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墨書 Inktalez
As I grew older, the farm work I took on became increasingly demanding and heavier. That autumn, while reading "Third Day of the New Year," one morning after harvesting the late rice, my parents had breakfast and called me to join them in heading to the Grain Station for grain delivery.
It was my first time participating in this labor. Although I carried a basket the same size as my parents', mine was only half full of grain, weighing about sixty or seventy pounds. After my parents had used a windmill to blow away the chaff and debris from the sun-dried rice, they let me try carrying a load on the drying ground. Once they felt it was manageable, we set off.
The journey from home to the Grain Station was about five or six miles. The paths through the countryside were rough; if I fell, I could lose an entire load of rice. My parents chose a route that cut through Changtangchong and headed directly towards Suspended Stone before continuing along the road.
Once we started walking with our loads, my parents seemed to move faster than usual, even more so than when they were empty-handed. I followed closely behind them, struggling to keep up; for every three steps they took, I had to take nearly four. Soon enough, my legs began to feel weak, but thinking about how little I was carrying made me reluctant to complain. I gritted my teeth and kept going.
Strangely enough, after walking for a while, my legs began to feel better. Although I still felt tired, I could at least keep going and even occasionally passed my parents by a step or two.
However, while my legs improved, my shoulders felt worse. Since I had never carried such a heavy load before—let alone over a long distance—I could only use my tender right shoulder to bear what felt like a heavy sixty or seventy pounds of grain. I swayed along with my parents' pace, unable to switch shoulders or even loosen my grip; the rigid yoke pressed down hard on me without budging. At first, it didn't seem too bad, but after about ten minutes, my shoulder began to tingle, followed quickly by pain. I tried to endure it for a while longer but soon found it unbearable.
Seeing that the road to Suspended Stone was just ahead—about ten meters away—I finally called out, "Mom! Dad! I can't carry it anymore. Can we take a break?"
My parents were understanding and allowed me to turn onto the road and walk another twenty or thirty meters before finding a spot under the trees by the stone arch bridge to rest my shoulders and legs. However, they left me there while they continued on with their heavy loads without stopping.
I set down the yoke and used it as a bench as I sat down. It felt so relieving for my aching shoulders and calves. But I knew I couldn't rest for too long; we had only covered one-fifth of the way to the Grain Station. Besides, my parents had already moved ahead, and other farmers delivering grain were passing by me one after another.
Staying here felt good and cool, but that load still needed to get to the Grain Station. Moreover, our family had over a thousand pounds of grain to deliver; just my parents alone would need at least five trips if they carried it all themselves. If I helped out, maybe four trips would suffice.
After resting for about three or four minutes and encouraging myself, I stood up again, placed the yoke back on my shoulders, and hoisted up the still-painful load.
To my dismay, ever since taking that break, even though I wanted to persist, each time I resumed walking with the load, my body protested strongly after only a short distance. I could only find spots along the roadside to rest before moving again; each stretch became shorter while my breaks grew more frequent. If it weren't for worrying about making my parents anxious, I might have just stopped altogether.
So we continued this stop-and-go pattern until finally catching sight of Li Family Ferry Crossing's cement bridge; we were probably down to one-third of our journey left. Just as I was preparing to cross the bridge and find another place to rest briefly afterward, I spotted my father in the middle of the bridge. He crossed over effortlessly and took the load from my shoulder, saying, "Just follow me."
It turned out that after carrying their loads across the bridge and seeing that I hadn't caught up yet, Dad decided that Mom would hurry ahead with her load to queue at the Grain Station while he left his load under a familiar person's eave by the roadside before coming back for me. As we passed where Dad had set down his basket, I readied myself to take back my load; however, he showed no intention of stopping but instead said: "I'll take your load to queue at the Grain Station first and then come back for mine."
Following closely behind Dad into the Grain Station, we found ourselves surrounded by farmers delivering grain. Even though we had set out early in the morning, because of how far we lived from the station—and despite Mom not stopping at all—we ended up at the back of a long line.
In front of us sat neighbors waiting on their baskets and yokes; occasionally someone would grumble as they walked back with their load because their grain didn't meet quality standards and needed reworking. Some were fortunate enough that their grain was merely too mixed with chaff and debris; they could pass through a windmill at the Grain Station before continuing their wait in line. The worst cases involved high moisture content requiring them to take their grain home for further drying under sunlight.
The long line moved painfully slow; every three or five minutes we barely advanced a step or two. Taking advantage of any movement in front of us, I squeezed in behind Mom's load and curiously followed along as we moved forward.
The weighing area was on the second floor. After passing around thirty baskets in line on solid ground below, I saw that there were already six or seven baskets lined up on those narrow cement steps leading upstairs—only one basket could fit per step—and those waiting had to hold onto their baskets' edges lest they topple over. Even though I was empty-handed myself, trying to walk through easily felt almost impossible; instead, I had no choice but to scramble up using both hands and feet.
Finally entering through the warehouse door revealed a tall and spacious building; upstairs there was just a wooden floor built around its perimeter with railings along both sides where weighing stations were located in between them. Farmers queued from both ends toward these scales; each would lift their baskets onto them for weighing before tipping them over so that grains would naturally fall into the concrete floor below.
I silently counted as we entered—the lines on either side held thirty or forty baskets each—and combined with those on steps above and outside made hundreds waiting in line. Our family's grains were positioned around eighty places back; estimating based on speed alone suggested it would be past noon before our turn came.
When I finally crawled out from inside the warehouse after what felt like ages waiting in line outside with Dad having already brought his load inside too—he joined us alongside two other baskets ahead—we found ourselves next in line together now.
A staff member from Grain Station came down carrying an instrument while inserting it into grains for testing as he observed some samples by hand before writing down grades on small square pieces of paper handed over to each grain owner.
This process was much quicker than weighing; aside from delays caused by arguments among some who needed reworking due to failing grades—one couple even raised their voices—it wasn't long before it reached us too. Despite Mom having carefully selected our grains at home beforehand for quality processing—we received only a paper stating "Medium Low." Meanwhile another farmer ahead whose grains looked significantly worse received "Medium High" simply because he called out his friend's nickname while slipping him a pack of cigarettes.
Mom accepted our paper silently without arguing; she had heard stories about others who lost out due solely due disputes over grades—one person’s previously written “Medium” dropped immediately downwards into “Low” due solely upon being deemed argumentative by an authoritative staff member at Grain Station—a difference worth several dollars when ten dollars covered an entire semester's living expenses back then—she certainly didn’t want history repeating itself.
The wait dragged on endlessly until around three o'clock in the afternoon when finally our batch of 352 pounds made its way into Grain Station—earning us an “Entry Receipt.”
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