Field: Talking about fathers before “Father's Day”

Wilderness

It's Father's Day again, and I miss my elderly father who is thousands of miles away.

My father was born in December 1936, the same year as the Xi'an Incident. That was the year before the outbreak of the Anti-Japanese War, a time of war and chaos. As the saying goes, heroes emerge from troubled times. I often think that if my father had been born ten years earlier, with his distinguished appearance and abilities, he might have become a “Red Little Devil” on the Long March and perhaps I could be considered a true “second-generation revolutionary” now. But many things cannot be assumed.

Although my father never had the chance to embark on the revolutionary path, “every trade has its master.” He was a well-known stonemason in the surrounding dozens of miles of our hometown, a skilled craftsman. With his hardworking and dexterous, powerful hands, he built many immortal stone bridges, stone caves, and stone piers for the villagers. These silent stones are the golden signboard of my father, “Old Yang.” Even now, in his old age, people still visit him to seek advice and even invite him to personally guide construction sites. When such invitations come, my father readily accepts, disregarding his aging body. He returns with a beaming face, his desire to do good deeds and his sense of accomplishment once again fully satisfied.

I remember my mom once said to my siblings and me, “Your dad was a skilled stonemason in Xi'an back in the day. Right after liberation, if he'd wanted to, he could have stayed in Xi'an and become a non-agricultural resident, working for the government and earning a salary. But he was homesick and ended up coming back to farm. I guess this was fate's arrangement, and there's nothing wrong with being a farmer, after all.

My father never went to school and couldn't read a single word. We can't blame him for that. In those war-torn years, when people were starving and life was miserable, just surviving was difficult, let alone going to school. But my father was remarkable. He had an excellent memory and could do addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division in his head. He would take on projects, lead a dozen or so people, meticulously track everyone's work hours, and calculate everyone's wages down to the last cent, without a single error. I don't know if this was a natural talent, but it certainly made me look at him with new respect.

My father was upright and just, with clear likes and dislikes, preferring to break rather than bend. He was neither good at nor disdained flattering others, a character trait that seems to have been passed down to me almost perfectly. I don't know if this personality, which often offends people, is good or bad, but at least it didn't make him popular in the production brigade of the People's Commune. When the “chopping off capitalist tails” campaign came along in the 1970s, my father couldn't go out and do odd jobs (take on side work to earn money) or use his skills to support the family. He could only work in the fields every day, arranged by the production team leader, to earn work points. At that time, my four siblings and I were all young, and the whole family mainly depended on my father's work points for survival.

My father not only had skills and was able to endure hardship, but he was also adept at farm work. To earn more work points to support our family, he often volunteered for the dirty, tiring, and dangerous jobs that others were unwilling to do. Once, when the production team was digging a well, the work required going down more than 30 meters below the surface into a well with a diameter of only 1.5 meters. My father was the first to sign up. He was tied tightly with ropes and slowly lowered down. There was no ventilation or light in the well, and he would stay there for two to three hours at a time. Working at such a depth held constant, fatal dangers. When my father finished his work and reached the surface, dragging his exhausted body, he almost fainted. He fearlessly completed such difficult work, risking his life, and everyone let out a sigh of relief. Thinking back now, it's still terrifying! My father did this just to earn half a work point more than others. With this half a work point, we could go a little less hungry. Despite my father's utmost efforts and dedication to his work, our family was always one of the indebted households in the production team every year.

However, the annual debts and pressures did not affect my father's deep love for me. Occasionally, when the production team sent him out for a day or two to do stonework that others couldn't, he would always bring me, his precious son, along, regardless of what others said. The days spent eating and drinking with my father were so happy and joyous! It just felt too short. Behind the love, my father was also very strict. Sometimes, when we did something wrong, he would discipline us with his calloused hand. That slap hurt so much.

