘫在地上，需要连踢带拉，才能勉强跪在台上示众。也有的竭力挣扎，头摁下去，又抬起来。说是这种人如果不封口，最可能呼喊反动口号。

公审大会结束后，是游街示众，每辆卡车前端押四五个罪犯，缓缓从县城大街上通过。全城能出来的人几乎都出来了，没有机会来操场看公审实况的，早早在家附近大街边上找好位置等待游街的车队。对于精力充沛、兴奋莫名的年轻人，干脆随着车队前行。有聪明的带上自行车，好赶上最精彩的执行枪毙的现场。虽然是公开处决，允许围观，但枪毙现场保密。大概是怕人满为患，影响公务。一般在游街以后一小时内执行枪决。根据以往经验，城外十里地左右，有两三个最可能的行刑现场，各处都有人守株待兔。我比较笨，随着人流东赶西赶，最后好不容易来到现场，除了人头还是人头，而且过程已经结束。人们围成一圈一圈，听亲眼目睹枪决现场的人描述每一个细节。行刑之后，有穿白大褂的法医现场验尸，签署死亡报告。后来有传言，说专政机构要求向被枪毙的反革命分子家属收取子弹费。我们当时觉得理所当然，子弹虽然不值钱，但这是对反革命家属的正当惩罚。

很多年过去，我一直怀疑，嗜血是否源于人的本性，否则如何解释行刑场上看客的兴奋和疯狂呢。当年就有这么个说法，革命群众的狂欢之日，就是阶级敌人的受难之时。

提到嗜血，想起世界语创始人Zamenhof的《希望之歌》。这首诗歌成为全世界世界语者的《国际歌》，我曾经在我的硕士机器翻译项目中把这首歌自动翻译为英语和中文：

(099) LA ESPERO : ESPERANTISTA HIMNO ( POEMO FAR ZAMENHOF ) .

(100) EN LA MONDON VENIS NOVA SENTO ,
TRA LA MONDO IRAS FORTA VOKO ;
(101) PER FLUGILOJ DE FACILA VENTO ,
NUN DE LOKO FLUGU GHI AL LOKO .

(102) NE AL GLAVO SANGONSOIFANTA ,
GHI LA HOMAN TIRAS FAMILION ;
(103) AL LA MOND' ETERNE MILITANTA ,
GHI PROMESAS SANKTAN HARMONION .

(099) THE HOPE : ESPERANTIST'S HYMN ( POEM BY ZAMENHOF ) .

(100) INTO THE WORLD CAME NEW FEELING ,
OVER THE WORLD GOES STRONG VOICE ;
(101) BY WINGS OF EASY WIND ,
NOW FROM PLACE LET IT FLY TO PLACE .
(102) NOT TO SWORD BLOODTHIRSTY ,
IT PULLS THE MAN FAMILY ;
(103) TO THE WORLD EVER FIGHTING ,
IT PROMISES SACRED HARMONY .

(099) 希望: 世界语者的颂歌 (柴门霍夫所作的诗歌)。

(100) 新感觉来到了世界,
有力的声音走遍世界;
(101) 用顺风的翅膀,
现在让它从一个地方飞到另一个地方吧。

(102) 它不把人的家庭
引到渴血的刀剑;
(103) 向永远战争着的世界,
它允诺神圣的和谐。

记于2006年5月18日

土布洋布

我小时候，1960－1970年代，还穿"土布"衣服，"土布"是农民手工纺织的，买回家，送进染坊去染成蓝色或者黑色。很粗糙，不结实，容易破，所以要补补丁才能穿久。当然没有花样。染坊象个大澡堂，热气熏天。染出来的布掉色得厉害，往往把其他衣服也带黑了。

后来，60年代后期，开始有需要布票的国家供应的机织咔叽布，漂亮结实多了。由于需要布票，所以土布没有立刻退出市场。再后来，化纤制品"的确良"和尼龙开始来了。记得第一次父母给我们兄弟买的确良做衬衫，大约是1970年左右，我坚决拒绝穿，觉得这太修正主义了，那么光亮，象资产阶级少爷。我们从小觉得要学习雷锋艰苦朴素，新三年，旧三年，缝缝补补又三年。第一次穿尼龙袜子也觉得太奢侈，可是感觉穿上以后，特别舒服。（后来才发现不透气，有臭脚的毛病。）

化纤制品的流行是1970年代，最大优点是结实，奶奶再也不用一年到头给全家缝补衣服鞋袜了。当时开始进口日本化肥"尿素"，农民兄弟发现化肥袋子是很好的化纤制品，就纷纷拿尿素袋子做床单和被子用，还真好使。就是袋子上的硕大的汉字"尿素"每天伴随着人进入梦乡。后来，读30年代 DuPont 发明尼龙的历史，说美国大兵当年到菲律宾等处，就以尼龙制品作为礼物在当地泡妞，极受欢迎。

70年代末，偶然还看见有土布，但是因为洋布价格下降，文革后布票又取消了，土布就无法竞争了。

斗转星移，时事变迁，如今在西方，纯棉、纯麻或者纯丝的手工制品开始时髦，只有资产阶级小姐少爷才穿得起，而贫苦的无产阶级只能将就使用便宜、光鲜又结实的化纤制品了。网友小闪告诉我，现在"土布"制品可贵着呢，有一种品牌的童装HANNA ANDERSSON号称用"土布"（organic cotton）把价格提上去。WHOLEFOODS里卖的衣服，一件最普通样式的麻布上衣就卖近两百刀。小闪说：俺觉得自己织的布做粗布衬衫，休闲裤，女裙绝对cool，没人跟你穿一样的。过去无奈的事情现在变成时髦了。

记于2011年10月

掐架的境界

上网的好处之一是看"老人"掐架。老人不爱掐架，一旦掐起来，锋芒里不失幽默，常令人忍俊不住。不过，有些小年轻的掐架却不敢恭维，污言秽语，没有一点技术含量，更谈不上幽默，比泼妇骂街还不如。时代变迁，天翻地覆，可是掐架的水平却不见长。也许我是九斤老夫，总觉得现在的年轻人很难达到我们当年掐架的"忘我"境界。生姜还是老的辣，昨天在网上看到老大哥胡言乱语，许是喝多了，忍不住上去抢白他一句，自以为他要跟我急了，没料他老兄还很服气，虚心接受我的意见，最后来一句："看来我得自己和自己掐了"，绝啊，那是什么境界！掐架要是掐到这种境界，才不愧待围观的众兄弟姐妹们。我年轻时更绝，掐架甚至能掐到改变了性别，其忘我热忱，可谓惊天地，泣鬼神。

我从小就特别爱抬杠，从中小学到大学，一直如此。小学阶段我是班上小不点儿，不大插得上嘴。可还是经过了大革命的战斗洗礼，特别爱到大街上听小将们大辩论，对辩论高手佩服得五体投地。

记得是上高中的时候，有一次学农，大家住在农场，晚上在寝室爆发了一场"人是不是动物"的大争论。我因为熟读马列，知道人是社会关系的总和，人会使用工具，这是人区别于动物的根本性特征，等等。觉得坚持人是动物的同学，脑子被灌水了，简直是弱智。我真理在握，义正词严，没想到对手也是一个争强好胜的主儿，就是死不认错。简直气坏了，于是一浪高过一浪，辩论了整整一夜。到快天亮的时候，我已经感觉气接不上来，也不知道自己在嚷些什么，更听不进对方在说什么。象坚守阵地一样，感觉一旦松懈，敌人就会乘虚而入。

第二天终于停止争论了，不是为了别的，而是我完全失声了，嗓子充血，疼痛难忍。同学建议我用盐水漱口，也不管用。整整一个礼拜，我成了哑巴。后来好不容易恢复发声了，谁也想不到，我竟然从男声变成了女声－不是那种悦耳动听的女声，而是比较接近迪斯尼动画片"白雪公主"里面那个老妖婆的声音。

我一辈子爱好音乐，听到高兴处，忍不住要随曲而歌, 抒发一下才痛快。很快发现，我的痛快是建立在别人的痛苦之上。还好，我比较自觉，自觉与卡拉OK保持距离，只是偶而在家里抒发，很感激太太和女儿，她们比较谅解，说看到你高兴就好。

如今，每当我打电话听到对方跟我说："Yes, Madam"，我就想起我当年的年轻好胜来。

记于2008年12月11日

勤工俭学

中学生暑假勤工俭学，当年就很时兴。开始是去集体供销社帮助卖梨子，每日一元工钱。老店员批评我太老实，说要看顾客，适当克扣才好。大体是一斤，给八两就不错了，还要看上去，秤杆高高的，让顾客高兴。这种小的坑蒙拐骗，在小本生意作为集体企业的供销社，是常态。发现大部分顾客很容易上当，只有少数较真的。露馅了，就假装不小心弄错了，陪笑脸补足摆平。这是在生活中学的第一课。回想起来，传授责令我们克扣斤两的老师傅也都是善良的人，但是做起这些事情却理所当然天经地义的样子。

后来做了两次农村粮站的"协助员"，一直做其中最没有技术的活，叫"代仓"，就是领着农民把过完磅的稻子带到指定仓库的指定位置。平时也帮忙仓库保管员倒腾仓库。粮食在仓库要定期来回倒腾，底下的翻上来，上面的翻下去，防止霉变。这个活比较累人。仓库里面空气污浊，尘土飞扬，灰雾蒙蒙的感觉。

出国以后的勤工俭学是在英国留学时候随大流，去餐馆打工，仍然是最没有技术含量的洗碗工作。周末从下午4点干到夜里一两点，工钱是15英镑，回到家散架了一般。凡是干过洗碗工的人，再也不会相信餐馆的卫生，特别是周末。有时候洗碗池子的水一个晚上不换，实在太脏了，就使劲往里面倒洗涤剂，满是泡沫，用干布一抹就光洁起来。不是我们偷懒，实在没有办法，脏碗象山一样涌来，根本没有换水的时间。有的餐馆有烘碗机，多了一道消毒工序，才相对比较卫生一些。

记于 2011年10月1日

喝啤酒的境界

我一辈子有两次喝啤酒，难以忘怀，好酒啊。第一次是1989年，去德国慕尼黑开会（见《朝华午拾：欧洲之行》）。大会把我们拉到一个郊区，参加一个室外的啤酒节狂欢。此前，我几乎不沾酒，可是慕尼黑的生啤酒，口感真好，也不醉人，一下子就迷上了。也很喜欢那个场景，啤酒杯子海大，那助酒的肉食，是烤熟的或整条或半条的猪啊羊啊，别提有多大气。切割肉食的用具，跟当年向鬼子头上砍去的大刀似的，你端过盘子去，一刀就是两斤肉下来。微醉微醺之间，总使我联想起梁山好汉大秤分金银，大碗吃酒肉的痛快。仲夏之夜，有身着艳丽繁缛的传统民族服装的白人姑娘在身边穿来穿去，笑容可掬。今夕何夕，不知身在何处。

第二次喝啤酒，是前几年到北海道，也是开会。跟日本老朋友到一个古色古香的啤酒屋，就着煮毛豆之类的特色小菜，品尝扎幌啤酒。扎幌两大宝：啤酒和大毛蟹。扎幌的黑生啤，干醇爽口。两大杯啤酒下肚，醉眼迷蒙地回到旅馆。脱衣上床，感觉人直往上飘，象刚从桑那浴出来一样，全身蒸腾，呼呼地向上冒气，仿佛要把身体里面所有杂质清理尽净。不可言传的感受，好像要飞起来，"飘飘乎如遗世独立，羽化而登仙"。

有朋友问：你们喝啤酒的, 倒底是怎么喝出快感的？我的回答是，岂止是快感，喝啤酒有利于世界和平。每次喝到微醉时，感觉所有人都是亲人。以微醉为度，飘飘欲仙是最佳状态，唐代大诗仙李太白大概就是在这个状态下写出他的《月下独酌》等千古名作的：

花间一壶酒，独酌无相亲。
举杯邀明月，对影成三人。
月既不解饮，影徒随我身。
暂伴月将影，行乐须及春。

记于2011年10月

From 朝华午拾. Original Chinese: 朝华之八: 朝华点滴.

