by Yunte Huang
A man named Ho Ho-ho had spent half of his life hoeing without ever bending his back. When he hoed, the hoe itself bounced around wildly; if it happened to bounce onto the weeds, then he cut the weeds, but if it happened to hit the seedlings, then the crop was damaged. After the founding of the training corps, the brigade’s Evaluation Committee wanted him to have some training in the corps. When he came, Coordinator Ch’en Ping-cheng, as usual, taught him the proper hoeing style. The problem was that this man—nicknamed “Ha-ha-ha”—was indolent by nature. After bending down a little for hoeing, he would immediately straighten his back again. Old Man Ch’en Ping-cheng had his ingenuity. Next day he brought a spare hoe from his own home and shortened it to a length of three feet, telling Ho, “Your habit of not bending down can only be cured with this short-handled hoe.” Once he had a new hoe, his problem was corrected. He had to bend his back when using this three-foot hoe; otherwise, he could not touch the ground. Later other teams heard of this new method; they all prepared a number of short-handled hoes for those not accustomed to bending their backs.
When the trainees became tired from style exercises, Coordinator Ch’en gave them a break. Eight or nine terraced paddy-fields below, Vice Coordinator Wang Hsin-ch’un taught his class the planting of seeds. During the break the two groups met; the two old men smoked tobacco and chatted; the trainees read their newspapers or had a good time together. When the two old men met, Ch’en would extend his hand for a handshake, and Wang would always try to avoid it. Though younger than Ch’en by more than ten years and friendly with Ch’en, Wang abhorred shaking Ch’en’s hand, because when Ch’en shook his hand, he felt as though he were being squeezed by pliers.
One day during the break Ch’en invited Wang for a smoke. Ch’en had a flint. Wang said, “How nice it would be to have a fire!” A new trainee, a high school student, quickly proceeded to look for twigs. But all he could find were two dry, two-inch-long persimmon twigs. Wang smiled and said, “You don’t have to look for firewood. Grandpa Ch’en has some.” Puzzled, the trainee looked around him but could not see any. Old Man Ch’en added, “Yes, I have some.” Leisurely he put down his flint; without looking he scratched the dirt around him for a while and, lo and behold, found two big handfuls of bark and twigs. Wang lit a match while Old Man Ch’en scratched around and got more wood, which he put on top of the pile. The trainee exclaimed in amazement, “This is very good,” and began to do likewise. Old Man Ch’en tried to stop him: “Wait a minute; don’t.” But it was too late. The young man’s middle finger had been pricked and he quickly withdrew his hand. Wang said, “Son, what kind of hands do you have? What type of hands does he have? His are like an iron rake; brambles or thorns—nothing could hurt them.”
While rubbing his middle finger, the student looked at Ch’en’s hands, which were different from those of ordinary people. The palms seemed to be square in shape, the fingers short, stubby, and bent; the backs and the palms of the hands were covered with calluses; and his round fingertips resembled half cocoons with nails attached to them. The hands looked like two small rakes made of tree branches. The student looked at the hands with contempt instead of admiration, as if he were saying, “How can you call them hands?”
The two old men sensed the young man’s scornful attitude. Ch’en ignored him. Looking proud, Ch’en picked up his pipe to smoke. Old Man Wang, after lighting his pipe, said to the young man, “Young fellow, don’t you slight his hands. Without them, the present training field would still remain uncultivated. This land belonged to landlord Wang Tzu-yü. According to old folks, these ten and more sections of land on top of the Big Millstone Mountain were left uncultivated since the third year of Emperor Kuang-hsü [1877] until the third year of Emperor Hsüan-t’ung [1910]. In those days neither his family nor mine had any land; he was a field hand working for Wang Tzu-yü, and I was herd boy. Later he came here to cultivate the land; after I grew up, I was elevated from herd boy to field hand and followed him to plant rice seeds in the marsh. All these fields were cultivated by him and our present brigade leader, digging them hoe by hoe and building dike after dike. Without his hands, this whole area would still be wasteland.”
