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墨書 Inktalez
The busy and fulfilling summer quickly passed, and as I entered my senior year of high school, I found myself surrounded by piles of review outlines and mock exam papers, only able to return home for a breath of fresh air every two or three weeks.
Autumn stubbornly marched on at its own pace, bringing with it the season for harvesting late rice. However, senior students no longer had the luxury of returning home to help. Fortunately, my father had been reassigned to the Western School District, not far from home. My siblings were not in their final year either, and coincidentally, they all had a few days off. When I returned home one Saturday afternoon, the rice in the five acres of paddy fields had already been harvested. Another piece of news spread across the fields: after much effort, our village was finally going to get electricity!
From the very first day I opened my eyes, I had been bathed in the glow of kerosene lamps. Especially after starting school, I would do my homework at night under the dim light. My mother worked as a barefoot doctor and often went out on calls at night. Those with better conditions would bring a flashlight to pick her up; more often than not, she had to rely on a lantern or even light a grass fire to walk home at night. Many families wouldn’t accompany her back. I once pulled my clothes tightly around me to shield against the biting cold wind as I walked unevenly to meet her. After seeing electric lights at school during the Second Day of the Lunar New Year, I dreamed that one day my home would also have electricity. Hearing this news now filled me with joy.
The children in the village, about my age, whether studying or working in agriculture, were all excited about the upcoming electricity. The adults, however, began to worry. Although there were national policies supporting rural electrification and my Third Uncle worked as a manager at the County Power Company and secured this quota for our village, things were complicated now that land had been distributed among households. With no economic sources from production teams or platoons anymore, getting electricity meant erecting electric poles, laying wires, and buying transformers—all requiring money. While everyone had managed to meet their basic needs, the wave of labor migration hadn’t yet surged; families didn’t have much extra money left over for these expenses.
What could we do? Such a great opportunity and long-awaited dream couldn’t be abandoned. A few resourceful villagers came up with a plan: we would rely on our mountains and sell some timber from the trees up there to buy electric poles, wires, and transformers!
The plan was devised, but trouble still loomed large. Shortly after land was distributed among households, most of the mountain land was also allocated to everyone. How could we cut down trees without proper justification? The county and township were strict about logging quotas; wielding an axe without permission could lead to imprisonment.
I didn’t inquire how other groups dealt with this issue; I only remembered that our Zhu Shan Bay group decided that we would apply for some logging quotas from the township and then use those quotas to cut down trees that hadn’t been allocated to villagers due to their scattered growth. To ensure fairness—or perhaps to cater to families who could afford it—the cutting was divided based on household size like how rations were distributed in previous production teams. Each family would cut down their allotted trees themselves and decide whether to sell or keep them afterward as long as they paid their electricity fees on time.
After several rounds of discussions among the cadre and village representatives, they calculated how much each family should contribute for electricity fees and determined the value of the timber available for distribution. They chose a sunny Sunday for each family to send a representative to mark and divide the trees. Whether it was because my father was busy elsewhere or my mother wanted me to gain experience—or perhaps it was just my usual luck—I became the obvious choice as our family’s representative when I returned home.
A group of twenty or thirty people first arrived at Shuikou Mountain behind the old house yard. Over years of development, this small hill had become completely isolated from other hills and could hardly be called a mountain anymore. The few large trees that left deep impressions in my memory had long been cut down, but there were still over ten pine trees that could be "monetized."
Upon reaching the area dense with pine trees, I gradually began to understand what was happening despite not having participated in earlier discussions: The cadre first identified which trees could be allocated for cutting and used an axe to scrape off a layer of bark at chest height while another person marked them with inked numbers “1, 2, 3, 4.” Meanwhile, the group’s accountant recorded each tree's location, species, size while the group leader estimated a price for each tree; if there were no objections from anyone present, they filled in that price.
Since this price would serve as a basis for dividing up the trees later on, everyone was very cautious about it. Fortunately, when applying for quotas from higher authorities earlier on, our group had prepared well; a pine tree with a diameter at breast height of over thirty centimeters and more than ten meters tall was estimated by the group leader at just one or two yuan—less than one-third of its actual value—and since no one knew which tree would end up being assigned to their family most of the time when a price was announced it received unanimous approval.
The team moved slowly forward as one tree after another was declared “under consideration.” Since most of the contiguous forest had already been allocated among households, available trees were mostly located around front and back yards; soon enough voices began rising in protest: “This tree was planted by our family; it can’t be divided!”
Indeed, not only adults but children in rural areas also had a habit of planting trees around their homes. In our childhood ignorance we loved planting fast-growing fruit trees like peach and pear trees. Adults had longer-term visions; they mostly planted firs and pines hoping one day to grow timber strong enough for house beams or at least wait until they matured enough to saw into boards for building houses.
Thus distinguishing which trees belonged where became quite complicated. After much chatter among more than twenty representatives debating back and forth it was finally decided: any tree within ten feet of eaves dripping water from houses counted as private property; all others would be marked for division this time around to avoid future disputes.
Soon enough we arrived at Cattle Pen Yard where public trees were concentrated; due to land distribution all farming oxen had been allocated among families while both Zhu Shan Bay and Shibaochong production teams’ shared cowshed lay abandoned now with dozens of tall pines and firs remaining—perfect candidates for this round of division.
As we neared completion marking trees perhaps thinking about soon having electricity made everyone work even harder with increasing speed. Suddenly two cousins from up on the hill—De Li and Supporting The Military—charged toward each other grabbing each other’s arms while trying to trip one another with their feet. Though they were brothers there was a fifteen or sixteen-year age gap between them; Supporting The Military was my age but due to his father being a driver he grew up well-off towering over peers like an exuberant young tiger while De Li had served as a soldier in his youth reportedly even as a scout returning home now serving as militia captain in his thirties.
Thinking back this almost resembled an altercation between two generations of men within our yard regardless if it started intentionally or accidentally everyone cheered them on from sidelines. Unexpectedly just as cheers erupted twice both suddenly released their grips seemingly just putting on an act celebrating our yard’s electrification.
After marking trees and finishing up I returned once again into my intense study life only hearing through my parents about subsequent developments regarding village electrification: although we weren’t exactly wealthy at that time my father’s salary had risen above one hundred yuan per month making paying for electricity less burdensome; timber allocated was sawed into planks for future use; debates ensued over whether cement or wooden electric poles should be used ultimately Third Uncle insisted cement poles would last longer; when erecting poles villagers young and old followed along circling around watching—the children out of curiosity while adults worried about affecting feng shui or wanting certain poles closer to their homes…
On New Year’s Eve 1986 under the glow of electric lights my family finally enjoyed our very first bright New Year’s Eve dinner!
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