After middle age, old memories drift through the mind like scattered fragments, yet they refuse to coalesce into a complete picture. In the ocean of memory, every wavelet carries sweetness and bitterness, surging and swirling without order.

My ten years of primary and secondary school coincided exactly with the ten years of the Cultural Revolution. Our studies were neglected, our foundations weak. Out of more than 200 students across four classes in our grade, only seven or eight managed to leap through the dragon gate of the college entrance exam (including junior colleges). The rest slowly found employment in local factories, replacing retired parents or being recruited. In terms of educational advancement, our generation was sacrificed to the times.

The aftershocks of the Great Revolution's factional fighting persisted all the way to our primary school graduation. As soon as classroom windows were fitted with glass, they would be shattered; in winter we had to cover them with plastic film or pasted newspaper to block the wind. The brightest period came during what was called the "bourgeois line resurgence" (our first and second years of junior high), when good students like us were particularly valued. As a subject representative, entrusted by teachers, I would stand at the podium during morning self-study sessions to lead the whole class through exercises — this cultivated a confidence in handling public occasions.

Among our middle school classmates was a small group of "aristocrats" — children of military families sent down with the 127th Military Preparedness Hospital. Four students from the 127th came to our class, all girls, each more beautiful than the last. These "modern sisters" from the army compound stood in sharp contrast to us local kids. They spoke standard Mandarin, were dazzlingly clever, and carried themselves with grace. One of them, a fair-skinned girl called Z, had a gentle disposition and could answer teachers' questions with eloquence and poise — the envy of everyone. When Z raised her hand to answer the teacher's question about Ye Ting's poem "The Door Through Which One Enters and Exits Is Tightly Locked," she spoke with assurance and concluded: "We revolutionaries must have our own integrity. We would rather rot in prison than beg to 'crawl out through the dog's hole.'" Z's performance earned the fervent praise of our Shanghai-born female teacher, who appointed her Chinese language subject representative.

I remember in the first semester of ninth grade attending a tearful testimony by Basang, a Tibetan former serf who had been "liberated" (and later became vice-chairman of the Tibetan Autonomous Region Revolutionary Committee), denouncing the evils of Tibet's slave system before liberation. He described torture methods like flaying people alive and gouging out eyeballs — it made our hair stand on end. That was the most successful class education lesson of those years. Every student's heart ached with shared grief and righteous fury. Even the most mischievous troublemakers in class were moved, united in common hatred.

That year, our "learning from the peasants" program sent us to a mountain village to live and eat with farmers for two weeks. At night, boys and girls sat together on floor mats playing cards; since it was cold, everyone shared the same quilt, which felt especially thrilling. At school there were strict boundaries between boys and girls, but away from campus these rules relaxed. The hazy mutual curiosity and attraction between teenage boys and girls found its fullest expression during that time.

Every morning we rose early and braved the cold to wash our faces by the river — the water was bone-piercingly icy, our hands could barely open. I remember racing a male classmate to cut rice in the fields. We cut faster and faster until my sickle sliced off the tip of my little finger — so much blood, and it took two or three months to slowly grow back new flesh. The mountain nights were pitch black, you couldn't see your hand in front of your face. We often got lost, and with dogs barking everywhere, there was a real sense of terror — yet also great excitement. When I return to China and see today's children, burdened with heavy backpacks, pushed to their limits for the college entrance exam, I naturally think of how we spent our days — learning from the peasants, the workers, and the army, always roaming outdoors. I remember one evening when our intern teacher led us to a hillside near the chemical fertilizer plant for a field exercise (learning from the army). Under a bright moon and scattered stars, we used pine branches as camouflage, ambushing the enemy, confusing the enemy — looking back, it all feels impossibly romantic. There was also the long-distance march to the former New Fourth Army site at Maolin; we walked an entire day, as if the road would never end. I was slight and frail, nearly collapsing from exhaustion. Yet the ecstasy when we finally arrived remains vivid to this day. Later, for "learning from the workers," we entered a walking-tractor factory, where I learned lathe work under a beautiful female master in work clothes — I was utterly captivated by her gallant poise.

In the second semester of ninth grade, the political climate veered further left. Over the next two years of high school, academic classes existed in name only; learning from the peasants, workers, and army consumed ever more of our time. During high school, everyone had to learn a "revolutionary skill." I chose to learn how to operate a walking tractor. Many classmates chose the acupuncture skills of the "barefoot doctor." Day after day they'd hold a needle and jab it into their own wrists. The quick learners soon dared to cover their wrists and heads with silver needles — a terrifying sight.

Those were the days of promoting revolutionary "newborn things." Reports appeared of PLA medical personnel using traditional Chinese acupuncture to cure deaf-mute patients — miracles of iron trees blooming and the mute speaking. The first words most of the mute spoke were invariably "Long live Chairman Mao." In the documentary films of the time, you could see the touching scenes of the formerly mute, tears streaming down their faces, thanking their beloved People's Liberation Army. Soon came more happy tidings: acupuncture anesthesia had been successfully tested, and compared to conventional anesthesia, it had the advantage of no side effects. Radio stations began broadcasting revolutionary songs praising the tiny silver needle, and for a time the needle was touted as something almost miraculous.

Barefoot doctors, sunflowers blooming, putting down roots across the vast land…
The thousand-year iron tree is about to bloom… the deaf-mute daughter is about to speak.
The east wind brings warmth, red flags reflect the rosy clouds — Chairman Mao has sent his dear PLA soldiers to my home.
A tiny silver needle in hand — spring thunder explodes in the silent world…
Grateful for Chairman Mao's boundless kindness.

Amid this fervor, one of my classmates happened to need an appendectomy and it was performed entirely under acupuncture anesthesia. I will never forget the horrific account he later gave me of his suffering. He still believed acupuncture anesthesia might work, explaining that it probably varied from person to person — it simply didn't work for him. He said that at first, the silver needles in his ears distracted him from the surgery, but soon the pain in his abdomen became unbearable. He howled like a pig or sheep being slaughtered through the entire procedure; no amount of heart-rending screaming made any difference. The story made my hair stand on end.

— Written on October 12, 2006

The North Wind Blows

An old friend online recommended I watch the sent-down youth drama The North Wind Blows. Fragments of memories from the Great Revolution era drifted back — hazy and disjointed, yet among them were scenes of startling clarity and sounds of transcendent beauty.

I was about seven, during the fiercest period of factional fighting between the "Criticism United Headquarters" and the "Sweep the Black Line" factions in our county town. Gunshots were heard nightly. The two factions held separate territories, each with its own strongholds. At its worst, machine guns and even mortars were deployed. Beyond the command headquarters, each organization had departments for logistics, security, medical care, arts and culture, internal liaison, and foreign affairs, each performing its designated function — it was like a communist utopia in miniature, where the masses' ingenuity found full expression.

The Criticism faction's headquarters was set up inside the building materials factory on the east side of town. My impression is of concrete pipes everywhere — perfect for children playing hide-and-seek. The faction's commander-in-chief was Uncle P, our neighbor — tall and imposing, in military uniform, with a pistol holstered on each hip, radiating an intimidating authority. They said he was an expert marksman. And then one night, something went wrong. The story goes that he was out on night patrol when a dark figure appeared ahead. Commander P shouted, "Password!" The figure stammered something unintelligible. The password was wrong, and the commander, thinking it was an enemy scout sneaking up, fired a single shot and dropped him. Only later was it discovered that it was one of their own — young, inexperienced, and inarticulate, he became a wrongful death in the blink of an eye.

As factional skirmishes grew more frequent, casualties mounted and often couldn't receive timely medical care. The county hospital was in the Sweep faction's territory on the west side of town. To strengthen the Criticism faction's medical capacity, Commander P summoned my parents to help establish a mobile field operating theater. He dispatched operatives to secretly infiltrate our home and relocate our entire family to the Criticism faction's headquarters, where we were treated with the utmost courtesy. From then on, we began our life within this revolutionary commune.

My father's memoir records this:

"One evening, a 'plainclothes female fighter' from the Criticism faction burst through our back door straight into my inner room. From the sole of her shoe she extracted a slip of paper — a handwritten order from Commander P, demanding I rush immediately to the headquarters to 'save a life.' It was, of course, a 'heavenly command.' Heaven's command could not be defied; saving a life brooked no delay; and self-preservation left no alternative. I set out at once. But our home was deep in Sweep faction territory — how could hostile forces tolerate such an act? My journey that night was an adventure in itself. Fortunately, the moment I stepped outside, a plainclothes escort detail was there to guard against ambush, and we reached our destination at top speed."

I remember how bitterly cold that winter was — I still shiver thinking about it. One day, a few of us children were playing outside until our hands and feet were swollen and red from the cold. Both our parents were too busy working to look after us. Eventually an older sister led us into a small room with a charcoal brazier. I couldn't wait to huddle close to the fire, stretching out my red, swollen hands and feet. I never imagined that frozen limbs, suddenly exposed to warmth, would produce an unbearable, bone-deep itching — as if ten thousand arrows were piercing the heart. Later, when I read Tracks in the Snowy Forest, I felt a deep resonance. The book explained that frostbitten hands and feet must never be warmed up immediately. First you must slowly massage them with snow, wait until the blood circulates and the fingers can move again, and only then gradually increase the temperature.