Even though the student was a little sorry that he had despised Ch’en’s hands, he was unwilling to acknowledge his mistake openly. Instead, he said in a mocking tone, “No wonder we are such slow learners; it is all because we don’t have his hands.”
In a serious voice, Ch’en lectured the young man, “We want your hands to learn to work like mine, not to be like mine. If I wasn’t the first one to dig these fields for planting, my hands wouldn’t be like this. Now, folks of the older generation have already plowed the land with their hands; soon everything will be mechanized, and your hands won’t have to become like mine.”
Even though Old Man Ch’en did not wish others to have hands like his, he, nonetheless, was proud of them. His hands were not only firm and tough but also dexterous. He loved weaving and frequently wove thorn vines into all types of farming tools and sometimes made children’s toys out of stalks of sorghum. When he made tools out of vines, he did not have to use an oxhorn wedge in splitting them. He divided a vine into three and used his index finger as the splitter—chi, chi, chi—the vine was split, and his hand was not even scratched. Yet he also did work of a very delicate nature. No one would guess that it was done by the same hands. The katydid cages that he made out of sorghum stalks featured a door, windows, upstairs and downstairs rooms, and on the two-inch-square windows he made many decorative patterns from different angles, with holes so tiny that even bees would have difficulty crawling through them.
After the periods of land reform, mutual assistance teams, and cooperatives, communes were established. Old Man Ch’en Ping-cheng’s family income increased. In the winter of 1959, his children and grandchildren bought him a pair of knitted gloves to protect his hands. Upon receiving the gift, he said, “My hands have never enjoyed such luxuries before.” As he tried them on, he found the palm not big enough, the fingers too tight and long. He barely drew them on before he stretched the palm into a square, stuffed the lower part of the fingers full, and left the upper part of the fingers empty. His son Ch’en Man-hung said, “After a while, they will fit you nicely.” He put them on, opened and closed his hands a couple of times, then took them off and gave them to his daughter-in-law. “Please keep them for me.”
“Dad, please wear them. Don’t your hands get cold when you work in the field?”
“We are building a storage shed in the gulch and it’s not convenient to move stones with them on.” As soon as he said this, he left his gloves and walked away. Not long afterward, the work at the gulch was completed, but other work followed—cutting hay, cleaning sheep pens, storing turnips for winter, and thrashing corn, none of which went well with the use of gloves, and he soon forgot he had them.
One day the White Cloud Ridge held a goods exchange fair. His daughter-in-law said to him, “Now they don’t really need you to teach them these odd skills, why don’t you take the day off and visit the fair?” The old man agreed. He changed into his new cotton-padded jacket and tied a new sash around his waist. She then said, “This time you must wear your new gloves,” and brought him his gloves. He drew them on and left.
The Big Millstone Mountain was a small village and had no consumer co-op. As the neighbors heard he was going to the White Cloud Ridge and saw him walking down the street in his new jacket and gloves, they asked him to buy things for them. One family wanted three ounces of oil; another family wanted two catties of salt. All those purchases would be more than his hands could carry, so he borrowed a basket from a neighbor. When he reached the White Cloud Ridge, he walked past half a street block and arrived at the consumer’s co-op and purchased what he had been asked to buy. Then he walked to the commune and saw a carload of pitchforks being unloaded by a salesman. For two years new pitchforks had not been available in the area, and what the different brigades had was not enough to go around. He f
elt he could not miss the opportunity. Having no money, he remembered that his son, who was attending a meeting at the commune, might have some. So he went and told his son about the pitchforks. Man-hung said, “Yes, by all means. They are very precious. Go buy them quickly,” and gave him fifty dollars. With the money he went to the mountain-goods section and looked over the pitchforks. Fastidious with tools, he could not bear to see any blemish on them. Removing his gloves and tucking them inside his sash, he picked up one pitchfork, put it on the floor to see if its three prongs were even and strong, and whether its head and handle were straight. Before he finished looking at one, more than ten people had gathered, everyone holding and examining a pitchfork. In no time, many more people came; even the brigade leader, who was conducting a meeting at the commune, temporarily halted the meeting to come over to buy some. No one was as fastidious as the old man; they merely asked the price and paid. Old man Ch’en Ping-cheng saw the situation getting out of hand. Forgetting his high standards, he chose five pitchforks at random, and the rest were grabbed by others. He paid, tied the pitchforks together, put them on his shoulder, carried his basket, and jostled his way out of the congested market section. With his hands full, he had no interest in wandering around the other half of the street block and went home by the same road he had taken.
