Sunday, April 16, 2017

Young me as a farmer

Now here is a good story.

I was raised by 19th century Mandarins. Specifically, I was raised by my maternal grandparents, who were born in 1900 and 1911. My grandfather came from a well-to-do background. Manual labor was foreign to him. He spent his childhood reciting ancient poems and practicing calligraphy. My grandmother was never taught how to read or write. And her feet were partially bound.

Hilarity ensued when they raise a grandchild in the late 1970s. Progressive and forward-thinking they were not. I was discouraged from playing outside or even to sweat. And even though we lived in Taiwan, speaking Taiwanese was strictly forbidden.

So one day, some family friends thought-- Wouldn't it be funny if they took me to a farm for a week?

On the first day, I encountered mud. I didn't know what it was, except it looked like wet dirt. I took a step and was ankle deep in it. The result can be seen in this photo, which I recently uncovered.

On that trip, I was also introduced to thousand year old eggs. I found them revolting then, but now I love them.

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