As New Year approached, the Revolutionary Propaganda Team under the Arts and Culture Department rehearsed The White-Haired Girl in the assembly hall — my favorite place to be. The propaganda team was full of talent. A full-scale production, scene by scene, polished to perfection — it was the cultural feast of the revolutionary era, an inexhaustible delight. The young man playing Dachun was a family acquaintance, a strikingly handsome fellow. In the corner of the stage, a sister with a voice like a lark provided vocal accompaniment. She wore a military uniform — valiant yet alluring — and held a grass-green megaphone shaped like an army trumpet, singing "The North Wind Blows, the Snowflakes Drift." This song was already the most artistic and humane gem of the revolutionary era, and that female voice — pure beyond purity, drifting out from the megaphone — was so transcendentally beautiful it moved the soul. In my young heart, I always believed that such heavenly music could not possibly be a human voice; it must be the magic of that wondrous megaphone. For a long time afterwards, I regarded the megaphone as a box that could turn stone into gold. The image of that uniformed girl holding the army megaphone, accompanied by the melody of the north wind and drifting snowflakes, settled deep in my consciousness — the ultimate aesthetic experience. The "North Wind Blows" in the ocean of my heart is perfect, irreplaceable. Guo Lanying's original recording, distinctive as it is, feels rustic by comparison, not light or ethereal enough. I've sought out and compared many versions; only Zhu Fengbo's delicate voice comes close to my childhood memory.

— Written on New Year's Day, 2010

朝华点滴（上）

人过中年以后，陈年往事象碎片一样徘徊心头，可就是拼接不出完整的图画。在记忆的海洋里，每一朵浪花伴随甜蜜咸涩，聚散无序，翻腾萦回。

我的中小学十年，恰好与文化革命十年重合。学业荒废，同学基础都很薄弱，结果同级四个班200多学生，总共高考跳龙门成功者（包括大专）不过7－8个，其余同学大多在本地顶职、招工慢慢就业。就升学而言，我们这代是时代的牺牲品。

大革命武斗的余震一直影响到我们小学毕业。教室一有玻璃就被打碎，冬天只好用薄膜或糊报纸挡风。最风光的时候是所谓"资产阶级路线回潮"那阵（初一、初二），我们学习好的特别吃香。作为科代表，受到老师委托，在早自习课上上讲台当小老师，带领全班做习题，培养了应对场合的自信。

中学同学中有一小批"贵族"，随军队备战医院（127医院）下放来的子女。我们班一共来了四名127同学，全是女生，一个赛一个靓丽。部队大院出来的"洋姐儿"，与我们本地孩子形成对比。她们讲普通话，冰雪聪明，举止优雅。其中一位皮肤白嫩的女生Z，性格温善，回答老师问题出口成章，让人羡慕。Z举手回答老师关于《叶挺：为人进出的门紧锁着》的提问时，侃侃而谈，最后说， 我们革命者应该有自己的骨气，宁愿牢底坐穿，也不能祈求"从狗的洞子爬出"。Z的表现获得了上海女老师的激赏，指派为语文科代表。

记得初三上学期听过藏族翻身农奴巴桑（后来成为藏族自治区革命委员会副主任）的血泪报告，控诉解放前西藏奴隶制度的罪恶。提到活剥人皮、挖眼珠等酷刑，听得毛骨悚然。 那是当年最成功阶级教育课了，全班同学无不心痛如绞，满腔仇恨。甚至平时最调皮捣蛋的学生也都被感动了，同仇敌忾。

那年学农去一个山村跟农民同吃同住两周。晚上男女同学一起围坐在地铺上打牌，因为天冷，大家盖同一个被子，觉得特别兴奋。在学校有男女界限，人在外就放松一些。少男少女蒙蒙胧胧的相互好奇和吸引，在学农时表现得最充分。

每天清晨起床，冒着寒冷去河边洗脸，水凉刺骨，手展不开。记得在田里跟一位男同学比赛割稻。越割越快，镰刀把小手指头割掉了，流了好多血，两三个月才慢慢长回新肉。山村的夜晚那个天黑，伸手不见五指。经常迷路，加上狗叫，真有恐怖感，又感觉很刺激。我回国探亲看现在孩子，背着沉重的书包，为高考超负荷运转，就自然想到我们当年学工学农学军，整天在外面野。记得有一天晚上，实习老师带领我们去化肥厂附近的山坡上搞野营（学军）。月明星稀，用松树枝打掩护，偷袭敌人，迷惑敌人，现在想起来还是充满了浪漫。还有长途拉练到茂林新四军旧址，走了一整天，好像路永远没有尽头。我比较体弱瘦小，几乎累垮。可是到达目的地时候的狂喜，至今历历在目。后来学工进了手扶拖拉机厂，跟一个很漂亮穿工装的女师傅学车工，被她的飒爽英姿完全迷住了。

初三下学期，形势进一步转左，后来高中两年，文化课形同虚设，学农、学工、学军占了更多的时间。高中阶段，每个人都要学一门革命的本事，我的选学项目是开手扶拖拉机。不少同学选的是学习"赤脚医生"的针灸技能。整天拿一跟针，在自己手腕上扎下去。学的快的很快就敢把银针插满自己的手腕和脑部，看上去很吓人。

那是提倡革命"新生"事物的时代，于是有解放军医务人员，运用中医针灸治疗聋哑病人，使铁树开花哑巴说话的奇迹报道。多数哑巴开口说的第一句总是"毛主席万岁"。当时的专题纪录片，也能看到哑巴说话以后，热泪盈眶，感谢亲人解放军的动人场面。紧接着，又传来喜讯，针灸麻醉试验成功，比较传统麻醉，具有无副作用等优点。电台开始播送歌颂小小银针的革命歌曲，一时间银针被吹得神乎其神。

赤脚医生向阳花, 广阔天地把根扎……
千年铁树要开花……聋哑女儿要说话。
东风送暖红旗映彩霞，毛主席派来亲人解放军到了我的家。
小小银针手中拿，无声世界春雷炸……
感谢毛主席的恩情大。

在这样的热潮下，我的一个同学赶上阑尾炎需要手术，完全采用针灸麻醉。我永远不能忘记他事后对我描述其痛苦的惨状。他还是相信针麻可能有效，解释说可能因人而异，对于他是无效的。他说，刚开始时候，耳朵上插上银针，分散了对手术的注意力，但很快腹部的疼痛变得不可忍受。他象被宰割的猪羊般吼叫了整个过程，撕心裂肺也无济于事（可能是中途换成传统麻醉等于宣告针灸麻醉失败，当时的医生可能担当不起这个罪名）。说得我毛骨悚然。

—— 记于2006年十月12日

北风那个吹

网上有老友推荐看知青电视剧《北风那个吹》，大革命时候的一些往事片段飘忽而来，断续朦胧之中，也有清晰明丽的场景和绝美动人的音响。

我大概七岁，是我们县城"批联部"和"扫黑线"两派武斗最激烈的时候，夜间常听到枪响。两派割据，各有自己的地盘和大本营。最严重的时候机关枪和迫击炮都用上了。组织内部除了司令部外，下面设有后勤、保卫、医疗、文艺、内联、外交等部门，各司其职，俨然是个共产社会大家庭，人民群众的才智得到充分发挥。

批派的大本营设在城东的建材厂里面。印象里面到处是水泥管道，很合适孩子躲猫猫用。批派总司令是邻居P叔叔，魁梧高大，着戎装，腰间左右别了两只手枪，威风逼人。据说他枪法很准，终于有一天晚上出事了。说是那天夜里出外巡视，前方闪现一个黑影，P司令喝到："口令！" 那小子支吾一声，口令不对，司令以为是敌方的探子摸过来，随手一枪，撂倒了对方。后来发现原来是自己人，年轻无经验，口齿不清，一不小心就做了冤死鬼。

当时两派常有武斗摩擦，死伤人渐多，常不能得到及时救护。县医院在城西扫派的地盘上，P司令为了加强批派的医疗力量，请我父母出山，帮助建立战时流动手术台。他派手下秘密潜入我家，把我们全家转移到批派大本营，礼遇有加，从此我们开始了革命大家庭里面的生活。

老爸的回忆录里对此有记载：

一天傍晚时分，"批"派一个"便衣女战士"从我家后门直冲我内室，从鞋底里抠出一张纸条，是该派P司令的手令，让我火速赶去大本营"救人"。当然是"天命"了。天命不可违抗，二则救人不得迟疑，再则保己也无二选，立马出家。可我家是"扫"派阵地，敌对双方，哪能包容此举。所以我的这一出诊，也是一次冒险。好在一出门，就有"便衣"一队护卫，以防堵截，火速抵达目的地。

记得那年冬天真冷啊，现在想起来还打寒颤。有一天我们几个孩子在外手脚都冻红肿了，爸爸妈妈都忙着工作，顾不上我们。后来是一个大姐姐把我们领到一间生了炭火盆的小屋子去。我迫不及待挨近火盆取暖，把红肿的手脚伸上去，没想到，冰冻的四肢乍一热和，从肉到皮，奇痒无比，万箭穿心。后来我看《林海雪原》，深有同感。里面说了，在冰天雪地冻伤的手脚切忌立即回暖，要先用雪漫漫搓揉，等冻僵的手脚血液循环，指头可以伸展了，然后才能慢慢增加温度。

新年快到了，文艺部下面的革命宣传队在礼堂彩排《白毛女》，是我最爱去的地方。宣传队能人很多，一台大戏从头到尾，一幕一幕，精益求精，是革命年代的文娱大餐，美不胜收。演大春的小伙子是我家熟人，很英俊漂亮的小伙子。舞台角落有一位百灵鸟一样的姐姐在伴唱，她穿着军装，英气又妩媚，手里拿着草绿色的象军喇叭一样的扬声器，清唱《北风那个吹，雪花那个飘》。这歌本来就是革命年代里最富有艺术性和人情味的极品，那女声纯而又纯，从喇叭飘出来，是那样超凡脱俗，打动人心。在我幼小的心灵里面，总以为这样的天籁非人声可为，许是那神奇的喇叭的魔力。那以后很久我一直把喇叭看成是点石成金的匣子。那位军衣少女手执军喇叭的形象，伴随着北风吹雪花飘的音乐声，积淀在心，成就美感体验的极至。我心海里的《北风吹》是最完美的，不可替代。郭兰英的原唱尽管很有特色，但显得土气，不够轻盈灵秀。寻觅对比过多种版本，就朱逢博的细腻嗓音，似乎与我儿时的记忆较为接近。

—— 记于2010年元旦

From 朝华午拾 (Morning Glory at Noon). Original Chinese: 朝华点滴 & 北风那个吹.

My mother's death in middle age is the eternal ache in my heart. On Mother's Day 2005, I built an "Online Memorial Hall" for her, a place to anchor a grief that only deepens with time.

