Chapter 679 Dawn
Brother Li rolled up his mud-stained trouser legs, his bronze calf muscles tensed, and squatted on the blue brick steps and sighed heavily:
"That's right! My uncle passed away last year, and the children insisted on taking him to the county town for cremation. They spent more than 80 yuan for the palm-sized urn."
As he spoke, he made a small circle with his thumb and index finger, his voice full of heartache.
"We farmers can't earn a few boxes of money even if we bend over and dig the fields for a whole year!"
Before he could finish his words, a violent cough was heard at the foot of the wall, startling the sparrows that were napping on the locust tree.
Uncle Huang walked out of the shadows tremblingly, leaning on a shined jujube wood cane.
His dark blue double-breasted jacket was washed to a pale color, with neatly patched collar and cuffs.
The edges of the dry tobacco pouch hanging around his waist were worn rough and tied with a faded red cloth strip - it was the leftover scraps from making a patchwork quilt for his great-grandson last year.
"Director Song..."
The old man tapped the ground with his cane, his cloudy eyes misted over.
"Your idea is to benefit the young and old. But we are farmers who work hard in the fields. The work points we earn throughout the year are just enough to buy a bag of salt or a piece of candy for the kids."
He suddenly bent down, and his palms, as rough as tree bark, stroked the weeds growing out of the cracks in the stone table.
"I went to the market yesterday and found that the cheapest stone tablet cost thirty-five yuan, and the urn was so expensive that it could be exchanged for half a pig."
A violent cough interrupted the old man's words, and Brother Li hurriedly handed over half a pot of herbal tea. Uncle Huang wiped his mouth, his voice trembling with sobs:
"My life is worthless, just find a small mound of earth to bury it. The kids in the production team are still in debt, I dare not drag them down..."
Widow Wang wrapped her faded blue headscarf tightly around her neck, and her white hair at the temples shone slightly in the moonlight:
"Uncle Huang's words hit home. The year my son Hu Wa's father passed away, he gritted his teeth and bought a stone tablet for thirty yuan, but it couldn't withstand the wind and rain, and it broke into two pieces in less than three years."
She shook her head, her eyes red.
"That's half a year's worth of my work points!"
Xiao Shunzi on the tree branch suddenly poked his head out:
"Why don't we just chip in? If each family contributes a hundred or eighty dollars, we can definitely build a decent cemetery!"
Before he could finish his words, his father slapped him on the back of his head:
"What do you know, you little bastard! Some families can't even afford to light a kerosene lamp, how can they get the money?"
The moonlight shines through the gaps between the locust leaves, casting mottled silver light on the bluestone slabs.
Director Song opened a notebook with frayed edges and wrote down the villagers' demands.
Suddenly, he caught a glimpse of the red cloth strip on Grandpa Huang's walking stick that had faded to light pink, and his heart was slightly moved.
"Don't worry, sir!"
He reached out and pressed the old man's trembling shoulders.
"Let's think carefully: the barren land on the west slope is collectively owned, so we don't have to spend money to buy it!"
"Mr. Zhang from the stone quarry is the son-in-law of our village, so the stone tablet can be sold at cost price; if the urn is custom-made at the woodworking factory in town, we can save at least two-thirds of the money."
As he spoke, he opened the account book and his fingertips ran across the densely packed numbers.
"The new county policy is to subsidize 50 yuan per mu for building a public cemetery. Let's convert five mu of land first, and the subsidy alone will be 250 yuan!"
His eyes suddenly lit up and he took out a small plastic bottle from his canvas bag:
"The Forestry Bureau promised to give us pine and cypress seedlings. We'll plant them next spring. In a few years, the cemetery will be as beautiful as the parks in the city!"
Mr. Huang stared at the plan drawn with chalk on the stone table, and his calloused fingers suddenly erased the three words "Office Area":
"In my opinion, we should transform this row of houses into a 'Siyuan Hall' and put up our village's family tree. During the Qingming Festival, when the children come back, they will have a place to rest, drink some hot water, and kowtow to their ancestors."
Director Song's eyes lit up immediately, and he grabbed a piece of chalk and drew a square courtyard next to it:
"What a good idea! Put the family tree in the main room, hold a 'filial piety culture exhibition' in the side room, and hang all the filial piety stories in our village on the wall! (
"When the brick factory makes money, we will build an 'elderly activity center' with fans in the summer and heated beds in the winter. It will definitely be more comfortable than the nursing homes in the city!"
At this time, smoke wafted from someone's chimney, mixed with the fragrance of locust flowers. Aunt Zhang slapped her thigh:
"Director, my second son is driving a forklift in the city. You have to ask him to come back to work in the brick factory!"
Brother Li put his pipe back to his waist:
"I will bring a sickle tomorrow and go to the west hillside to cut the weeds, just like clearing a new path for our ancestors!"
Uncle Huang bent down to pick up the scattered tobacco and slowly put it into his pouch:
"Director, when the graves are moved, I will move the pair of stone lions from my home over to the cemetery to guard the gate for good luck."
As dusk deepened, the evening breeze lifted Director Song's straw hat. He looked at the western hillside in the distance and gently rubbed the chalk marks on the stone table with the sole of his shoe, leaving only the crooked "Siyuan Hall":
"Don't worry, folks! Next year during the Qingming Festival, we will be able to burn incense for the elders in a clean and tidy manner in the new cemetery..."
At this time, the western sky suddenly lit up with an orange-red color, and the afterglow of the setting sun seemed to have covered the earth with a festive red veil.
Mr. Huang's pipe made a crisp sound when it hit the stone table. Tears shone in his bloodshot eyes, and his trembling hands tightly grasped Director Song's sleeves:
"You...are you really telling the truth about what you said? You are not lying to us, are you?"
That voice contained the cautiousness of half a lifetime of vicissitudes, like an injured old beast, longing for warmth but full of vigilance.
Director Song gently pried open the old man's spastic fingers and took out a few yellowed documents from the tin cigarette box. The edges of the pages were still stained with sweat:
"Sir, please feel this seal. It's the minutes of the county meeting last month. I copied them overnight."
As they were talking, the commune director Song Guohua, the brick factory manager Liu Chuanjun, and the production team leader Zhao Shuzhuo all moved forward. In the dim light of the kerosene lamp, four figures were stretched out on the earthen wall.
Song Guohua adjusted his reading glasses that had slipped to the tip of his nose, revealing his blue shirt with pilling cuffs:
"Uncle Huang, you and my father once carried the production team's grain bags together. When you got heatstroke while repairing the canal, it was my father who carried you for five miles."
He took out a small notebook, and the photo on the cover had faded.
"Look, this is a photo of me and the county magistrate last week. I spent three days and three nights talking to the county government about our brick factory!"
Liu Chuanjun patted the enamelware pot on his waist. The sound of metal collision was particularly clear in the night. The cuffs of the Dacron shirt he had specially changed into were still stained with brick dust:
"Uncle Huang, do you remember? Last year, my grandson accidentally entered the kiln area. If I hadn't been quick..."
His Adam's apple rolled and his voice was hoarse.
"When the brick factory is built, we will recruit children from our village in the first batch. We will never let the children go out to suffer again!"
Zhao Shuzhuo put the curled straw hat on his knees and rubbed the brim repeatedly with his rough hands:
"Uncle, you always complain about my father not having even a thin coffin when he passed away. When the cemetery is built, I will be the first to move him there, and the tombstone will be inscribed with 'A lifetime of hard work, finally at peace'."