Volume One, Chapter 1: The Spiked Vat

“Carrots, standing straight,
Green chives, plump with water,
A family eating together, smiles all around...
Seven li, eight li, fifteen li,
The barrel-mender rides his black donkey,
Arrives at Zhang Jia Zhuang’s freshly tilled fields,
Who knows if he's eating now, or just standing there?
Name yourself, I am the barrel-mender, my mother bore three brothers—
The eldest is a furrier, the second learned copper-smithing,
And only I, the youngest, was born eccentric—
Fond of mending broken jars and cracked pots.
Today the weather is bright and warm,
I gather my little tools, my hammer, four tiles, diamond bit, boxes and bags,
Off I go to mend a jar!”

(In the old days, a barrel-mender was an artisan who repaired bowls and jars; “freshly tilled fields” refers to soil loosened after deep plowing; a furrier works with skins, a copper-smith crafts precious metals, “eccentric” here means absurdly humorous.)

On the day of the beginning of autumn in 1988, as the sun rose early over Yangcao Village’s commune stage, the long-missed Northwest folk melodies rang out.

Zhang Yongtai, wearing a felt hat and whitening his nose bridge, sang the song “Mending the Jar.”

“Old Third Zhang, you shameless old scoundrel, your son’s nearly old enough to marry and you’re still singing this ‘Mending the Jar’—such sour little ditties?”

“That’s right, ‘Mending the Jar’ is one of the Four Olds from feudal times. If it were back in the day, Old Third Zhang would’ve been hauled off for struggle sessions!”

Women below the stage laughed and scolded, cheeks flushed.

“What do you know? Don’t you realize that when elegance reaches its peak, it turns vulgar, and when vulgarity reaches its peak, it becomes elegant again?”

Zhang Yongtai glared at them. “You lot pretend to scold me for being a rascal, but secretly wish I’d sing ‘Mending the Jar’ even more sourly!”

“Hahaha!”

“Listen to this old scoundrel—he’s really getting into it!”

The women burst into laughter.

Zhang Yongtai continued, “We rural folks, people who suffer, our lives are like broken jars and cracked pots—constantly patched and mended. If we don’t sing a few sour ditties and laugh, what’s the point of living?”

Ten years into the era of reform and opening, adults and children were no longer hungry, but life in the Northwest countryside remained tight and difficult.

“To be honest, no one’s sung ‘Mending the Jar’ in years. If we don’t sing it now, soon no one will remember how...”

“Luckily, Old Third Zhang still remembers it all!”

People below the stage nodded in agreement.

“Zhang Yongtai, you still have the mood to sing sour songs? Your son Zhang Weidong says he’s quitting school, won’t be registering next term—you probably don’t know yet, do you?”

A woman’s cold laugh came from below the stage—it was Teacher Xia from Yangcao Elementary School.

She was from the South, sent to the Northwest’s Yangcao Village during the “Up to the Mountains and Down to the Countryside” movement. She married He Qiang, son of the village party secretary, became a community teacher, bore children, and settled down, never returning home. Like a grass seed blown by the wind, she took root, sprouted, and bloomed on the barren land at the edge of the Northwest desert...

Teacher Xia had no love for Northwest folk songs. In her eyes, Zhang Yongtai’s “Mending the Jar” was coarse and shameless, bordering on indecent—so she mocked him.

“What? Zhang Weidong wants to quit school? That worthless brat never told me!”

Zhang Yongtai, hearing Teacher Xia’s words, tore off his felt hat, leapt from the stage, and pushed through the crowd.

“Ah, just as we were enjoying Old Third Zhang’s ‘Mending the Jar,’ Teacher Xia ruined it...”

“Zhang Yongtai’s third son, Zhang Weidong, really is something—held back year after year, ten years in elementary school and still stuck in fifth grade, never learned a thing!”

“How can he not study? If you don’t want to suffer in this sandy wasteland, there’s only one way out—studying!”

The villagers shook their heads and sighed.

Yangcao Village was located in Qinghu Township, Shacheng County, Wuliang District, on the Hexi Corridor, surrounded on three sides by desert. Winds blew all year, from spring through winter. Life was harsh, so people placed great importance on their children’s education.

No matter how poor or hard life got, every family made sure their children finished elementary school. No one wanted to be a “blind with open eyes”—an illiterate.

Families with slightly better means tried to send their children to middle and high school. If they managed to get into college, they could escape the sandy wasteland and no longer suffer in the wind-blown fields.

It was nearly the only way to change one’s fate.

If a family’s child got into college and left Yangcao Village, they became the pride of the village, earning their family respect from everyone.

A child like Zhang Weidong, dropping out just after fifth grade, was almost a heretic, a disgrace in Yangcao Village.

Zhang Yongtai hurried home, taking three steps at a time, and found his third son Zhang Weidong and fifth son Zhang Xuewen playing under the sand-jujube tree in the yard.

“Third, did you tell Teacher Xia you don’t want to study anymore?”

Zhang Yongtai glared at Zhang Weidong.

“Yes.”

Zhang Weidong lowered his head and muttered.

“What? You answer so boldly? Today I’ll use the family stick to beat you, you worthless brat!”

Zhang Yongtai kicked Zhang Weidong over, then rushed into the front room to fetch his “family stick.”

Seeing this, Zhang Xuewen darted into the east room to get his eldest brother, Zhang Shengli, for help.

“Big brother! Dad’s hitting third brother again!”

“What’s third up to now?”

Zhang Shengli, reading on the kang bed, rolled off and hurried out, slippers flapping.

He saw their father, Zhang Yongtai, seething with rage, wielding the “family stick,” beating the kneeling third brother Zhang Weidong under the eaves.

The so-called “family stick” was actually a smooth, straight sand-jujube wood rod, about three feet long, used by the hot-tempered Zhang Yongtai to discipline his sons.

But the only one who ever warranted the stick was usually the third son, Zhang Weidong.

Eldest Zhang Shengli, now twenty, had grown up—steady and hardworking, he could make decisions at home, and Zhang Yongtai consulted him about everything.

Youngest Zhang Xuewen, only eleven, was mischievous but never crossed the line. With good grades, he was doted on by Zhang Yongtai, who only ever feigned anger with a kick, rarely using the stick.

As for the two daughters, Zhang Dongmei and Zhang Chunlan, both quiet and proper, always under the care of their mother Wang Taoxiang. Zhang Yongtai at most glared at them, never once laid a finger on them.

Only Zhang Weidong, the stubborn third, wild and fearless, always stirring up trouble, was frequently disciplined with the family stick.

Zhang Weidong started elementary school in Yangcao Village at age six, fought and caused trouble daily, never studied, and became notorious. Every teacher dreaded him, refused to teach him, and so he was held back year after year.

Thus, Zhang Weidong spent ten years in elementary school, still in fifth grade at sixteen, eventually caught up and overtaken by his younger brother Zhang Xuewen, making them classmates.

Now Zhang Weidong, without telling the family, had decided to drop out, provoking Zhang Yongtai’s unprecedented fury.

Mother Wang Taoxiang, with the two daughters, came out from the west room, wiping tears anxiously, but none dared intervene.

Only eldest Zhang Shengli could step in.

“What’s going on now?”

Zhang Shengli hurried forward, blocking Zhang Weidong.

“Eldest, back then the family was too destitute to send you to high school, and I still feel guilty about it! Now I work myself to death at the Baji Gou coal mine, struggling to support the others in school, but third wants to drop out!”

Zhang Yongtai, lips pale with anger, body trembling, swung the stick wildly—several blows landed on Zhang Shengli as well.