（Mom and me，1965）

She died of stomach cancer at 49. Those were the darkest days of my life — days I still cannot bear to look back upon. Mom had been overworked her entire life, which may well have contributed to her illness. By the time it was discovered, the cancer had already reached its late stage. She held on for three months, and then she was gone. Mother toiled all her life. After Grandmother passed away, the care of three children and all the housework fell on her shoulders alone. At work, the pressure was no lighter — as head of obstetrics and gynecology at the county hospital, she threw herself into consultations, surgeries, and family-planning campaigns until she was utterly spent. Just before she died, she passed the examination to earn the title of Attending Physician — among her medical-school classmates, she was one of the first to attain that intermediate rank.

Parents should never have to leave their children too soon. Even though I was already 24 when she passed, I simply could not accept this brutal reality. I was in graduate school in Beijing at the time; I wept in secret for an entire year. Parents are a child's sky. As a boy, I dreaded talking about death and it felt impossibly distant. Mother's passing taught me in a single instant how fragile life truly is. The day I learned of her cancer diagnosis was the darkest day of all: desperate, helpless — as if heaven and earth had changed color.

Mom was born in the fourth lunar month of 1935, into a farming family in a village about three kilometers from the historic town of Sanhe in Anhui — a remote spot at the junction of Shucheng, Feixi, and Lujiang counties. I remember visiting her hometown twice as a child with my parents, and what an ordeal it was. It felt like crossing a thousand mountains and rivers: by bus, across the Yangtze by ferry, by train, then a small steamer across Chao Lake to Sanhe, and finally another six li on foot to the village. That last stretch of walking felt as if the road would never end. Mom once told me that she walked that very road every day going back and forth to secondary school.

In winter, crossing Chao Lake on the steamer — there was no heating at all, no shelter, just hours adrift in the open. The wind howled through the lake passage; the cold bit into your bones. To this day, thinking of it makes me shiver. Winters back then were brutally cold, regularly dropping to minus seven or eight degrees Celsius; with the wind chill, it felt like minus twenty or thirty.

But once we reached the old home for the New Year, everything came alive. Uncles and aunts laid out a full welcome, with every kind of delicacy: salt-cured pork, salt-cured duck, pig tongue, pig ears. I remember one morning when there were five-spice tea eggs — so fragrant that after eating one I simply could not stop. I polished off eight in one go. I must have been only seven or eight. I ate myself sick, and for two whole days I could not touch food; the very sight of it made me retch.

My maternal grandparents had ten children — six boys and four girls. Mom was the seventh child, but the eldest daughter. Though they lived deep in the countryside, Grandfather and Grandmother were remarkably open-minded: all the boys stayed home to farm or run small businesses, yet they sent every single girl to school — no small feat in that era.

Grandmother was a woman of the old school, a master of household management and farming, who ran the family with a steady hand. Life was harmonious and thriving. Grandfather, a man of modest education and a merchant in Sanhe, came home on weekends to direct the farm work. They were the archetype of a hardworking peasant family maintaining a frugal, modest comfort. Through careful planning and tight saving, Grandfather purchased a plot of land just before Liberation (1949). The whole family labored from sunrise to sunset in the fields, dreaming of a modestly prosperous life. Two years later, the land reform labeled them "landlords," and the entire family lived under that shadow for over thirty years, enduring widespread social discrimination.

As a child, Mom attended a village private school for a few years, taught by an elderly distant cousin in the Confucian classical tradition. In 1950, she gained admission to Sanhe Secondary School. She walked to school and back every day with her cousin, covering fourteen li round-trip through wind, rain, frost, and snow — leaving before dawn, returning after dark. Lunch was dry rations she carried. Life was one of poverty and deprivation. Fortunately, Grandmother could make and mend shoes, and there was just enough food at home to stave off hunger — every other desire was surrendered.

（Mom was 20 years old）

She had to drop out for a year due to poverty, struggling all the way, but in 1954 she finally graduated. That year, catastrophic flooding struck her hometown, turning it into a vast sea. It was Fifth Uncle who poled a small wooden boat to send Mom (his sister) to the provincial capital to sit for exams and attend school. She enrolled in Hefei Medical School — a specialized secondary program (only seven from her school were admitted, and Mom was the only girl). It was the pivotal step of her life: food and lodging, all free of charge. In September 1957, upon graduation, she was assigned to Nanling County Hospital — the first physician ever appointed there directly from medical school. At last, Mom had walked out of that remote village to become a state cadre with her own income, meager as it was; she could finally support her own parents.

Mom bore three of us, each two years apart. According to Father, when she was six months pregnant with my elder brother, she and Father were dispatched by the hospital on a mobile medical tour through the countryside. She waddled along the ridges between rice paddies, her belly heavy, treating peasants for every ailment. The grueling work, brutal conditions, and poor nutrition caused her to go into labor prematurely — my brother was born on those very fields, nearly three months early. They say when he was born, his eyes were shut tight and he made no cry at all. Were it not for the medical team being right there, he could never have survived under those conditions.

By the time Mom had me, the "Three Years of Hardship" had begun — famine everywhere, corpses on the roadsides. Grandfather, Grandmother, and an aunt all starved to death in the old home villages during that time. (Eldest Uncle also fled the famine-stricken village and vanished without a trace.) Mom was desperately weak after giving birth. The hospital leadership, taking pity, specially approved "half a pig" for the new mother — that half pig, dripping brine, weighed just over two jin.

（Family portrait，1978）

In her career, Mom was a force of nature. She performed every kind of obstetric and gynecological surgery with mastery. She was the first in the entire prefecture to pioneer extraperitoneal cesarean section. She could complete a tubal ligation in an average of ten minutes. On family-planning campaigns to rural villages, she routinely performed seventy to eighty ligations a day, without a single error. She visited every production brigade in the county, relieving countless women of the pain of disease. Her extraordinary medical skill drew a constant stream of patients. Later, as head of both clinical and administrative operations in OB/GYN, she displayed remarkable leadership. Her warmth, competence, and tireless dedication earned her the deep respect of her colleagues and widespread prestige. In 1974, she was one of only three in the entire county promoted to the rank of Physician (one of the other two was my father). In 1981, she was one of only seven in the county promoted to Attending Physician (again, Father was another — all technical title evaluations in China had been suspended before then). Three days before her death, Mom and her department were simultaneously awarded Provincial Advanced Individual and Advanced Collective honors for family-planning work.

Mom was plagued by illness her entire life — gallstones and filariasis flared up constantly, tormenting her. She underwent two operations for gallstones alone. In October 1983, she began experiencing heartburn and vomiting, but she assumed it was just another gallstone episode. With the year-end family-planning drive in full swing, there was no time for a checkup; she simply gritted her teeth through the pain and worked around the clock. The relentless pace finally broke her on January 4, 1984. After completing an emergency surgery to stop a rural woman's postpartum hemorrhage, Mom collapsed beside the operating table — the pain so severe she could no longer stand.

She went down and could never rise again. Tests revealed late-stage stomach cancer. After she was bedridden, we found a slip of paper in the pocket of her coat, on which she had recorded her workload during those agonizing months. Reading it, we could not hold back our tears. Suffering from a fatal disease, enduring searing pain, Mom had completed a volume of work that would stagger any healthy person. The slip recorded the following:

January to November 1983, inpatient OB/GYN caseload — Hospitalizations: 1,829. Deliveries: 692. Difficult deliveries: 243. Home visits: 38. Emergency rescues: 108. Deaths: 7. Abortions: 799. Late-term abortions: 1,164. Tubal ligations: 466. IUD insertions: 144. IUD removals: 140. (The above excludes ligations performed on trips to communes. The department had only three doctors at the time.)

On March 29, Mom's condition suddenly worsened, and she went into shock. Father sent an urgent telegram to me in Beijing — I had just returned from home — telling me to come back immediately. I caught an express train and arrived home on the afternoon of the 31st. After 48 hours in a coma, when Mom saw me, her eyes miraculously opened, and her pupils began to follow my movements. During that time, her blood pressure and urination even returned to normal. At 9:30 that evening, Mom finally stopped breathing. She had left us forever — left the home she loved, left the work she cherished.

Later, people said that Mom had held on for two extra days just to see me one last time. In truth, on March 29, she already sensed the end was near. She refused to sleep, saying over and over to the family: "I must not sleep. I must not sleep. Once I sleep, I won't wake up again. I won't see you again."

Those words proved prophetic. She had saved countless women from the brink of death, but she could not save herself.

Following her dying wish, we buried Mom beside her mother our Grandma. Mom never had a single day of ease — her entire life was poverty, overwork, and a battle against illness. She struggled so hard to raise us children, and when at last we were grown, she could no longer receive our filial devotion.

Mom suffered too much. She worked herself to death.

At her memorial service, the three of us children wrote this elegy for our mother:

Busy at work, busy at home — busy for thirty years. Hardship for Husband, hardship for children — hardship for a lifetime.

This was the true portrait of Mom's life.

Thirty years forward, a visit to the old home in 2005. The Nanling hospital compound was the place where Mom and Dad raised us, toiling day and night. The old neighbors were still there; the ginkgo tree by our door was still in full leaf. The old house we had lived in, through thirty years of wind and rain, still stood. How much heart and soul Mom poured into that home. I remember, when she was gravely ill in the hospital, she told me she didn't want to stay in the ward — she wanted to go home. That wish could never be fulfilled in her lifetime. Only on the day of her funeral did we escort Mom's urn to pause one last time at the old home, to comfort her spirit in heaven. The back room of the old house was my brother's and my childhood den — on winter mornings, Mom would come early to light a charcoal brazier and warm our clothes before we got up. The old well in the yard bore witness to Mom hauling water day after day; the little bridge recorded her toil washing clothes. Wandering through the old places, searching for Mom's footprints and our childhood memories, I found myself speechless, choked with tears.

Forever remembering my dear mother.

