Chapter 6: Formidable Mei-Shi

Some things could only be understood through comparison.

Take right now, for instance. The family was poor, but her parents loved each other dearly, mother-in-law and daughter-in-law lived in harmony, and the family placed no harsh demands on Song Daya.

It had not been like this in her previous life.

In that life, her parents had both come from peasant backgrounds, and she had grown up in the countryside too. Being their only child, her parents held sky-high expectations for her; she had to outdo all the village boys in everything, right down to fistfights.

Later, after fighting her way into the working world, her colleagues all said she had a fierce streak. She was a woman of her word, stubborn to a fault, and unafraid to butt heads even with the boss.

Back then, she had deeply envied a female colleague in the adjacent office who had grown up bathed in parental praise, complimented for whatever she did.

Although her colleague’s features were quite ordinary, she possessed an open, confident beauty.

Later, she often thought that if she ever lived again, she definitely wouldn’t live like she used to, tougher than any man.

The way things were now was actually quite nice!

That night, after Song Daya fell asleep, Song Dalang and his wife also began discussing their daughter.

“Dalang, don’t you think Daya is a bit too clever? She even knows so many things we don’t…” Mei-Shi said, feeling an uneasy knot in her chest.

“The village elders used to say some children are just born smarter than the rest. Our Daya might just be one of them,” Song Dalang replied, thinking nothing of it.

“Still, wouldn’t being too clever…”

The elders also said that overly clever children were prone to dying young, but Mei-Shi couldn’t bring herself to utter those words.

“Rest easy, our Daya won’t!”

Understanding what his wife feared, Song Dalang wrapped his arm around her and comforted her softly.

“It’s late, let’s sleep. Who knows what new tricks Daya might dream up tomorrow…”

*

Early the next morning, Song Dalang went to neighboring Xiaojiacun, bought a few pastries, and visited the schoolmaster who had the best calligraphy in the village school to ask him to write the character “Song.”

In truth, back when Old Man Song had been fairly well-off, he had sent Song Dalang to school for a time.

But later on, Old Man Song ruined his health, and the family could no longer keep it up, forcing Dalang to abandon his studies.

As a result, Song Dalang recognized a few characters, but his writing was not up to par, so he still had to ask someone else for help.

In a rural village school, the commoners were poor, and the teacher normally accepted nothing more than cured meat for tuition.

Now, receiving pastries sweetened with honey, he was delighted, and swept his brush across the paper to write several different styles of the character “Song.”

“These sheets are regular script, running script, cursive script, and clerical script,” the teacher enthusiastically explained to Song Dalang. “If you don’t care for these, I can also write them in seal script or draft cursive…”

Song Dalang: That really won’t be necessary.

Cradling the precious sheets of paper, he returned home and showed them to his wife and daughter. Mei-Shi and Song Daya both chose the regular script because it was simple and easy to recognize.

Mei-Shi was skilled with needle and thread, so she first traced a pattern on a scrap of cloth, after which Song Dalang carved along the lines. In an instant, the lunchbox looked distinctly higher in quality.

Once the finished product was ready, even Old Mother Wu could hardly bear to put it down.

“It truly is lovely!” Old Mother Wu rarely spoke up, but now remarked, “Dalang smoothed it until there isn’t a splinter to catch a hand, Sanniang made a fine pattern, and the character looks wonderful too!”

Song Daya was amazed. “Aiya, Dad! Aiya, Mom! Even Grandmother says it looks good!”

The whole family broke into laughter.

Song Wulang spent five days crafting a hundred lunchboxes, a hundred water canteens, a hundred spoons, and a hundred and twenty pairs of chopsticks.

Mei-Shi hadn’t wanted to make so many at first, afraid they wouldn’t sell.

“Anyone can figure this out with a single glance. If it sells well, it’ll be too late to rush out more,” Song Dalang said. “I’d rather stockpile a bunch first. Worst comes to worst, I’ll just have to walk to a few more places to sell them.”

Mei-Shi thought it over, realized he had a point, and said no more.

Watching from the side, Song Daya felt that while the work looked simple enough, it wasn’t easy at all.

