The father and son were shameless to the max, even talking about being a “father-and-son team in battle.” In those years, the household was truly chaotic.
Lu Liu listened, his eyes bright.
He must have missed them terribly, imagining what it would have been like if they had met as children.
He pondered for several days, and when he finally put pen to paper, only a few strokes appeared.
His mother and Shun-ge both said Li Feng didn’t enjoy playing with children, not even Er Tian. If Er Tian went to play with other kids and got bullied, Li Feng would beat him again. He considered Er Tian weak—“A boy crying all the time, not even fit to be thrown out with the dogs.”
As a child, Lu Liu had been beaten for scolding Er Tian. Always face down on the long bench, struck on the rear with bamboo strips, he never cried, no matter how painful.
Lu Liu could bear pain too.
Having been beaten before, he knew crying was useless.
Suddenly, he was no longer afraid of childbirth. Now that it was inevitable, fear would only make matters worse.
He wrote to Li Feng: if we had met as children, you certainly wouldn’t have wanted to play with me. I wouldn’t have cried when beaten, though I did at home. You didn’t like kids, and I was five years younger than you. When you were thirteen, I was eight. When you were eight, I was three.
Three years old…
Lu Liu laughed, adding at the end: “I’ll smear snot and tears all over you!”
He still found sleeping uncomfortable, the summer heat making it hard to cling to a blanket. Shun-ge had brought him a large pillow made from bamboo, long and cylindrical, flattened in the middle. Lying on his side, he could rest his belly. They had added a thin coat in the middle to make it just right.
He tried it and felt much more comfortable, though nothing could compare to a real person.
Lying on the kang, he remembered their earlier conversation—once summer got hot, he wouldn’t be able to hold Li Feng anymore; they would sleep on opposite sides.
He no longer felt cold, and didn’t need to cling to Li Feng at night.
He wondered if Li Feng would be hot, if he wanted to hold him.
The long bamboo pillow was cool, suitable for summer, but narrow and firm.
Lu Liu turned and tossed, eventually falling asleep. The next day, he wrote down his impressions of sleep: “I still prefer sleeping with you.”
The wheat in the fields had turned golden; the old farmers awaited the harvest.
They observed the clouds to estimate the best days to reap.
If there were no continuous heavy rains in the coming days, they would leave the wheat a few extra days in the field, gaining a few hundred jin per household.
During harvest, villagers gathered at the new settlement to help one another.
Lu Liu hadn’t gone out for a long time and wanted some fresh air. Shun-ge accompanied him to the new village.
That day, Lu Liu ate at Er Tian’s home.
Er Tian had grown quiet. He had once gone to Shangxi Village and wreaked havoc, chopping anything he could, wielding two axes recklessly, almost injuring his elder brother-in-law. Since then, the Wang family disowned them; Wang Dongmei lost her natal support.
In their household, Er Tian called the shots. Wang Dongmei often tried to assert control, but Er Tian tied her to a cart and returned her to the Wang family.
She was heavily pregnant, crying all the way, and had to walk far on her own.
This time, when they met, there was nothing to say. The house felt dead and lifeless.
Lu Liu barely ate at lunch.
The new village was close to the farmland; on the way back, they could see people in the fields.
On the ridges, many wore straw hats, holding sickles, sitting in small groups. Some chatted, others watched the sky. They waited for both sun and rain.
Lu Liu had waited like this before.
At fifteen, with some strength, he had gone with his father to help harvest wheat. It was his first time harvesting; their small plot meant he usually didn’t get heavy work.
The sky that year had been ominous. Early forecasts promised sun; the village elders said it would be clear, so they waited calmly.
Morning came, watching the sun; by noon, dark clouds loomed.
The memory remained vivid—everyone immediately dropped their bowls, grabbed sickles, and ran to the fields, young and old alike.
Thunder roared as many cried while cutting wheat. Some lacked strength, kneeling and begging heaven not to rain.
They barely managed to harvest in time.
That day proved a false alarm.
The wind blew the storm clouds away, either into the mountains or beyond.
Their long struggle ended in a bountiful harvest.
Lu Liu ran his hands over the wheat stalks.
A breeze rolled through, carrying the familiar, satisfying scent of ripe grain.
He looked up; sunlight blazed, skies cloudless. A rare, perfect day.
He called Shun-ge to return home with him.
At home, he wrote a letter.
He described his experience harvesting and told Li Feng how much he had come to love writing letters. Being able to read and write made him feel blessed—memorable people and events would not be forgotten; he could record them to revisit later.
He had chosen a nickname for the second child: “Xiao Mai” (Little Wheat).
Wheat stalks and young grain were common names here, as were Qingmai, Xiao He, Mai Huang, and Mai Hua. Little Wheat was rarer—like calling out to the crops themselves.
Lu Liu liked the idea of naming children after the land. With the wheat turning golden, he hoped the season would bring good fortune.
At the end of the letter, he wanted to draw a stalk of wheat.
But he couldn’t write properly yet, let alone draw.
The result was crooked and messy. Embarrassed, he drew a series of circles over it, pretending these were characters he couldn’t write, leaving it for Da Feng to guess.
The meaning he wanted to convey would be clear in the end.
After Lu Yang left for the prefecture, the household atmosphere turned somber.
Xie Yan kept to his post-move schedule, leaving early and returning late.
Both he and his mother had become more outgoing, talking more and having more topics, but somehow, their conversations would often fall silent.
Xie Yan was clever; he knew why. Lu Yang never let a topic drop. Whoever spoke, whatever was said, he would respond warmly, whether interested or not, always ending with a question so the conversation continued, keeping the gathering lively.
Lu Yang, with his assertive nature, sometimes bullied Xie Yan, then softened, holding him and asking him to bear with it. If Xie Yan disliked anything, he could speak up, and Lu Yang would change it.
Xie Yan had never complained. Unknown to Lu Yang, Xie Yan’s heart was gentle. That fiery temperament housed a soft and broad heart. He made decisions for the household while caring for everyone.
Beyond daily routines, their home had warmth and life, feeling truly like a home.
June 21—Xie Yan’s birthday.
That morning, Zhao Peilan made him longevity noodles and steamed birthday buns.
Xie Yan had few friends; in past years, birthdays were quiet, just a bowl of noodles with two eggs. During mourning periods, he hadn’t been in the mood for celebrations.
This year was a bit livelier, though still just the two of them.
After eating, he brought some buns to the private school to share with Wu Pingzhi, spreading the joy.
Wu Pingzhi had prepared a birthday gift—a pair of mandarin duck clasps.
Xie Yan had initially thought to gift a set of scholar’s tools, but the clasps better suited his preferences, so he chose them instead.