朝华午拾 · 第七章：永远怀念亲爱的妈妈

妈妈的中年早逝是我心头永远的痛。2005年母亲节，我为妈妈建立"网上纪念堂"，寄托日久弥深的哀思。

妈妈49岁患胃癌去世。这是我一辈子最伤心、不敢回首的日子。妈妈常年劳累过度，可能是诱发她癌症原因之一。发现时已经晚期，维持了三个月就不行了。妈妈一辈子操劳，外婆去世后，三个孩子，全部家务，都落在妈妈身上。工作上压力也不轻，担任县医院妇产科主任，出诊、手术、计划生育，把自己往死里累。去世前，还通过考试，获得主治医师职称，在她的医校同学中，是第一批获得中级职称的。

父母对于儿女，实在不能早走。尽管当年已经24岁了，还是不能接受这一残酷现实。我那时在北京上研究生，暗自哭了整整一年。父母是孩子的天。小时候很怕谈死，也觉得死亡很遥远。妈妈去世，一下子感受到生命的脆弱。听到妈妈癌症确诊消息的那一天，是最黑暗的一天：绝望无助，天地变色。

妈妈于一九三五年阴历四月出生于一个农民家庭，故乡离安徽著名古镇三河约三公里，是舒城、肥西、庐江三县交界处，较为偏僻。我小时候跟父母去三河老家探亲两次，可难哪。千山万水似的，乘汽车，过长江轮渡，转火车，再乘小轮穿过巢湖到三河镇，然后还要步行六里路到村子里。最后那步行，觉得路永远没有尽头。妈妈跟我说，她当年上中学就每天走这条路来回。

冬天在巢湖上坐小轮，完全没有取暖设施，无遮无挡地行驶大半天。湖面过堂风大，天寒地冻，那个冷冻彻骨，现在想起还打寒颤。那个年头冬天奇冷，经常零下7-8度，加上冷风，感觉零下几十度似的。

不过，到了老家过年就热闹了，舅舅姨姨全力款待，有各种美味：咸肉，咸鸭，猪舌条，猪耳朵。记得有一天早上有五香蛋，那个香，吃了还想吃，结果不能节制，一口气吃了8个。才7-8岁吧，真撑坏了。整整两天什么也不能吃，见食品就要吐。

外公外婆共有十个孩子，六男四女，母亲是老七，但是女孩中老大。外公外婆虽在偏僻农村生活，但思想开明，几个男孩都在家种田或做小生意，却把女孩全部送到学堂读书，在当时社会环境下，是十分不易的。

外婆是旧式家庭妇女，善于操持家务，熟悉农计，统率全家，安排日常生活，家庭和睦兴旺。外公为略具文化的士绅，在三河经商，周末回家支派农活，维持一个低水准的小康之家，是艰苦创业的农家典型。靠精打细算省吃俭用，外公在解放前夕买了一批土地。全家日出而作日落而息在田里耕种，梦想着过上小康生活。结果两年后办了个地主的成分，让整个家族成员三十多年生活在阴影中，倍受社会歧视。

妈妈小时候在本村上了几年私塾。私塾先生是位年长远房堂兄，以古文为主，是孔孟教学典型。1950年，妈妈考取了三河中学，与堂兄结伴走读上学，七里地远，风雨霜雪，早出晚归。经常是天亮前出发，天黑后回家，中午吃餐自带的干粮，过着衣食不全的困苦生活。好在外婆可以做鞋补纳，回家勉强充饥，其他一切奢求都舍去。中间贫困辍学一年，跌跌爬爬，终于，1954年毕业，家乡厄遇水灾，一片汪洋。是五舅撑着小木船，直送妹妹去省城考学和上学，省城合肥医校中专（妈妈所念的中校仅七人考出去，妈妈是唯一女生），迈出人生关键的一步。有吃有住，全部免费，捱至1957年9月，毕业分配到南陵县医院，妈妈是南陵县医院第一个由医校毕业分配来的医生。母亲终于从偏远的农村走出成为国家干部，有了自己的收入，虽然微薄但却能承担外公外婆的赡养。

妈妈共生我们兄妹三人，每个相隔两年。据老爸说，妈妈怀我哥六个月的时侯，和爸爸一起被单位派到乡镇农村巡回医疗，挺着大肚子在田埂上奔来奔去，为农民看病治病。由于过度劳累，条件太差和缺乏营养，母亲早产了。我哥提前近三个月，出生在田间。据说生下时，两眼紧闭，也不啼哭，如果不是在医疗队里，在那种条件下我哥是很难活过来的。到妈妈生我时，正逢"三年困难时期"，粮食匮乏，饿殍遍野。爷爷外公姑姑三人都是那个时候在老家活活饿死的（大舅也从农村老家逃荒走失，人间蒸发）。妈妈极度虚弱，领导开恩特批了"半头猪"给产妇，而那滴着盐水的半头猪总重二斤多。

在事业上，妈妈是个强者。她熟练地进行妇产科各项手术。妈妈率先在全地区首创腹膜外剖腹产术。妈妈替人结扎平均每例十分钟，去农村突击计划生育的时候，常常一天结扎七八十例，无一差错。母亲走遍了全县每个大队，为众多女性解除了疾病的痛苦。妈妈高超的医术使得求医者络绎不绝。妈妈后来担任妇产科业务和行政的领导，显示出很高的管理能力。妈妈的热情、干练和刻苦赢得了同事的尊敬，获得很高威望。七四年妈妈是全县首批晋升医师三人中的一个（三人中另一人是我老爸）。八一年妈妈又是全县首批晋升主治医师七人中的一个（七人中另一人也是我父亲，此前中国中断了所有技术职称评定工作）。临终前三天，妈妈与她科室同时获得省计划生育个人和集体先进的嘉奖。

妈妈疾病缠身，胆石症和丝虫病常常发作，折磨一生。仅胆石症就动过两次手术。八三年十月妈妈出现心口痛和呕吐，妈妈以为又是胆石病复发。因为年终计划生育突击工作繁忙，没有时间去检查，就忍着病痛，日以继夜。高强度工作终于使她在八四年元月四日病倒。在坚持完成一个农村妇女产后大出血急症手术后，母亲倒在手术台旁，剧烈疼痛让她无法站立。

妈妈倒下了，再也无法起床。经过检查，妈妈已到胃癌晚期。在她病倒后，我们从她外套口袋里找到一张纸条，上边记载看妈妈病痛这段时间的工作情况，看后不禁泪下。母亲拖着病身，忍着剧痛，完成了常人难以想像的工作。纸条记载如下：八三年一月至十一月妇产科住院部工作：住院1829人，生产692人，难产243人，出诊38次，抢救108次，死亡7人，人流799人，大月份人流1164人，结扎466人，上环144人，取环140人（以上不含到各公社计划生育结扎人数，妇产科当时仅有三个医生）。

妈妈三月二十九日病情加重，突然休克。爸爸急电刚刚返京的我速回，我乘特快三十一日下午回家。妈妈在昏迷四十八小时后，见到我时，眼睛奇迹地睁开了，眼珠也能随着我身影而转动，其间血压，泌尿均恢复正常。晚上九时三十分，妈妈终于停止了呼吸，永远离开了我们，离开了她留恋的这个家，离开了她热爱的工作。

后来有人说，妈妈为了等见上我一面，才多坚持了两天。其实在三月二十九日，妈妈己感觉不好，她坚持不睡觉，反复对家人说："我不能睡，我不能睡，一睡就不会再醒来了，就再也见不到你们了。"

这话果然验证了。她挽救过无数频临死亡的妇女，却不能挽救她自己。

根据妈妈生前遗愿，我们将妈妈安葬在外祖母身旁。妈妈为了我们，没有一天享受过，一生过着清贫劳累和与疾病作斗争的生活。好不容易把孩子拉扯大，她却再也享受不到我们的孝心。

妈妈太苦了，她是累死的。

我们子女三人在母亲追悼会上，为母亲写下了这段挽联：

在班上忙，在班下忙，忙了三十年 为爸爸苦，为子女苦，苦了一辈子

这是妈妈一生真实的写照。

时光倒流三十年，2005老家之行。南陵医院老家是妈妈爸爸辛苦养育我们长大的地方。老邻居仍在，家门口的白果树也依旧枝叶茂盛。我家当年居住的那间老屋，历经三十年风雨，伫立依旧。妈妈当年为这个家付出多少心血。还记得妈妈病重住院时跟我说，不想住病房，想早日回家，可这个愿望妈妈生前无法实现。直到送葬那天，我们才护送妈妈的骨灰盒最后一次在老家停留，安慰妈妈在天之灵。老家的后屋是我们兄弟当年的窝，妈妈冬天清早会过来生一盆火，把衣服烘热，好让我们起床。老家的老井记录了妈妈担水的操劳，老家的小桥刻印着妈妈洗衣的辛苦。重游旧地，寻找妈妈的足迹和我们儿时的记忆，竟无语凝噎。

永远怀念亲爱的妈妈！

记于2005年五月八日

From 朝华午拾 (Morning Glory at Noon). Original Chinese: 永远怀念亲爱的妈妈.

Morning Glory, Noon Blossom — Chapter 6

In 2007, while on my way back to visit my alma mater in Vancouver, I received word that my father had suffered a sudden major hemorrhage and was hospitalized for emergency surgery. I was on the other side of the world — helpless, unable to be at his bedside, unable to face the storm together with him. I was consumed by guilt.

My father was the pillar of our family, a man who had weathered every storm life threw at him with remarkable grace. He worked tirelessly his entire life, never truly retiring, sustained by his robust constitution and unshakeable optimism.

Dad always looked remarkably young for his age. I remember when I was starting university, he insisted on escorting me all the way to Anqing. We were the Class of '77, the first cohort admitted after the Cultural Revolution — society had accumulated nearly a decade of aspiring college entrants, so the incoming students spanned a wide age range, including the "old high school graduates" from before the turmoil, some 10+ years my senior. Dad accompanied me to the campus clinic for the new-student physical examination. The nurse pointed at Dad and said to me: "One at a time — wait until he's done, then it's your turn." She had mistaken Dad for a freshman, my peer LOL. That was how youthful and spirited he appeared.

Four years later when I graduated, Dad still couldn't rest easy and chose to come to Anqing to pick me up. He stayed on campus for a week, spending his idle hours playing Chinese chess with my "subordinate" — my lower bunkmate Lao Ding, who always called me his "superior." This bunkmate was from the pre-Cultural Revolution cohort, born in 1949, the same year as New China was born. Watching from the sidelines, Dad — who had graduated in the 1950s — truly seemed like one of our classmates, as if he were simply another member of our generation.

With Dad taking care of everything, I didn't have to worry about a thing. He helped pack my luggage, and after bidding farewell to our classmates and teachers one by one, we said goodbye to Anqing, crossing the Yangtze to catch a long-distance bus home. The ferry was delayed, and a quick calculation told us we were cutting it dangerously close. Miss this bus, and we'd have to return to Anqing for another day. Without a word, Dad hoisted every piece of luggage onto his shoulders the moment we stepped off the ferry and sprinted toward the bus station, half a mile away — charging ahead like a young man. And there I was, a strapping 21-year-old, empty-handed, gasping for breath, left far behind by Dad.

Dad never had the chance to attend a full medical college — he studied at a vocational medical school — yet the heights he reached over four decades of surgical practice are achievements few can rival. His secret? Boldness paired with meticulous care, relentless practice, and an unyielding devotion to study. I remember as children, whenever we came home to find our parents gone, we would always head to the operating room. Dad worked over ten hours a day, and at home he would immediately bury himself in medical texts — I rarely saw him rest. Over the years his reputation spread far and wide, and patients came seeking his care in an unending stream. Even when the relatives of the surgery department head at the next higher level of hospital needed an operation, they would come looking for Dad — only his "knife" gave them true peace of mind.