Once he was outside the White Cloud Ridge village, the congestion was gone, and the road was much wider. Then he felt for his gloves. He could only find one. He put down his basket, the pitchforks, loosened his waist sash, but he could not find the other glove. He knew he must have lost it at the market. He thought, “All right, so be it. I don’t use the gloves much anyway.” He tied the sash back around his waist, carried the pitchforks on his shoulder with one hand and his basket with the other, and walked toward home. After he had taken a few steps he thought, “The kids bought them especially for me. Now that one glove is lost, and if I don’t go back to look for it, I am not being nice to them.” Turning back, he returned to the fair at the White Cloud Ridge. Fortunately, the salesman had found his glove and kept it on the counter. He returned it to him.
Some time later, Old Man Ch’en Ping-cheng was selected as the model worker of the year by the Evaluation Committee, and he had to attend the Convention of Model Workers at the county seat. It was another opportunity for him to wear his gloves. Besides his new cotton-padded jacket and his new sash, he wore his gloves.
The Big Millstone Mountain was about forty li from the county seat. Winter days are short, so Ch’en, after breakfast, left home and reached his destination at dusk. It was the registration day. Once in town, he registered for the convention, received his attendance permit, and started looking for a place to stay. He had not been in town for more than six months, and it had changed—the streets had been widened, the roads were smooth, the dilapidated place where he had stayed while attending the meetings before was replaced by rows of newly built brick and tile houses. It was dark when he entered the hostel. Rows of rooms in the rear section by the passageway were lit, indicating their occupancy; some of the rooms on the first three rows were lit also. He went to the reception desk, registered, and the receptionist took him to Room 5 of West Row Two. When he reached West Row Two, he saw that the only light came from Room 6, while the rest of the rooms were dark. He stepped on some objects, some of which were hard and others soft; he had no idea what they were. The receptionist told him, “Be careful. This row of rooms was just completed, no more than a week ago, and there are still a few things here and there. Walk on this side; the other side is a lime pit. Walk by the wall; there’s some loose lumber around.” As they got to Room 5, the receptionist snapped on the light before letting him into the room. What came into view were a clean room, a good fire in the fireplace, a table by the window, two chairs, a stool, two beds on each side of the room, an unpainted door and windows, and recently whitewashed walls. The walls smelled damp as they were heated by the fire. Looking at the beds, he asked, “Four in each room?” The receptionist replied, “Yes.”
“Will you have all the rooms occupied during the convention?”
“Almost. Some participants from far places have not yet arrived. Take a little rest. Let me bring you some water to freshen you up.” A while later the receptionist brought in the water. The old man washed his face, and people streamed in steadily, occupying all the rooms on West Row Two. Besides the old man, Room 5 had three young men. The four of them introduced themselves to one another.
The convention lasted for three and a half days. The old man either listened to reports or prepared to make his own; like everyone else, he was kept busy until the morning of the fourth day, when the county Party chief made a summary report. In the afternoon those who lived nearby went home; those who lived some distance away had to stay one more night. Ch’en’s home was forty li away—neither too far nor too near. A young man could probably cover the distance and reach home shortly after dusk. Since he was old, he did not want to walk in the dark and planned to spend an extra half day in town.
