Daddy's baby

 　　Guandong Mountain, Three Treasures

　　Ginseng, sable fur, and wula grass
　　—from a folk song
　　I don't know why, but writing about this topic brings back memories of my childhood. It always carries a poetic glow, a vibrant emotional color, and a strange, exciting power, vividly clear, shaking my soul. Why I feel this way is something I can't quite explain myself. More
　　than thirty years ago, in the Wandashan area, old men and young men all wore wula headscarves in winter. Even we mischievous kids who had just started wearing trousers wore small wula; it was rare to see anyone wearing cotton-padded rubber shoes. It wasn't that they didn't exist, but most were poor families who couldn't afford them. Wula
　　were made of cowhide or pigskin, quite exquisite, with a high nose on the surface, many even small pleats, and upturned high; there were three ears on each side, making them look a bit like small boats. The stuffing inside the yuga (a type of boot) is made of yuga grass, a specialty of the Wandashan area. After stuffing, you first put your feet into the yuga, treading it evenly and firmly. Then you thread two small ropes through the ear loops and wrap them around the yuga, and finally wrap your leggings around them. Wearing it, walking in it is fluffy and warm, like walking on cotton wool, light and airy.
　　After a heavy snowfall, running to the street and looking at the pedestrians, hey, they all look like ancient warriors going to war, wearing helmets, uniformly blue dog-skin hats, white leather glove covers, and yuga headbands. The whole outfit is extremely majestic! And listen to the sound of the yuga crushing the snow, "squeak, squeak," rising and falling, the sound so melodious and pleasant, so delicate and soft, like a child learning to speak, like a lark singing in the tree.
　　Every early autumn, I would go with my father to the Wanda Mountains to cut *Ula* grass. At this time, the *Ula* grass, untouched by frost, was a vibrant green, its graceful form like a young girl's outstretched arms. A gust of wind would bring it to life, and it would swarm and laugh, its soft hands gently caressing my cheeks, as if brushing into my heart, making my heart itch. I would lie down in the grass, like an infant wrapped in a giant green swaddling cloth. I would open my eyes wide, gazing up at the patches of sky peeking through the leaves. The sky was deep and bluer. The grass swayed in the wind, and those patches of sky seemed to tremble along with it.
　　My father, however, didn't share my childlike heart. He tirelessly swung his sickle, cutting the *Ula* grass. He would bundle it up strand by strand, and in the blink of an eye, a large patch would be cut. The grassy patch was covered with clumps of grass, and one could easily trip over it. But Dad didn't care about any of that. He kept stomping his feet with steady, short steps, his whole body trembling from the exertion. I often thought he would collapse from exhaustion, but he persevered with sheer willpower, as if some force was propelling him forward.
　　Every time we cut grass, we would load the cart full. After loading, I would climb onto the high cart. Riding the grass cart was so much fun; it moved smoothly and steadily, even more so than riding an ox. I was overjoyed. Looking around, groups of lawnmowers were busy in the green sea of ​​grass. Some wore shirts, some just shirts, and some were even shirtless, each wielding their sickles with their own unique style. Swallows flitted about, seemingly playing hide-and-seek with them. Looking up at the sky, it was like pieces of glass freshly washed by spring water, a transparent, intoxicating blue. Looking down at the ground, the grass was a vibrant, lively green, with shimmering green waves leaping before my eyes, even bathing my father and me in a soft green glow. When we got tired of sitting, we simply lay down in the car, feeling as if we were floating on clouds. Closing our eyes, our bodies swayed gently, like the feeling of floating on water in the summer heat. But it was much more exciting than "drifting," requiring no effort, and without worrying about choking on water. You could even hear music—the oxcart wheels turning slowly and steadily, making a "creak, creak" sound, like a tune being played, or perhaps a little girl hiding in the grass singing in a high-pitched voice… At that moment, I peeked at my father; he seemed drunk, his eyes squinting, his long beard parted in a silent grin!