Doctors were respected, but they were also poor. In the Mao era, wages and prices remained frozen for decades. Dad earned 46 yuan a month, Mother 43 — a family income of 89 yuan supporting six people (including my maternal grandmother), enough for subsistence but little else. Life was hard, but we never thought of it that way. To be honest, we never felt hardship — even though at every meal, a household of that size would have just one or two small dishes to share. Everyone was poor, after all, and plenty of people couldn't even get enough rice to eat, surviving on gruel or dried sweet potato. Father's real dilemma was: where could he find the money to buy books? Those hefty medical tomes — Surgery, Orthopedics, and the like — were frightfully expensive, yet absolutely essential for his work. Who could have guessed that many of those books were purchased with blood Dad sold in secret? Three hundred cc of plasma at a time, at 30 yuan per draw — money that ordinarily would have taken six months to scrape together. One time Mom found out and was furious. Dad was so lean; she feared selling blood would ruin his health. But Dad would always say: the human body has its own hematopoietic mechanism — losing a little blood does no harm. And yet, what other option was there? No matter how refined his surgical skill, it couldn't be converted into cash. I remember that for a missed-meal allowance during surgery, the subsidy was just twenty cents — or sometimes they would provide a free bowl of shredded-pork noodle soup instead, which our parents couldn't bear to eat themselves and would bring home for us children.

Every era has its own way of living. Still, the thought of a celebrated physician, a man who pursued surgical excellence with unrelenting dedication, having no means to own medical books except by selling his own blood — such a thing, in all of history and across all nations, could probably only have happened under Mao. But I cannot say Father missed his era. Measured by professional fulfillment and spiritual satisfaction, that particular time and its particular circumstances gave Dad a rare canvas on which to work. A county-level hospital was like a blank sheet of paper, facing an endless stream of rural patients — people who had always lacked access to medical care and who possessed no financial means. Most such patients, if a county hospital could not treat them, would simply be left to live or die at heaven's mercy. Dad was one of the hospital's founders; he had full autonomy, and as much energy as he could muster translated directly into work — for decades, he performed several surgeries almost every day. I once knew a young rural doctor who, unable to find an outlet for his abilities, grew weary of medicine and switched to studying English education. Yet when the topic of Father's surgical skill came up, he was full of admiration: "Do you know? Your father is the most remarkable surgeon in the world. He can perform major operations that many provincial-level hospitals haven't even begun to offer." He explained some cases to me, which I didn't fully understand, but I knew in my heart that Dad was forever surpassing himself, climbing toward ever more complex surgeries. Later, when I asked Dad about it — which difficult operations he still wanted to attempt but couldn't — he said he had basically done everything within reach, but certain procedures, like microsurgery and limb reattachment, required equipment far beyond what a county hospital could provide. That, he could only regret.

Unlike the old bureaucratic establishments where "without money, don't bother entering," back then even impoverished farmers could afford surgery at the grassroots hospitals. As I recall, minor operations (like appendectomies) cost less than 10 yuan, mid-level operations (gastrectomies and the like) a few dozen yuan, and major procedures (heart, brain) just over a hundred. Of course, scraping together even that sum wasn't easy, but most families managed — by tightening their belts or selling the family pots and pans. The truly destitute could apply for assistance at the civil affairs bureau. This aspect of the pre-reform era deserves recognition. The fundamental reason for such low fees, naturally, was rock-bottom costs: doctors were state cadres on fixed salaries, with no additional expenditures.

Speaking of surgery — my own body bears one of Father's "masterpieces." When I was about ten years old, one morning shortly after breakfast, my stomach suddenly began hurting intensely. Dad came to examine me, pressed on my lower right abdomen, and asked if it hurt. "A lot," I said. He suddenly withdrew his hand, and a searing pain shot through me — tears streamed down my face. Father told me this was called "rebound tenderness," the classic sign of acute appendicitis, and said to prepare for surgery. Before noon he was helping me into the operating room. Having grown up watching operations, I knew an appendectomy was minor surgery and I wasn't afraid at all. But when it actually came time to get on the operating table, I absolutely tried to refuse. I mainly suspected a misdiagnosis — that I'd be cut open for nothing. I'd been perfectly fine that morning, had drunk half a bowl of congee, and I often had stomachaches anyway. This time, without any blood tests or other examinations — just a touch of my abdomen — and that was the diagnosis? The outcome, of course, proved my worries unfounded: the removed appendix was swollen like a little carrot, and because the surgery had been timely, it hadn't yet suppurated. Many surgeons refuse to operate on their own family members, fearing they'll be too tense. But Dad didn't trust anyone else and naturally performed the surgery himself, with Mom assisting at his side.

Normally, using conventional spinal or epidural anesthesia would have allowed a relaxed, unhurried procedure, but Dad, wanting to minimize post-operative reactions, insisted on using only local anesthesia. I could clearly perceive every step of the operation. Most appendectomy incisions are several inches long, but Dad made an opening barely an inch or two on my abdomen — so small that after closing, it required only two stitches, just enough to admit a single finger. What's more, unlike most incisions, Dad used a transverse cut, which added considerably to the surgical difficulty. Dad explained that a transverse cut follows the natural grain of the abdominal muscles, so the scar would be barely visible after healing (he was right — I've seen the scars from vertical incisions, which remain thick, red, and prominent long after healing, sitting there quite unsightly). The operation was a complete success: I went home the same day, and by the next day I could get out of bed and walk about gently. That said, there was a stretch during the surgery that truly hurt — I cried and wailed, which put enormous pressure on Dad. That was when he inserted his finger to try to capture the inflamed appendix. Hardly my fault — an inflamed appendix hurts even when you don't touch it. Fortunately, the pain didn't last long before Dad seized hold of it and quickly administered another dose of anesthetic. Later, Dad admitted that despite all his care, the incision point was slightly off, causing me more suffering than necessary. Being slightly off was no big deal; he could have simply enlarged the incision to compensate. But Dad insisted on the smallest possible opening, unwilling to leave me with a permanent large scar. I told this story to my daughter, and when she found my nearly invisible scar, she exclaimed: "Grandpa did a terrific job!" From then on, whenever her stomach hurt, she would cry out in alarm, suspecting appendicitis, and wouldn't rest until I checked that there was no "rebound tenderness." She even said that if she ever got appendicitis, she'd fly back to find her grandpa — she didn't trust American doctors: how many operations could they possibly have done? Grandpa had performed tens of thousands over his lifetime!

(Family Portrait, 1962)

Dad frequently made house calls to rural clinics and farmers' homes (as an obstetrics department head, Mom did the same). When an emergency demanded surgery, no matter the conditions, he would proceed. No electricity? Gather some flashlights, improvise, set up the operating table — saving the life came first. During the factional fighting of the Cultural Revolution in 1967, the two factions held their separate domains, with frequent clashes and occasional face-to-face combat. In the early days of street brawling, the weapons were still steel bars and cleavers; later they escalated to real firearms. The hospital was semi-paralyzed, located in territory controlled by the "Sweep Faction" — a radical mass organization calling itself the "Sweep the Black Line" group. Ideologically, Dad and Mom probably belonged to the moderate loyalist camp ("loyalist" meaning they opposed the purge of veteran cadres) and leaned toward the "Critique Faction" (the "Critique Alliance Group"), which had a loyalist tilt — though they took no part in its ideological or political activities. The Critique Faction's commander-in-chief had once been our neighbor, a strapping man. I remember that after assuming command, he wore a broad belt around his waist with a Mauser pistol holstered at his side — an image of martial splendor. It was this commander who quietly sent men to bring our entire family into the faction's headquarters; they urgently needed skilled medical hands to treat the wounded from the fighting. And so Dad set up a wartime surgical theatre — not unlike Dr. Norman Bethune's field hospital — and saved many lives.

In peacetime, the county hospital's white ambulance carried Dad, Mom, and our childhood to every corner of the county. When destinations were close, they would walk or bicycle to their patients. I remember when I was six or seven, our entire family moved to Hewan, a remote rural town, to support the village hospital for a year. Dad often bicycled out on night calls, sometimes taking me along. The sky was always so dark, and the route invariably passed through one or two cemeteries, the cold wind whistling overhead. Entering a village, we would hear dogs barking in waves. I would hide in Dad's arms on the front seat, often too frightened to open my eyes. After the treatment, beneath the dim glow of an oil lamp, the host would always cook two eggs in brown-sugar water and serve them steaming hot as a token of gratitude. Then, lighting the way with a flashlight, they would see us off — and I would be sound asleep long before we got home.

I was never very robust as a child, but at home I was sensible beyond my years — I would often volunteer to sweep the floor and wash the dishes. At school my grades were good, and I was the delight of my parents' hearts. At every major step of my life, from being sent down to the countryside to the oral examination for college entrance, from university registration to graduation and then graduate school interviews — until I was married and had a family of my own — Dad was always there, escorting and protecting me. Now that Dad had fallen ill, I was in a foreign land, unable even to bring him a cup of tea or water, unable to fulfill the most basic filial duties. Whenever I dwell on this, grief wells up from deep within.

But misfortune can turn into blessing. Dad's sudden illness led to early diagnosis and timely treatment, which was in his favor. What gives me comfort is that Dad received the best possible medical care, and most of the family was at his side looking after him. He recovered swiftly after the surgery, and the strength in his voice reassured everyone.

Dad is now semi-retired at home, still living modestly. He shows none of the signs of a man in his eighties — his life is orderly, his health robust, and he retains an eager curiosity for new things, handling a computer more adeptly than many young people. Beyond effortlessly consulting English-language medical literature, he has built up an English vocabulary over the years through extensive reading that rivals my own, even though I'm a "trained linguist." That his children have each found their own successful path is his greatest comfort. And the little stories of his grandchildren's growing up bring him abundant joy.

