Happy New Year of the Dog, 1994 (Part 2)
As the Chinese New Year of the Ox approaches, I think of other Chinese New Year holidays I celebrated. This excerpt is from my book, Memoirs of a Middle-aged Hummingbird, published in 2006.
Today is New Year’s Day beginning the Spring Festival, but the hail came down and now it is raining with an unSpring-like cold. For this Spring Festival, I am dressed in four pairs of pants, two sweatshirts, a down jacket with hood, a scarf, and two pairs of gloves. My feet are the main problem. Three pairs of socks, including one woolen pair, seem like nothing through my padded shoes on the earthen floor of the old house. Because I’ve been to China during Spring Festival several times before, it does not surprise me to feel like a block of ice.
Visiting and eating are the main occupations of the day. Over my years in China, I have observed many customs and I now understand more. During the New Year feast, I am indistinguishable from the Chinese guests except that I wear gloves, cannot spit out fish bones very well, and my arms seem shorter than Chinese because I often must stand up to reach some food across the table.
Two apprentices and their brides have been invited for the New Year lunch. The host is the husband of Bill’s bride’s eldest sister. While Bill’s bride and the mother freshly cook each dish, the husband sits at the table and urges his special guests and some family members, including children, to eat. More and more food comes, requiring a second story of delicacies to be balanced precariously on top of the existing plates of food. The host often puts choice morsels directly into his guests’ bowls. Proper manners usually require a refusal to accept more food at first, but the guest invariably backs down and eats it.
When a guest goes to the kitchen and takes a bowl of rice, he signals he is nearing the end. It is, after all, not polite to take too much food because the rest of the family promptly eat the leftovers. Like cooks everywhere, they get to eat the colder remains. As each person finishes, s/he leaves the table saying the Chinese equivalent of “Eat slowly” to the others. Lingering over coffee and dessert until everyone is finished is a western tradition I miss in China.
With my stomach full and my pockets filled with wrapped candies, I wander over to the house extension where the old grandparents usually cook. Bill acts as my interpreter as the grandfather and I chat. He remembers that he was born during the dying days of the Qing dynasty. He had a primary school education, but says he did not learn the range of subjects children learn today. When I ask him what he wishes for the new year, he says to stay strong and happy. I ask him what was the best time in China, and he replies without any hesitation, “now because the economic situation is getting better all the time.” He appreciates the leadership of Deng Xiaoping.
He speaks with a clear memory of the past. The worst time he remembers was the Japanese invasion of China when the Japanese took everything and left the Chinese to starve. After the Japanese left, his carpenter’s hands made him rich enough to build a villa and be the richest one in the village. But, in the 1960’s, he was declared to be a “landlord,” and his house was taken away. During the Cultural Revolution, both he and his wife were arrested and tortured by the infamous Red Guards who hung them by ropes from the ceiling. He spent 8 months in prison and was a poor man again because he had had to divulge where all his gold and valuables were hidden.
“Does he hate the Communists?” I wanted to ask. But Bill said this would not be a proper question to ask because it was still against government policy to speak against the government. China is changing very quickly, but some old fears are still necessary.
The grandfather asked a few questions about America. “Does it have pigs and sheep? Do you have fish like we ate for lunch?” Food is a basic concern everywhere. He asked my salary in Macau (a typical Chinese question) and said the interest would be enough to live on. But I had Bill explain that prices are also very high so that I am rather poor after all.
Since my parents are aging, I asked his advice on living well in old age. His advice was relatively simple and wholesome.
Don’t eat cold food. (This one puzzles me because I’ve never understood the Chinese concept of foods being hot or cold. It is not based on the temperature of the food. Chinese people just seem to know which foods are hot or cold without being able to explain why to me.)
Don’t drink cold drinks.
Don’t sleep too much, or in the middle of the day.
Be happy in spirit.
Keep active and busy.
He seems to live his philosophy successfully and still earns money for the extended family by his carpentry skill.
While China hurtles into the modern age at dizzying speed, the daily life of the countryside seems to stay the same. These wealthier peasant families in Zhejiang Province near Hangzhou have become wealthy quickly. With their money, they have built taller homes — a form of status. These homes may be more decorative, but don’t have the conveniences that could make life more comfortable. The cement locks in the bitter cold of winter more than the old style farmhouse. There is still no hot water except what must be heated rather laboriously in an old countryside-style stove. Keeping one’s body clean is a challenge. Keeping a hygienic kitchen is hard to imagine. The Chinese custom of putting chopsticks into the food in the communal serving dishes and then directly to the mouth and back again easily passes along illnesses.
Bodily functions and needs become a major concern. Consumption of food and elimination are not the simple matters they are in modern society. As a westerner, I dread both in the countryside. Food is heavily salted, which helps in preservation without refrigeration. All meals seem large to me, and as a guest, I am forcefed much like a pig being readied for market. It is uncomfortable both to say no and to say yes to such exaggerated hospitality.
During Spring Festival, one munches constantly between large meals — seeds, nuts, fruit, candies. Even at my size, I cannot begin to consume what the smallest Chinese person eats. I would die without a supermarket, so it amazes me how self-reliant they are about the food they eat. There is a room full of grains and roots and “stuff” which somehow turns into edible food. To a city westerner, it is magic.
The members of the family who are not cooking are happily unmindful of the cold as they laugh and shout over endless games of mahjong. The small children play and cry like any other cousins. Their unmittened hands seem warm, but their unnaturally rough-red cheeks and rotund layered bodies are signs of the cold. Accustomed to living with the cold, they laugh at my now five pairs of socks that I remove when I practice the wonderful Chinese custom of soaking my feet in a basin of warm water before going to bed. I’m sure they have no concept of how much my feet feel more like icicles than a warm-blooded human.
This is a big family and they all share in the many chores. The men readily join in all the washing of dishes and clothes, cooking, and child-watching. One night the grandfather prepares the meal for 14 people. It would not seem like a paradise to anyone else I know, but I believe the grandfather will not be as happy in heaven as he is these days.
To be continued…….
Tags: Chinese New Year in the countryside; Zhejiang Province;, Travel
