Chapter 5
Middle Age – Teaching Throughhardships
The year 1972 brought a long-lasting rain to Suining. It fell for weeks until the sky seemedlike a sheet of dull iron, and the sound on the school’s tile roof became a constant, heavy drumming. By mid-July, the rear wall of the classroom—its mud-brick already softened by decades of damp—began to weep. Water found its way through the cracked tiles, tracing dark lines down the plaster before gathering in cold pools on the earth floor. One morning when she arrived at school, she found her students huddled in the front rows. They clutched their textbooks to their chests and stared at the water that dripped steadily above the chalkboard.
Grandma put down her canvas bag. The strap was frayed. Inside, she had her lesson plans and a cold sweet potato left over from the day before. Kneeling, she touched the water with her fingers. It was cold, and it had already soaked through the knees of her trousers. “We will have class outside today,” she announced. Grandma led them to the great banyan tree at the edge of the village. Its broad, twisted branches formed a canopy that held back the drizzle. She spread a piece of oilcloth for the youngest to sit on. Under the open sky, the lesson began.
That afternoon, after the children had gone, she went to see the village head. She carried a bowl of pickled vegetables from her own kitchen and laid out the problemstraight forward. "If the rain continues, the wall will collapse. Children cannot learn beneath a tree forever." The village head rubbed his chin, and the motion deepened the lines on his face. "There is no money for new materials," he said. "The commune's grain quota has been raised. Every family is stretched thin."
She did notput pressure on him. She knew it was true. That evening, at the kitchen table where she mended her son's jacket, grandma spoke while my grandfather, Wang, scattered corn for the chickens. "I am going to repair the roof," she said as she pushed the needle through the thick cloth.
Grandp's hand stopped mid-air. “You? You have never set a tile. The pitch is steep—a fall from there would break bones." His voice held no anger, only deep weariness. The years had accumulated their burdens: his mother's long illness, their daughter's broken arm last year... The thought of another"public issue " was a weighthe seemed to be unable to shoulder.
She put down the needle and looked at him. She saw the gray in his hair and the roughness of his hands, marks left by the plow. "I will not do it alone," she said, and her tone softened. "I have spoken withUncle Cai. He used to mend roofs. He will help if I can give him a sack of potatoes. And I will tie a rope around my waist."
Wang studied her face for a long time. Then he let out a slow breath. "I will come too. Someone must hold the ladder."
The next morning, the rain relented, leaving a world soaked and steaming. Uncle Cai arrived with a hammer and a bundle of salvaged tiles. Wang braced the wooden ladder against the eaves, and his knuckles turned white where he gripped the sides. She climbed first. A rough rope was knotted around her waist and lashed to the trunk of a nearby tree. The tiles were slick, and once her foot slid out from under her; she caught herself on a roof beam while her heart hammered against her ribs. From below, Wang's voice floated up, tense: "Are you all right?" She swallowed before she called back, "Yes. Just keep the ladder steady."
They worked until the sun stood high, pulling away rotten straw and bedding new tiles in fresh mud. Uncle Cai showed her how to overlap them so the water would run off. "See?" He said as his calloused fingers positioned a tile. "Like scales on a fish—no gap for the rain to find." Grandma mimicked his motions. Soon her hands were stained with clay and dust. When the last tile was set, she handed Uncle Cai the sack of potatoes. He began to refuse, but she insisted. "You sacrificed your time," she said. "This is the compensation."
That evening, the rain started to rain again. Grandma stood outside the silent schoolhouse, watching. The repaired roof shed no water. A faint smile touched her lips before she remembered the fever that burned through her son at home and the porridge she had promised to make.
The mended roof was but one trial. A greater one arrived with the winter, when Li—a quiet, diligent girl whose eyes lit up at the sight of a book—ceased to appear in class. After the final lesson, she walked to the girl's home, a small cottage of mud-brick where rags stuffed the window frames. Li's mother opened the door with red-rimmed eyes. "She cannot return," the woman said as she stepped aside.
Inside, Li sat on the bed and mended a pair of trousers too small for her brother. She looked up as her teacher entered, but then she quickly dropped her gaze to her hands. "Teacher," she whispered.
She took a seat beside the girl and asked, "Why are you not in school?"
Li's mother answered, and her voice was heavy.
"Her father broke his leg last month—a fall from the cart. We need her here now. To tend the pigs, to fetch water, to cook. School is a luxury we cannot afford."
She looked at Li. The girl's eyes were bright with tears.
"Do you wish to stop your studies?" She asked.
Li shook her head. "No," she murmured. "But Mother needs me."
That night, grandma failed to sleep. She thought of Li's neat rows of characters, of the girl lingering after class to borrow books, and of an essay she had written about becoming a nurse. She thought, too, of her own father and the sheep he had sold. The next morning, she took half the rice remaining in her own pantry, placed it in a bag, and walked back.
Grandma turned to Li's mother. "I will help. Each morning, I will fetch your water before school. Each evening, I will see to the pigs. Li can attend her lessons if she does her chores before and after." She held out the bag of rice. "This will help for a week. After that, we will find another way."
Li's mother stared, and then she covered her face with her hands. "Why would you do this? You have your own family to feed."
She merely shrugged. "Because someone once did the same for me." "And because Li is clever. If she stops now, she will lose the chance forever."
So, for two months, she rose in the dark. She walked to the well, drew the cold water for Li's household, and helped slop the pigs. Then she hurried to the schoolhouse. The damp from the well continued to darken her shoes. In the evenings, by the light of a kerosene lamp, she reviewed the day's lessons with the girl beside the hearth.
Li did more than keep pace; she soared. She finished the year at the head of the class, and when she handed her teacher a final essay—"I want to help people, like my teacher does"—the words blurred for a moment before her eyes. She folded the paper with care. She then placed it in her canvas bag next to her own worn lesson plans.
That winter, Wang found her at the table with Li's essay before her. "You are taking too much upon yourself," he said as he set a cup of hot water beside her. "You are worn thin."
She looked up and offered a smile that was weary but clear. "I am tired, but I am not sorry. Do you remember my father selling the goat? This is what it was for. So that no child has to stop learning simply because life is hard."
Grandpa nodded. He reached across the table and took her hand—her fingers were rough from chalk, from rope, from well-water and pig-buckets. But they were warm.
Outside, the wind moved through the village. The first snow began to fall. It was gentle and silent, covering the world in a soft, white blanket. Inside, the fire in the hearth crackled, and her canvas bag rested on the bench. It held within it lessons, essays, and the quiet, steadfast vow made long ago: to teach, no matter the storm.