爸爸保重

朝华午拾 · 第六章

2007年我正在回访温哥华母校的路上，得知老爸突然大出血住院，行大手术。我远在天边，爱莫能助。无从床前伺候，共同面对风雨，深感愧疚。

父亲是我们全家的主心骨，大风大浪闯过来，人生很精彩。父亲操劳一辈子，一直退而不休，仗的就是身体好和心态好。

父亲比同龄人显得年轻很多。记得我上大学的时候，父亲不放心，一路送我到安庆。我们77级是文革后第一届大学生，社会上积压了近10年的高考大军，所以新生的岁数相差很大，包括一批被文革耽误的老三届高中生，比我年长10岁左右。父亲陪我到学校医务处做新生体检，护士指着我跟父亲说：一个一个来，等他检查完了，你再来。她把父亲当作新生了，可见父亲的年轻精神。

四年以后我毕业了，父亲还是不放心，来安庆接我，在学院住了一周，没事就跟我的"老下级"（我的下铺，因此总叫我"老上级"）下象棋。老下级是老三届，49年生人，与新中国同岁。从旁观看，50年代就毕业的父亲真地象我们同学一样，仿佛我们中的一员。

有父亲照顾，我什么都不操心。父亲帮助把行李打包，我们与同学老师一一道别，就跟安庆说再见了，过江去赶长途公共汽车回家。轮渡误点了，一算时间非常紧张，一旦错过这班车，就不得不回安庆又耽搁一天。父亲二话不说，下了轮渡，把大小行李扛上，冲也似地往一两里外的汽车站赶，跟个小伙子一样。可怜我21岁正当年，空着手却气喘吁吁，被父亲远远抛在后面。

爸爸没有机会进入医学院，上的是医专，可他行医四十年所取得的成就，达到的高度，是常人难以企及的。靠的是，胆大心细，勤于实践，刻苦钻研。记得我们小时候，回家不见父母，总是到手术室去找。爸爸每天工作十多个小时，回家也是一头扎到医书里，很少见他休息。多年下来，名震四方，求医者络绎不绝。甚至上一级医院外科主任的亲属需要手术，也来找爸爸"这把刀"才觉得放心。

医生受人尊敬，但却是清贫的。在毛泽东时代，工资和物价均几十年不动。爸爸46元，妈妈43元，家庭收入89元一月，维持一家六口（加上外祖母）温饱，难有积余。生活苦点，倒也无所谓。其实我们从来也没有觉得苦，尽管每餐饭，一大家人才有一两碟小菜。反正大家都苦，还有很多人吃不饱饭，只能喝粥、吃红薯干呢。爸爸的难题是，到哪里去攒买书的钱呢？那些大厚本的专业书籍《外科学》、《骨科学》等，定价不菲，却是工作必不可少的。谁能想到，许多医书是爸爸瞒着家人卖血换来的。一次300cc血浆，当时的价格30元，这可是平时半年也难攒下的钱啊。有一次，妈妈发现以后非常生气。爸爸很清瘦，担心他卖血损害了身体。可爸爸总是说，人有造血机制，失点血无碍。不过，除此之外，还有别的办法么？医术再精湛，也变不了钱。记得手术误餐，当时的补贴也才两角，或者供应一碗免费肉丝面（爸爸妈妈舍不得吃，常常带回家给我们孩子吃）。

一个时代，一种活法。可是，一个享有盛誉、对医术精益求精的医生非卖血不能拥有医书，这样的事古今中外，大概也只有毛时代了。不能说，爸爸没有赶上好时代，从事业的追求和精神的满足看，那个特定的时代特定的条件，给爸爸一个难得的施展空间。基层县医院象一张白纸，面对的是源源不断的一向缺医少药、经济能力匮乏的农村患者。多数这样的患者基层医院不能救治，也就只好自生自灭，听天由命了。爸爸是医院的开创者之一，有充分自主权，有多大精力就有多少工作，几十年来几乎每天都有几台手术。我当年认识一位农村青年医生，由于不能施展，而厌倦行医，转报英文师专，当谈起爸爸的医术，却充满钦佩："你知道么？你爸爸是世界上最了不起的医生。许多省立大医院尚未开展或普及的大手术，你爸爸也能做。"他给我讲解一些案例，我也不懂，但是心里明白，爸爸一直在超越自己，向越来越复杂的手术攀登。后来，跟爸爸谈起来，还有哪些疑难手术，想做而做不成。爸爸说，能做的差不多都做了，但是有些手术，比如显微外科，断肢再植等，对于器械要求太高，县医院没有这种条件，只好遗憾了。

跟"有理无钱莫进来"的衙门不同，当年在基层医院贫苦农民也能开得起刀：印象中小手术（阑尾摘除等）收费不到10元，中等手术（胃切除等）收费几十元，大手术（心脏、脑等）也不过百元。当然，凑足这钱也不容易，但是为看病节衣缩食，或砸锅卖铁，多数人还是想出了办法。对于特困户，可以到民政局申请补助。改开前时代的这一点，还是值得称颂的。收费低廉的根本原因，当然是成本底：医生是国家干部，拿固定工资，没有额外支出。

说到手术，我的身上也留有爸爸的"杰作"。我十岁左右，有一天早饭不久，突然肚子疼得厉害。爸爸过来检查，按住右小腹，问疼不疼，我说，"很疼"。他突然把手抽回，我一阵剧痛，眼泪都出来了。爸爸告诉我，这叫"反跳痛"，是急性阑尾炎的典型症状，说准备开刀，不到中午就扶我进了手术室。从小看惯了开刀，知道阑尾摘除是小手术，我一点也不怕。可真要上手术台了，我却怎么也不愿意。主要是怀疑弄错了，白挨刀了。早上还是好好的，喝了半碗粥，我平时也常闹肚子疼，这次，也没有验血或做其他检查，摸摸小腹，就这样确诊了？结果自然是我多虑，割下的阑尾肿得象棵小胡萝卜头，因为手术及时，还没有化脓。不少外科大夫不给自己亲人开刀，怕太紧张。可爸爸不放心别人，理所当然亲自动手，妈妈在旁做助手。本来，如果使用常规腰麻或硬膜外麻醉，也可从容不迫，但爸爸为了术后反应小，坚持只使用局部麻醉，我能清楚知道手术的每一个过程。多数同类手术刀口总有几寸，可爸爸只给我开了一条一两公分的小口子（关腹后只缝了两针），刚够伸进一个手指。这还不算，跟多数刀口不同，爸爸用的是横切，这更增添了手术难度。爸爸说，横切符合人的腹部的自然纹路，愈合后刀疤不显（确实如此，我见过其他竖切手术的刀痕，愈合后很久仍然粗粗红红地立在那儿，很难看）。这次手术很成功，我当天回家，第二天就可下床轻微走动。不过，手术中有一阵确实很疼，我大哭大叫，给爸爸增加了很大压力。那是爸爸伸进手指试图捞取发炎的阑尾时。也不怪，阑尾发炎，不碰它尚且疼痛得很呢。好在疼得时间不长，爸爸就逮住了它，赶紧补上一针麻醉。后来，爸爸说，尽管费了心思，下刀之处还是略偏了点，使我多受了一些苦。偏一点没关系，如果把刀口加大点，也好办，可爸爸坚持尽可能小的口子，不愿意让我落下一个永久的大疤痕。我把这个故事讲给女儿听，她找到我的几乎看不见了的刀口，惊叹："Grandpa did a terrific job!"。从此，她肚子一疼，就大叫，怀疑得了阑尾炎，非让我检查发现没有"反跳痛"才安心。还说，她要是得了阑尾炎，就飞回去找爷爷，可信不过美国的大夫：他们才开过几个刀，我爷爷一辈子开刀何止成千上万！

爸爸常常出诊到农村医院和农民家中（作为妇产科主任，妈妈也一样）。遇到急诊需要手术，不管什么条件，也要进行。没有电，就集中一些手电筒，因陋就简，搭起手术台，救命要紧。文革武斗那年（1967年），两派割据，常有摩擦，亦有短兵相接的时候：初期街头械斗，用的还是钢钎菜刀之类，后期可用上了真枪真炮。医院处于半瘫痪状态，并且地处"扫派"（叫"扫黑线"，一激进派群众组织）掌控辖区。爸爸妈妈思想上大概属于温和保皇派（"保皇"即反对揪斗老干部），倾向有保皇色彩的"批派"（叫"批联部"），但并不参与其意识形态和政治生活。批派的总司令曾是我家的邻居叔叔，身材魁伟。印象中担任司令以后，他腰扎宽皮带，挎盒子枪，好不英武威风。是总司令派人悄悄把我们全家请到这一派的大本营里，他们急需医疗好手救治武斗中的伤员。于是爸爸搭起战时手术台，就跟白求恩的战地医院似的，也救了不少人的命。

和平岁月，县医院那辆白色救护车，载着爸爸妈妈和我们的童年跑遍了全县每一个角落。如果路近，也步行或骑自行车出诊。记得我六七岁的时候，全家去偏远乡镇河湾，支援农村医院一年。爸爸晚上经常骑车出诊，有时也带着我。天总是那样黑，也总要经过一两个墓地，头顶冷风飕飕。进入村子，总有此起彼伏的狗吠声。我躲在车前座爸爸怀中，常常不敢睁开眼睛。看完病，在昏黄的油灯下，主人总要用红糖水煮两个鸡蛋，热气腾腾端上来，款待我们。然后，照着手电，送我们上路，而我不等到家，就已经睡熟了。

我从小身体不大好，小时候在家很懂事的样子，常主动要求扫地洗碗，在学校成绩也好，很讨爸爸妈妈的欢心和疼爱。直到结婚成家前，我生活的每一大步，从下乡插队到高考口试，从大学报到到毕业离校再到研究生面试，都有父亲陪同呵护。如今父亲病倒了，我却远在异国他乡，不能端茶递水，略尽孝道。每念及此，不由得悲从中来。

坏事变好事，父亲这次急病倒下，对病情的早期诊断和及时治疗有利。得以宽心的是，父亲得到了最好的医疗条件，家人也多在身边照顾。父亲术后恢复很快，说话很有底气，全家人都松了口气。

爸爸现在半退休在家，依旧清贫。一点不象80多岁的老人，生活有条不紊，身体健康，仍保持对新事物的好学之心，电脑玩得比许多年轻人还熟。除了熟练查阅英文专业资料外，长年博文强识，普通词汇量跟我这英语"科班"出身的也有一比。子女各自发展，是他最大的安慰。孙儿辈的成长花絮，更给他带来欢乐。

From 朝华午拾. Original Chinese: 爸爸保重.

Nearly half a century has passed since my grandmother left us, yet her gentle, kindly face still often comes to mind.

My parents, both doctors, were far too busy with their work. So when their first child was born, Grandmother came to help — and from that day forward, she looked after us three children for fifteen years, until the day she died. I'm told my elder brother was a restless infant. Grandma had to rock his cradle without a moment's pause, humming lullabies the whole time. If she nodded off for even a second and the rope to the cradle went slack, he would wail at the top of his lungs. She later said that child wore her out so thoroughly that she was still anxious when I arrived two years later. But to her surprise, I turned out to be a remarkably quiet baby — I never cried at all. The trouble with me was that I was pitifully frail, constantly falling ill. Every sickness brought vomiting, often with high fever. I had night blindness too, and worst of all, a rectal prolapse that made every trip to the toilet agonizing and messy. Grandma would have to carefully push the prolapse back in each time. She had given birth to ten children in her lifetime, more than half of whom had died young. Looking at me, she worried constantly that I wouldn't survive either. Fortunately, being born into a doctor's family meant I received prompt treatment whenever I fell ill, and with Grandma's devoted care, I slowly made it through my sickly childhood. A child blessed with a grandmother's care is a fortunate child. Grandma kept our home immaculate and orderly, with hot meals always ready. Our childhood was carefree, and our parents, freed from domestic worries, could pour themselves completely into their work, day and night.