My father bears the entire family's financial burden on his shoulders. He has skills that he cannot utilize, yet he suffers daily under the circumstances of having to “get by with the bare minimum” in a communal dining system, experiencing the helplessness and pain of a “tiger fallen on flat ground.” It's truly difficult for him. He has energy but nowhere to put it, and suffering but nowhere to express it. He can only bear it silently by himself, often suffering from rising inner fire and stomach problems, writhing in agony.

After the Third Plenary Session of the 11th Central Committee, it was like sunrise after a long night. My strong-willed father finally broke free from the constraints of the production team and could thrive by earning money through his own skills. By relying on hard work to get rich, our family quickly overcame economic hardship. At the very least, we no longer went hungry all the time. Later, as economic conditions continued to improve, we could attend school without worry. This was all the good fortune our father brought us! My mother often said, "If your dad hadn't been restricted from doing side businesses those years, our family's life would have been much better than it is now." My father, hearing this from the side, remained silent, and I don't know what he was thinking.

Later on, my four siblings and I all started our own families and careers. I gradually became the father of two children. My dad grew older day by day. The wrinkles on his face held more than half a century of life's hardships. Seeing us live good lives, seeing our children and grandchildren fill the house, and our family prosper, he was overjoyed in his heart, even if he didn't say a word.

I rarely have verbal conversations with my restless father, mainly because he's hard of hearing and can't hear what I say. Every time I turn on a video call, I just wave. Our communication is mostly through my mother, conveyed verbally. However, every time I see him looking well and happy, my mood becomes as bright as a clear sky, full of sunshine.

A while ago, my father, who had always been in good health, was suddenly hospitalized for a few days due to difficulty breathing. My eldest sister sent me a video of him walking in the hospital, and he looked so light and frail, like a piece of paper. He was completely unrecognizable compared to the father who used to walk as fast as the wind just a year ago. I'm burning with anxiety to know the cause of his illness.

Originally, my father smoked, and coupled with inhaling stone dust and the like while working in his youth, his lungs suffered a degree of damage. This became more apparent as he aged. He quit smoking as prescribed by the doctor, who also gave him an oral medication called “effervescent tablets” that he needed to take daily. The medicine was imported, and my third brother bought it according to the prescription. However, my father felt it was too expensive and was reluctant to take it, which unfortunately led to his condition worsening.

A few days ago, I spoke with my mother and learned that my father has recovered and is back to normal. With his medication on schedule and the necessary oxygen therapy, he can move around freely again. This is a great relief.

Although my father shouldn't be saving money by not taking his medicine, this incident showed me another side of fatherly love: doing things bit by bit, and not burdening his children.

I suddenly remembered a poem I impulsively wrote on a trip for Father's Day 10 years ago:

Father's Day Reflections

Father

Calloused hands

Lightly

Stroke me

childhood

The appearance of happiness

Childhood memories

Blurred

Tear-filled eyes

For father only

Again and again

Harsh teaching

Again and again

Silent encouragement

Accompany me as I grow

Give me strength

Walked past

Recurring

Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter

Scars of time

inadvertently carved into

Wrinkled all over the face

Through the vicissitudes of life

and the hardships of life

Quietly melting into

Father's love is like a mountain.

In my heart...

Father

Ordinary and great

Father's love

Steadfast and profound

Inlaid in

In my life

Inheritance

In my blood!

Every year the flowers are similar, but every year the people are different. Only after raising children do you understand your parents' love. As Father's Day approaches once again, the quiet and towering figure of my father, far across the ocean, shines ever brighter in my heart.

June 14, 2024 Oakville

Author Biography: Yuan Ye, real name Yang Haijun. Currently resides in Canada. Author of the original poetry collection “Echoes of Three Primary Colors.” Maintains the “North American Yuan Ye“ blog on “Wenxuecity,” North America's largest Chinese website, where he has published hundreds of poems and essays. His works have repeatedly been featured in the prominent “Poetry Appreciation” section and on the "Wenxuecity" homepage blog selections. His micro-novellas "Autumn Story," "Instant Impression," and "Encounter" were published in the provincial quality journal "Taiwan, Hong Kong Literature Selected." Founder of the Canadian Association of University Literature, currently serving as its president.