There were no grinding machines in this era, so every single chopstick had to be sanded by her parents by hand. Their hands were rubbed raw just from all that polishing.

She instantly felt as if she had come up with a rotten idea.

Song Dalang and Mei-Shi, however, were thrilled. Working late into the night, the two soaked the lunchboxes and canteens in saltwater, steamed and boiled them in batches, and laid them out to dry.

This was a method passed down from Old Man Song to season the bamboo and boost its resilience, ensuring the finished lunchboxes would not split easily.

This had taken a great deal of investment and hard work.

Next, the couple had to discuss how to sell them.

Mei-Shi suggested pairing each lunchbox with a canteen as a set to sell together rather than separately, and giving away a pair of chopsticks and a spoon with every set purchased.

Song Daya couldn’t help clapping her hands. “Mom, you’re a natural at business!”

Her mother had figured out how to run promotions completely on her own!

“Mom, look, why don’t you make a few shoulder bags specifically to carry the lunchboxes?” Song Daya offered another suggestion. “Your embroidery is so pretty. If we pair them with the lunchboxes and canteens, they’ll surely sell well!”

Mei-Shi considered it for a moment, then shook her head and declined.

“Your father is making these lunchboxes for families who don’t have bamboo, or who find it inconvenient to make them.”

Mei-Shi explained to her daughter.

“A shoulder bag, though, might sound novel, but any household with a woman in it can figure out how to make one with a single glance. Who would spend money on something they can make themselves?”

Thinking about it, Song Daya realized she was right. She had gotten full of herself and taken things for granted.

In the end, the couple selected several medium-sized sets and priced them at twelve wen each. The larger and smaller ones would fluctuate up or down by two or three wen from there.

They were not expensive, but they were not dirt cheap either.

Song Daya did not understand any of this, nor did she have a say.

She had only one wish.

“Dad, Mom, once you sell them and make some money, could you give me a copper wen?” Song Daya asked pitifully. “I’ve grown this big and never even touched a single coin before!”

“Sure!” Mei-Shi agreed readily. “When the time comes, I’ll give you one, string it on a red cord, and hang it around your neck.”

*

At the break of another dawn, Song Dalang and Mei-Shi both rose bright and early, loading half of the lunchboxes onto a shoulder pole to go sell them.

Worried the goods might not sell, the couple decided to go together so they could cover more ground.

Just as the couple was leaving, Song Daya happened to wake up.

She looked outside; the sky was still pitch-black!

Earning a bit of money was truly not easy for common folk these days.

But Song Daya had no better ideas. For one, she had no golden finger^[1]; for another, even if she did, she would not dare use it recklessly.

“Daya, listen to your grandma at home!” Mei-Shi repeatedly reminded her. “Whatever you do, don’t sneak out of the house!”

“Don’t worry, Mom, I’ll just play in the house,” Song Daya replied obediently.

The couple walked several Li [approx. 0.5 km each], arriving first at neighboring Xiaojiacun. Seeing that Xiaojiacun had little bustle to speak of, the two caught their breath and walked several dozen more Li to the town.

Song Dalang knew the town well. He picked an intersection and set up their stall.

Today was market day. The street quickly filled with people: some pushing wheelbarrows, some driving ox carts, others carrying loads on their shoulders or backs, and still others toting baskets, each making their way by their own means.

Song Dalang joined in the hawking, but the clamor from the stalls on either side was simply too loud, completely drowning him out.

Mei-Shi thought to herself that they had made so many lunchboxes and could not let their hard work go to waste. They had to sell them no matter what!

She was a clever woman to begin with, so right there on the street, she copied the others and began shouting her wares.

“Lunchboxes here-

“Pretty and practical lunchboxes here-

“Good for rice, dishes, and porridge!”

Passersby glanced over with curiosity, but once they got a clear look, they did not find them particularly novel.

“Aren’t these just bowls made of bamboo?” asked a young woman carrying a vegetable basket as she stepped closer to look.

“You have a sharp eye, ma’am!” Mei-Shi praised her first before talking up her goods. “These aren’t just bowls sawed out of any random stalk of bamboo. Our family’s lunchboxes are real quality.”