Grandma was a woman of the old order — she had bound feet, had never been to school, spoke little, and possessed a gentle disposition. I never once saw her lose her temper. For over a decade, her life followed the same steady rhythm: she never left the house, diligent and unassuming, asking nothing of the world, and all our neighbors sang her praises. Every morning before dawn, Grandma would rise, wash, and dress herself with care — always neat and tidy as she began the day's work. Looking after the children, cooking, never a moment's rest. In her rare spare time, she would sit by the door and stitch shoe soles. She would paste together scraps of cloth, dry them in the sun, then sew them with endless stitches into firm, solid soles — every cloth shoe our whole family wore was made by her hands. After she passed, she left behind a large box of soles that we continued to wear for years, until eventually we began buying plastic-soled shoes instead.

Each month, my parents gave Grandma three yuan as pocket money for us children. She was tight-fisted with it — she had to make it last all three children to the end of the month. I remember I could coax two or three fen out of her each day, and I would often go to the street vendor to buy a small steaming hot sweet potato, then come home and share it with my little sister. I told this story to my daughter, and she loved it — she brings it up now and then with a laugh: "When you were my age, sweet potato was only two cents a piece, and you always asked Granny — that's my Great Granny — for two cents to buy one and share with my auntie GuGu, but never with my uncle DaBai."

I remember during the mass travel of the Cultural Revolution, my father and mother joined the tide and went to Shanghai and Hangzhou for over a week. When transportation broke down and they couldn't get home on time, Grandma was left alone with the three of us. Every day the loudspeakers in the street blared out chaotic news — it felt like the world was falling apart. In those days there was no way to get word of travelers' whereabouts, and the whole household waited with straining eyes. Grandma grew desperate and began to weep. When we children saw her crying, we all cried too — young and old alike, terrified of losing our anchor, weeping together in a heap. Even the neighbors wept with us.

The second year of the Cultural Revolution, because Grandma was classified as a "landlord" by origin, the hospital's Rebel faction ordered her to stand in the street every day, hanging a sign around her neck that read "Counter-Revolutionary Landlord Woman." Poor Grandma, trembling on her bound feet, forced to endure such humiliation. This left a deep wound on us children — we simply could not reconcile our kind, gentle grandma with the image of a hated landlord's wife. Fortunately, my parents sensed things were turning dangerous and quickly decided to send Grandma back to her home village to hide. They specially asked Uncle Xu, our family's most trusted friend and a three-generation "poor peasant", to escort her on the journey. When Uncle Xu returned, he told us that Grandma could not comprehend what was happening, and could not bear to leave the three grandchildren. Heartbroken and wronged, she wept the entire way. They traveled by bus, crossed a river by ferry, transferred to a train, then took a small steamer across Lake Chao — and finally had to walk ten li on foot to reach the village. That last walk took an entire day, and she nearly collapsed from exhaustion.

It was a blessing that Grandma was sent home when she was, because the situation soon deteriorated dramatically — armed factional fighting broke out. First, the young Red Guard factions — the "Criticize the Liaison Group" and the "Sweep Away the Black Line Group" — fought street battles with steel spikes and daggers. One clash took place right in front of our house. I remember we were terrified and fascinated at once. We children climbed up to the second story of one of the courtyard houses and watched through the street-facing window. I was timid; I only stole one glance — I saw the two sides facing off with steel pikes — then heard shouts of slogans and the sounds of combat. This was just the early phase of the armed struggle. Later, the two factions set up separate territories and began using real guns and cannons; we would often hear gunfire at night. Our whole family was secretly moved to the headquarters of the "Criticize the Liaison Group", and my parents became the core doctors at that faction's wartime hospital.

When the "Revolutionary Great Alliance" was formed and the factional fighting stopped, my mother brought Grandma back, and we resumed our daily life together. In the months Grandma had been gone, when we came home from school, the door was always locked. We wore keys around our necks and often had to go to the operating room to find our parents and wait until they finished surgery before we could go home. Only when Grandma returned did the house feel like a home again — life became settled and ordered.

Two photos capture this chapter in our family story. The first shows Grandma as I remember her — serene, dignified, in a traditional collar. The second is a family portrait from 1969: all of us, including Grandma and our young aunt, along with our dearest neighbors Mama He and Sister Xiaohui, gathered before the front door of our home.

I was thirteen when Grandmother developed oral cancer — a tumor the size of a goose egg swelled on her right cheek. When it first appeared, we children would often stroke it gently with our small hands, hoping it would slowly disappear. But the tumor only grew larger. Grandma herself said: "This is a poison tumor — I may not recover." In her final days, my uncle and cousin both came from the home village; it was my uncle who mainly tended her bedside. I heard Grandma murmur, "My children are all here now. It's time to go."

When Grandma died, the record said she was seventy-one, but her real age was probably sixty-nine. I remember she once told me she had added two years to her age, adopting my grandfather's age, as a way to remember him. My grandfather had died of starvation in the home village the year I was born, in 1960 — just like my paternal grandfather and my aunt on Dad's side, a victim of the Great Leap Forward. Grandmother never spoke of my grandfather's story, but you could see that she carried his memory with her, silently, in her heart, all those years.

— Written on September 22, 2007, on the eve of the Mid-Autumn Festival

外婆的回忆

我的外婆去世已经快半个世纪年了，可她老人家的慈祥音容仍时常浮现在眼前。

作为医生的父母工作太忙，所以第一个孩子一出生外婆就来帮忙，从此看顾我们三个孩子15年，直到她去世。据说我哥哥小时候不老实，外婆只好摇着摇篮，哼着催眠曲，不敢稍有懈怠，有时候一个瞌睡过去，摇篮牵绳的手一停，他便大哭大闹。外婆说，这孩子带得太辛苦，到两年后我出生的时候，她还后怕。没想到，我小时候乖极了，从不哭闹。就是可怜兮兮的，老害病，每病必吐，常伴有高烧。还有夜盲症，最要命的是脱肛的毛病，每次如厕十分痛苦，一片狼藉，外婆要小心翼翼把脱肛顶回去。外婆一辈子生养过10个儿女，夭折过半，看我这样子，老担心我活不长。还好，因为是医生家庭，有病能及时处理，加上外婆的悉心照看，我慢慢度过了病孱的童年。有外婆照顾的孩子是幸福的，外婆总是把家整理得井井有条，热饭热菜，我们的童年无忧无虑，父母也因此可以没日没夜全力扑在工作上。

外婆是旧式妇女，小脚，没念过书，少言寡语，性情温和，从来没见过她发脾气。外婆的生活十几年如一日，足不出户，刻苦本分，与世无争，街坊邻居无不夸赞。每天一大早，天还没亮，外婆就起床，开始梳洗，她总是把自己收拾得干干净净，开始一天的劳作。看孩子，做饭菜，一刻不停。稍有空闲，她就坐在门前纳鞋底。她把碎布条用浆糊黏上晒干，一针一线纳成结结实实的鞋底，我们全家大小的布鞋都是她老人家做的。一直到她去世，留下的一大箱鞋底，我们还穿了好几年，后来才开始买塑料底的成品鞋穿。

父母每个月给外婆三块钱，作为我们孩子的零用钱。外婆手很紧，因为她要保证这零用钱维持三个孩子到月底。记得每天可以从外婆那里讨来两三分钱，我常常到街头买来一个热腾腾的小红薯头，回家跟小妹分享。这个故事我跟女儿讲，她很爱听，不时拿出来说笑一番：when you were my age, sweet patato was only two cents a piece and you always asked Granny, that is my Great Granny, for two cents to buy one and share with my antie GuGu, but never with my uncle DaBai.

记得文革初期大串联的时候，爸爸妈妈也随大流去上海杭州串联了一个多星期，由于交通堵塞不能按时回家。外婆带我们三个孩子在家，每天听高音喇叭传出各种消息，给人兵荒马乱的感觉。当年通讯不便，行踪无从打听，一家大小望眼欲穿久等父母不回。外婆急了，开始垂泪，我们孩子看见外婆哭了，也都哭了，一家老小怕失去依靠而哭成一团，连邻居也陪着掉泪。

文革第二年，外婆由于地主成分，被医院造反派勒令每天挂"反革命地主婆子"的牌子站街示众。可怜外婆小脚，哆哆嗦嗦，却要受此羞辱。这对我们孩子刺激很大，我们无论如何也无法把慈祥的外婆跟可恶的地主婆联系起来。还好，父母感觉形势不对，很快决定送外婆回乡下老家躲避，特地请我们家的至交三代老贫农的徐叔叔一路护送。徐叔叔回来说，外婆无法理解发生的一切，又舍不得三个孙儿，委屈伤心，走一路哭一路。乘汽车，过轮渡，转火车，再乘小轮穿过巢湖，最后要步行10里才到老家。最后那步行，走了一整天，人几乎瘫软。

幸亏送外婆回了老家，后来的情势越来越遭，武斗开始了。先是两派小将（"批联部"和"扫黑线"）拿钢钎匕首在街头械斗。有一场械斗就在我家门前，还记得我们又害怕又好奇，几个孩子爬到院子里一家的二楼上，透过临街的窗户观战。我胆子小，只瞄了一眼，看见双方手拿钢钎对峙的样子，然后听到口号声和厮杀声。这还是武斗初期，后来双方割据，拿起了真枪真炮，常常夜里听到枪响。我们全家也被秘密转移到批联部的司令部去了，我父母因此成了批派战时医院的核心医生。

革命大联合的时候，武斗停止，妈妈把外婆接回来了，我们恢复了跟外婆朝夕相处的日子。外婆没来的时候，我们放学回家，家里总是锁着门，我们脖子上挂着钥匙，常常要到手术室去找父母，等父母手术完回家。外婆来了，家才象个家，生活安定而有秩序。

全家包括外婆和老姨，以及邻居至友何妈妈小卉姐在家门前合影，1969

我13岁那年，外婆患口腔癌，右腮长出鹅蛋大一个瘤子。记得瘤子刚起的时候，我们经常用小手抚摸，希望它慢慢消失。可是，那瘤子还是越长越大，外婆自己也说：这是个毒瘤子，怕好不了了。外婆临终前，舅舅和表哥都从老家赶来，最后几天主要是舅舅在床前伺候。我听外婆喃喃说，儿女都在身边，该走了。

外婆去世那年说是71岁，可实际年龄应该是69。我记得外婆生前跟我说过，她虚报了两岁，用的是外公的年龄，为的是做个纪念。外公在我出生的1960年，在老家饿死，跟我爷爷和姑姑一样成为大跃进的殉葬品。外婆虽然从来没有提过外公的故事，可以看出她一直默默在心中纪念着他。

记于2007年九月二十二日中秋节前夕

From 朝华午拾. Original Chinese: 《朝华之五：外婆的回忆》.