After lunch those who would stay the night all wanted to take a walk around town. The old man returned to West Row Two, Room 5, where his three roommates and another young man from Room 4 were playing poker. He said, “Don’t you want to look around town?” One young man replied, “Grandpa, you just go ahead. We’ll go later.” The old man tied the sash around his waist, put on his gloves, and left. Since the courtyard was partially blocked by two big logs, he had to walk close by the wall of Room 3 after he passed the door of Room 4. He thought, “If only I could roll those logs aside, but to where?” Squatting by the door of Room 4, he sized up the situation, concluding that it would be best to roll the logs southward to face the lime pit. Once he made up his mind, he took off his gloves, put them on the steps, and proceeded to roll one of the logs. Cut off on both ends, this one log’s middle section was unshapely, thick, short, bent, and flat. It was not easy to roll at all. It took him considerable strength to prop it up, but it turned over only once and was flat on the ground again. Seeking help, he first knocked on the door of Room 4, but no one answered. So he returned to Room 5 and said to the young people, “Comrades, would you please help me move the logs in the courtyard so people can walk more easily?”
“Surely, I tried to do that yesterday, but the logs won’t budge,’’ a young man replied, putting down his cards. The other three young men got up and stepped outside. The old man took off his new cotton-padded jacket, left it on his bed, and stepped out of the room.
The old man helped them move the logs. One young man said to him, “You just rest; let us do the work.” The four young men took all the room around one short log. Unable to lay his hands on that one, he started to move the other log. After they had moved the short log, they saw him struggling with the other one. One young man stopped him. “Grandpa, please don’t. We can do it.” A second young man helped the first one lift it up. This log was a little longer than the first, and one end was thicker than the other. Though the person holding the thin end had no trouble lifting it, the man supporting the thick end did, murmuring continuously, “No, no.” Then he let go. The young man at the other end was also about to drop the log when the old man said, “Let me do it.” Immediately he bent down. Using his hands to support the log, and with his legs apart as if he were riding on a horse, he stiffened his shoulders and lifted it up. When the first young man saw the second one sticking up his thumb in admiration of the old man, he joined his friend, saying, “Grandpa, you are really marvelous. But you are an old man. Let us do it.”
A receptionist carrying a kettle of hot water came by. When he saw what went on, he hurriedly said, “Thank you all. Let us do it.”
“It’s nothing.”
“Before the convention started, the only cleanup work remaining was the courtyards of the first three rows of rooms. During the convention we had no time. We’re waiting for tomorrow morning to start cleaning up when all the guests will have moved out. The few of us can finish the work in just a co
uple of days.” Old Man Ch’en Ping-cheng said, “Why must you wait until we leave? The convention has ended. Isn’t now a good time to help you clean up?”
“No, no, that would be too much trouble to impose on you all.” Old Man Ch’en and the young people all said that they didn’t mind, and comrades from other rooms, who had not left for town, all came out of their rooms saying that they too would like to help in the cleanup. Seeing this, the receptionist hurried to consult the manager. Even before the receptionist returned, everyone looked for cleanup tools. Since the first two rows had not been thoroughly cleaned up, the tools were piled up in the courtyards between the west-east rows. They found shovels, brooms, open baskets, and poles, and they immediately started to work. Old Man Ch’en wanted to haul the baskets for them, but everyone, upon seeing his white beard, insisted that he not do that type of heavy work. So he could only use a broom to sweep the courtyard along with the others. Model workers were truly model workers. When the people from the first three rows of rooms saw that the people on West Row Two were busy cleaning up, they immediately joined in the operation. In a short while, the receptionist and the manager came back. The manager advised everyone not to bother with the work; however, since he could not convince them, he called every staff member, including his assistant, the accountant, and the receptionists, to join in the task.
Everyone used shovels to remove leftover bricks or tiles, bark, wood shavings, and other miscellaneous items; Old Man Ch’en followed and swept after them. He started from the southwest corner of the courtyard in West Row Two and swept northward. When he reached the window of Room 6, he saw that there were mud cakes and wood shavings on the windowsill; he reached for the dirt with his broom. Because the windowsill was rather small, the broom was less than efficient; he put down his broom and brushed off the dirt with his ironlike hands. Then, looking toward the east, he saw every windowsill was similarly dirty. He started from Room 6 to Room 5, then to Room 4, and cleaned every windowsill before he returned to the west side to clean the courtyards.