Between a child and a mother, the mother is always an overloaded ship, willing to endure wind and waves, hardships and difficulties.
In the winter of 1986, our whole family followed the national plan to build the Dongjiang Lake area, and moved the entire family to a small town called Longxi. It was a remote mountainous area where the permanent residents were scattered. Sometimes you had to walk for miles before you could see a house. Since we were newcomers, unfamiliar with the place, and our family income was extremely meager. Moreover, my biological father had passed away many years ago, and my stepfather was exceptionally brutal, often drunk, leaving the heavy burden of the family's livelihood on my mother alone.
In 1987, my siblings and I started going to school one after another, and our originally poor home seemed to have welcomed another round of freezing after a heavy snowfall! To pay for tuition and living expenses, my mother worked tirelessly from dawn till dusk. Her weary figure could be seen everywhere in the fields. In July of that year, the township government decided to open a farmers' market, setting the days of the lunar calendar 3, 6, and 9 as market days. To get cash, my mother decided to sell vegetables at the farmers' market every time.
On the day the farmers' market opened, the township invited a flower-drum opera troupe, and I nagged to watch the play. My mother reluctantly agreed and took me along. We stopped frequently along the way, and it wasn't until 8:30 in the morning, after walking five miles, that we reached the market. My mother went to sell vegetables at the farmers' market, while I squeezed into the crowd around the opera troupe, watching the performance through the gaps between people.
Time quickly reached noon at 12 o'clock, and after selling her vegetables, my mother found me: "Dong'er, I met an acquaintance who runs a noodle shop at the farmers' market. They have buns, noodles, and very delicious sour and spicy noodles. Let's go and try something new."
After eating the sour and spicy noodles, my mother and I hurried back. However, I kept reminiscing about the taste of the noodles—sour, sweet, spicy, and fragrant—and looked forward to the next time I would go to the market with my mother...
As time went on, life became even more difficult. On every market day, if I wasn't studying at school, my mother would either arrange for me to watch cattle or collect firewood. By the time I reached junior high school, my older brother and I had no choice but to think of ways to earn money, contributing our meager efforts toward tuition fees. Going to the market with my mother gradually became a luxury, then an unreachable dream, forgotten because it was unattainable. Thankfully, every time my mother returned from selling vegetables at the market, she would bring back a bag full of various kinds of buns. Although they didn’t match the flavor of the sour and spicy noodles, they still satisfied our cravings. With bits of bun filling still on my lips, my mother stood beside me smiling silently. Confused, I asked: "Mother, why don't you eat the buns?"
"Ho ho," my mother smiled even brighter, "I ate sour and spicy noodles at the noodle shop in the farmers' market, so I'm not hungry."
"Mother must have good luck, every time she goes to the market, she gets to eat sour and spicy noodles," I muttered enviously.
Before I knew it, I had graduated from technical secondary school and left home to live independently. Unpredictably, the devastating flood disaster of July 15th in 2006 caused landslides, and the merciless mudslides destroyed our few earthen brick houses where we lived. Tears streaming down her face, my mother purchased a red-brick house at the edge of the suburban county to live in.
However, my aging mother often mentioned the sour and spicy noodles from the Longxi farmers' market. Sometimes while talking about them, tears would well up in her eyes. Last winter, I couldn't resist my mother's persistence, and coinciding with market day, I accompanied her to Longxi.
The rural minibuses wound their way along narrow mountain roads like chicken intestines, and all the passengers delightedly watched the scenery outside the windows. My mother, however, hung her head thoughtfully. As soon as we got off the bus, my mother wobbled directly towards the farmers' market. There was no longer the bustling activity of the past; only a few women selling vegetables idly played cards. The items in the market also appeared dilapidated.
"Old sister, how could you come?" The sharp-eyed noodle shop owner immediately recognized my mother.
"Yes, I couldn't bear to leave you. I specially brought Dong'er to visit you. He still remembers the bowl of sour and spicy noodles you cooked for him," my mother said leisurely, "Come on, let's have two bowls of sour and spicy noodles."
My mother sat down at an empty seat. The noodle shop owner was astonished: "Don't you want bran steamed buns (buns made from rice bran) anymore? You used to eat bran steamed buns."
"Bran steamed buns?" Not sour and spicy noodles? This time I stood motionless in the cold, deserted farmers' market, my heart filled with doubts: "Didn't my mother eat a bowl of sour and spicy noodles every time she went to the market?"
"You, how could your mother afford to eat noodles? A bran steamed bun costs only three cents, while a bowl of noodles costs seventy cents. A load of vegetables sells for at most ten yuan or so, and when prices are low, it sells for only five or six yuan. All of you siblings are studying, which requires much expenditure. How could I afford it? Sigh... This way, I saved a few jiao and brought back a few buns..." The noodle shop owner sighed.
"Don't say more, old sister. Every time you deliberately gave me a few extra buns, afraid I would reject them, and told me it was a mistake. I've been thinking about it. Now Dong'er has become successful, so I brought him here to repay your favor. Thank you for your kindness over the years," my mother's tears flowed like a flood.
"It's fine if it's not repaid! I'm already an old woman on the verge of death. These years, thanks to this noodle shop, my life has been prosperous, unlike you, raising children as a widow. Not only did you endure humiliation without complaint, but you also managed to send your children to school despite financial difficulties," the noodle shop owner responded.
"Let's not talk about it, let's not talk about it. Let's see if your skills have improved," my mother interrupted the conversation.
Listening to these words, I was shocked speechless for a long time, just standing dumbly in that already decrepit noodle shop. The steaming hot bowl of sour and spicy noodles on the table—I don't know how I ate it, unable to distinguish whether it was sour or spicy, or whether it was tears or noodles.
Suddenly, I remembered Lao She's description of his mother: Life was given to me by my mother. I grew up under her blood and sweat. I became a person who is not entirely bad due to her influence. My character and habits were passed down from my mother. She never enjoyed a single day of happiness throughout her life, and even ate coarse grain when she died. Alas! What else can I say? Heartache! Heartache!
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