Chapter 677: Construction of a Cemetery
Director Song suddenly slapped his thigh, startling the sparrows on the tree and causing them to flutter into flight.
"Last year, the township held a meeting and talked about promoting funeral reform. If this is successful, it can become a model!"
He reached out and squeezed Wang Jianguo's shoulder.
"But why don't you bring it up yourself? There are plenty of opportunities for young people to shine."
Wang Jianguo's face flushed instantly. He lowered his head and stroked the pencil, with sawdust rubbing against his palm:
"I'm a stranger. I've only been in the village for a year. People don't trust me."
He remembered that when he first arrived, Uncle Zhang muttered behind his back, "What do those city kids know?", and his ears became even hotter.
"You are different. You have worked in the village for 30 years. You have built canals and schools. Which major project was not done by you and others? Your words are more effective than my shouting."
Director Song was silent, his pipe making a small hole in the ground. The moonlight shone through the leaves of the locust tree and fell on his graying temples, like a handful of silver coins.
He suddenly remembered that when he first became the director, he was also a young boy, leading a group of people to repair the reservoir. Some people scolded him behind his back for "messing around", and it was the old branch secretary who stood up and said:
"This kid has the guts to think and act, so we have to help him."
"Okay, I'll bring it up."
Director Song patted Wang Jianguo on the back with such force that he staggered.
"But let me be frank. You have to take the lead in the details. Don't even think of getting away with it!"
He pulled out a red-leather notebook from his pocket and wrote "Preliminary Ideas for Cemetery Construction" on the title page. He put so much force into the writing that the words showed through on the back of the paper.
Wang Jianguo suddenly remembered something and took out a crumpled piece of paper from his bag:
"This is a feasibility report I wrote temporarily. Please take a look."
Director Song took it and looked at it. It listed the land planning, financial budget, construction process, and even details such as "inviting the elderly to participate in the tombstone design" were written clearly.
He looked up at the young man in front of him, and suddenly felt that the flickering fire in those eyes was very similar to the way he drew canal blueprints under the kerosene lamp when he was young.
"We will have a meeting tomorrow morning. Bring your sketch with you."
Director Song folded the report and put it in the pocket of his Zhongshan suit.
"By the way, let me tell you that how to carve the merit monuments in the cemetery and how to manage the public welfare area must all be based on public opinion."
He stood up and brushed the grass clippings off his trouser legs.
"Remember, don't just think about showing off, but actually serve the people."
Wang Jianguo nodded vigorously and watched Director Song’s back disappear into the poplar forest at the entrance of the village.
The night wind lifted the back of his shirt, revealing the faded belt around his waist - it was a gift from the old branch secretary before he died.
He touched the pencil in his pocket and suddenly felt his fingertips getting hot, as if he was holding not a pen but a hoe to cultivate new land.
At the brick factory site in the distance, searchlights have been turned on, illuminating the outline of the western hillside.
Wang Jianguo spread out the sketch and pressed down the four corners with stones. Under the moonlight, the originally harsh lines gradually softened.
As if it had been soaked in the black soil of the Great Northern Wilderness, it had grown roots and taken root in this land that he loved more and more.
At the stone table under the old locust tree at the entrance of the village, Director Song placed the enamelware pot on the mottled tree stump, cleared his throat and was about to speak when Wang Jianguo squatted at the foot of the wall, puffing on his pipe. Suddenly, he knocked on the bluestone slab with his pipe:
"Director, I'm thinking about the barren slope at the east end of our village..."
He knocked off the sparks from his pipe, his cloudy eyes gleaming in the twilight.
"If it can be turned into a cemetery, the old and young men in our village will have a neat and decent place to rest when they pass away."
The leaves of the locust tree rustled in the evening breeze. Thirty or so villagers sat around, their palm-leaf fans suspended in mid-air. Aunt Zhang was the first to clap her hands, her coarse cloth apron still stained with unrubbed dough:
"Jianguo's idea is really bright! When my husband passed away, he was buried in the mass grave at the west end of the village. Every time I go to the grave, I have to dig through the weeds to find the tombstone. It's nothing like the cemeteries of people in the city, which are so clean that you can see your reflection in them."
Brother Li squatted on the steps with his trouser legs rolled up, his bronze calves tense:
"That's right. Last year, my uncle passed away, and his children insisted on taking him to the county town for cremation. The urn alone cost dozens of dollars. We farmers can't afford such suffering."
Amid the chorus of voices in agreement, a violent cough was heard from the base of the wall.
Mr. Huang, who is over 70 years old, stood up tremblingly with the help of a cane. His dark blue double-breasted jacket was washed white, and the tobacco pouch on his waist was worn out at the edges.
He poked the dirt on the ground with the tip of his cane, and there was a layer of mist in his cloudy eyes:
"Director Song, your idea is to benefit the old and young, but we farmers work hard all our lives, and the few work points we earn throughout the year are just enough to buy a piece of candy for our grandchildren."
The old man suddenly bent down and used his hands, which were as rough as tree bark, to pick at the grass sprouts in the cracks of the stone table.
"I went to the market yesterday and took a look. The cheapest stone tablets cost more than 30 yuan, and the urns are as expensive as gold nuggets."
He suddenly started coughing violently, and Brother Li quickly handed him half a pot of cold tea. The old man wiped his mouth, his voice choked with sobs.
"My life is worthless. I can just lie down on the small mound behind the village. The kids in the production team are still in debt. I dare not add to their burdens..."
Before she finished speaking, Widow Wang folded her arms and sighed, her white hair trembling slightly in the moonlight:
"Uncle Huang's words hit home. The year my son Hu Wa's father passed away, I gritted my teeth and bought a twenty-yuan stone tablet. But in less than three years, it was cracked by rain. Tell me, isn't that heartbreaking?"
Xiao Shunzi, who was squatting on a tree branch, suddenly interrupted:
"Why don't we just chip in? If each family contributes a hundred or eighty dollars, we can always afford a decent cemetery."
As soon as he finished speaking, his father slapped him on the back of his head:
"What do you know, you little bastard! Some families even have to calculate their salt money, so asking them to contribute is like forcing them to hang themselves!"
The moonlight shone through the gaps in the leaves of the locust tree, weaving a piece of silver on the bluestone slab. Director Song took out his notebook and wrote something down.
Suddenly I looked up and saw the red cloth wrapped around Grandpa Huang’s walking stick - it was tied there when his grandson celebrated his one-month old birthday last year, and now it has faded to light pink.
"Don't worry, sir,"
He reached out and pressed the old man's trembling shoulders.
"Let's do some calculations first: the barren sloping land is collectively owned, so we don't have to spend money to buy it; Mr. Zhang from the stone quarry is our son-in-law, so we can sell the stone tablet at cost price; we can have the urn made by the woodworking factory in town, which is guaranteed to be two-thirds cheaper than in the city."
He opened the account book and ran his fingertips over the densely packed numbers.
"Besides, the county has just issued a policy that public welfare cemeteries will receive a subsidy of 50 yuan per mu of land. Let's change the land to 5 mu first, and the subsidy alone will be 250 yuan..."