　　On early winter nights, when the moon climbed over the mountain pass east of the village, hanging high above the treetops of the landlord's house, my father would sit in the courtyard, hammering the straw mat. He held a grenade-shaped wooden mallet in his right hand, rhythmically rising and falling. The smooth, slender straw matting blades of grass constantly turned and leaped in his left hand. The "bang, bang" of hammering the grass, like the beating of drums, carried far into the night, shaking the thatched hut. Hearing my father's rhythmic pounding of the grass was like listening to beautiful music. Even the round moon seemed moved, soon hovering above the house, as if to listen to my father's melody. Looking at those strands of grass, pounded to a golden yellow in the blink of an eye, they shimmered in the moonlight, like golden threads drawn from gold… My father then bundled them up again, enough for a cartload, and took them to town to sell.
　　Once, I went to town with my father to sell grass. It was the first time in my life I'd ever been to a street market. My eyes weren't working well, my ears weren't listening, and I didn't know where to step. The people on the street flowed like water. Suddenly, in the crowd, I spotted a child about my age. He was wearing a pair of "little white shoes," with thick cuffs embroidered with cloud patterns. I asked my father and learned they were called "felt shoes." I clung to my father's hand, insisting on buying him a "felt bundle." Sweat streamed down his face, which was rough as tree bark and covered in dust. He stammered for a long time without uttering a word, but slowly pulled a frozen, rock-hard sticky rice cake from his pocket and gave it to me: "Linzi, be good! Dad doesn't have enough money. Work hard with me, and I promise I'll buy you one next time..."
　　From then on, I always went with my father to the fields to cut grass for the wula (a type of straw mat), to the open space in front of the house to pound the wula, and to town to sell the grass. I learned from him how to bundle the wula, how to pound the grass, and how to fluff the wula. In short, my father... He was my guide in life, and living with my father brought me a refreshing and joyful feeling.
　　More than thirty years have flowed by like water, and now I have entered my prime. My father's face is full of wrinkles, and his hair and beard are all white. But he is still quite strong and can't sit still, doing this and that. My younger sister always disapproves of my father. Before he even enters the house, she rushes out with a broom to brush the dirt off him before allowing him to come in. When my father reaches for his rice bowl, my younger sister also runs over and says, "This isn't your bowl, let me get it for you!" When my father takes off his straw hat, the straw falls to the ground, and my younger sister always nags, "Dad, you're setting up your stall again. You don't want leather shoes or rubber shoes, you prefer to wear these straw hats, making the ground all over the place!" Every time she hears this, my father shakes his head, sighs, and says, "You've all had a good life, thanks to the Communist Party, you're never cold or hungry." But I'm afraid you'll spoil him! Back in Dad's time..." As he spoke, his aged eyes seemed to drift away. His younger sister wouldn't listen, constantly nagging their father, "What time were you back then? What time is it now? Don't look at the old almanac anymore!" "After saying that, she turned and ran to her room.
　　My father's loneliness weighed heavily on my heart like lead, a huge question mark tugging at my thoughts like a hook. I savored the taste of his empty words. What did those words contain? Love? Hope and strength? Or perhaps only his reminiscence? My father once said, 'People in Northeast China have been using straw to wrap their feet for warmth since our ancestors. I can't say how many years, how many generations, it's been like this since my generation…' Thinking of this, I suddenly realized that my father's love for wearing straw was more than just a hobby. My younger sister's hobby is dressing herself up beautifully; her wardrobe is full of all sorts of trendy clothes. But she's always comparing this and that, never satisfied. A few days ago, she unusually came to me, saying, 'The Open University teacher assigned an essay titled "My Father." What's there to write about with our father, who's so rustic? Why don't you write it for me!'" "
　　I refused her, and she pouted, glaring at me intently. Seeing her pitiful yet mischievous expression, I had no choice. I told her, 'Good sister, don't worry, I've figured it out. Look at Dad's precious boots, and even the boot grass—they seem to have eyes that can speak, silent yet full of affection. They should give you so many valuable insights, worthy of your deep reflection! Use them as the subject to write about Dad. If you don't understand anything, just ask Dad. Why worry about not being able to write a good article?'"