Father’s Book

This book is a collection of non-fiction essays written by the author after years of recounting his father’s past life experiences and reminiscing about getting along with his father. It is composed of 24 chapters， each of which is introduced by the topic of solar terms.

Turning to that day’s page on the calendar felt like suddenly hearing an answer carried by the wind sweeping through a village: my father， the one on earth. I was stunned at first， and as I slowly came back to myself， I noticed the words prominently written on the calendar: Today is the Beginning of Spring.

After leaving Mafang， it felt as if I had stumbled out of the warmth of the lunar calendar， lost and alone. The Beginning of Spring was something I could now only perceive by flipping through a calendar. I could no longer sense it with my body. The still land， with its vibrant solar terms once encoded in the bodies of all of us， had completely lost its ability to resonate within me. If my father were still alive， some part of his body would have quietly signaled to him what the solar term was today.

Perhaps my mother’s body was even more attuned to the solar terms.

For many years， there was always a day when I would wake up to a ray of light， no longer carrying its usual chill， streaming diagonally through the window and falling upon new clothes. The stiff， dust-laden winter clothes I had worn for months had been washed by my mother and hung in the yard to dry. As I opened the door， my father， just back from fetching water， would set down his wooden buckets and remind me: It’s the Beginning of Spring.

I would put on my fresh clothes， step out of the courtyard， and stand on the street feeling refreshed. Around me， wooden doors creaked open one by one， as men carrying buckets of various sizes headed toward the pond at the east end of the village. In nearby courtyards， the sound of women washing clothes echoed here and there. Many years later， when I came across the poetic line “The wind carries news， spring clothes hung to dry on branches，” I suddenly stood up and gazed northward toward Chang’an’s sky， a pang of tenderness in my heart. My spirit seemed to tumble back to Mafang， to that remembered morning when spring began.

I’ve always believed that the Beginning of Spring in a village started with my father’s body.

That night， his still-strong frame must have sensed something， making it hard for him to sleep soundly on the warm earthen kang. He wouldn’t have consciously imagined it， but in his mind’s eye， the sights and sounds of the village and surrounding fields would have gathered before him. They seemed to respond to a powerful summons， suddenly surging forth from their lonely winter retreats. He seemed to see the thick snow on the fields and the solid ice in the river beginning to melt; he seemed to hear sounds emanating from swaying nests in the trees and desolate wolf dens beyond the village. For a moment， even the insects that had crawled on his rough skin before winter seemed to awaken on his body， their collective wriggling animating his skin， now resilient from the winter’s rest.

He couldn’t sleep in his body.

He turned over repeatedly， yet the darkness outside the window showed no sign of the coming dawn. He felt his bones， not weary but instead filled with an urge to rise. In my father’s wisdom， if a man’s bones were tired， his body would feel exhausted too.

This brought to his mind the animals of the village.

He’d say， no matter where mules and horses stand， they always look spirited. You can’t tell when they’re tired. Once unhitched from the cart， they’ll stand by the feeding trough all night， eating and dozing. A good mule only needs to roll over a few times on the ground， and the fatigue embedded in its skin and bones will disappear. In a mule’s lifetime， the moment it lies down means it’s reached the end of its days. The sluggish oxen， trod heavily on the earth with their four massive hooves. As soon as they stopped working， they would lie down wherever they were.

Once， my father pointed to an ox lying by the water channel and asked me， “Doesn’t its hulking body， propped on its shoulder blades， look like a toppled loess hill?” I thought it did resemble a little hill， and I worried it might never rise again. Just as I began to feel anxious， my father flicked his leather whip lightly， and the ox stood up instantly， steady and uncomplaining.

I still don’t know whether my father， who toiled his whole life in Mafang， resembled a noble horse or a slow-moving ox.

The breath of spring stirring between heaven and earth was first sensed by his bones.

He lit the oil lamp， dressed， picked up his water buckets， and seemed intent on getting ahead of the solar term. With his steady footsteps， he walked the path to the pond， a path every villager would take， as if to mark it out first. When he reached the pond， its thick ice glistening under the moonlight， he struck the surface with his shoulder pole to break through. At that moment， the first whiff of spring’s air arose from Mafang， this modest patch of land. I can imagine the echo of his strikes startling everything in Mafang. Birds chirped in the nearby trees， dogs barked in the distance， and the livestock， having munched all night， began to call out with renewed vigor. Beneath the snow， wheat and rapeseed likely shifted， their growth turning upward. No longer did their roots cling downward; instead， their buds pushed through the snow， eager to unfurl their green hues skyward.

Had I understood back then that these crops were sacred food planted through the life-and-death labor of people like my father， I would have chewed a few grains of red wheat that day while walking through the village， savoring the life rising from the earth.

As the villagers took turns fetching water from the pond， my father rested under the eaves， watching my mother wash the family’s clothes with hot water and hang them on the courtyard rope.

In his eyes， perhaps spring began with the scent of freshly washed homespun fabric， carrying the clean fragrance of soap pods.

After the Beginning of Spring， Mafang remained blanketed in white.

The snow， having lingered all winter， seemed like actors reluctant to leave the stage. Yet their bulky forms no longer felt so cold.

My father emerged from the village， wearing clothes my mother had carefully mended. He walked with vitality， the iron spade on his shoulder gleaming in the sunlight. Its brightness reflected on the snow， casting an aura of light around him. Alone on the vast expanse， he walked intently， embodying a luminous presence. Occasionally， a neighbor’s dog trailed behind him， observing this familiar figure， puzzled by his haste.

He hurried as though he were the wind， skimming over the snowy ground.

Geng Xiang

Geng Xiang was a representative of the 6th and 7th Congresses of the Chinese Writers Association who has attended the 4th National Conference of Young Writers， participated in the 9th “Youth Poetry Conference” of the Poetry Society and visited Serbia with a delegation of Chinese writers in 2010.