Chapter Eight: Grandfather Rooster

The old man was up early, and Hong Tao couldn't sleep either. He decided there was no point trying—after all, in his previous life he’d had the habit of going for a morning run in the park, so why not keep it up in this life as well? His grandfather was surprised that this little rascal wanted to join him for exercise in the park, but he didn’t object. In fact, he was delighted to take his grandson along as they set off together toward Ditan Park.

Back in '76, there was no subway on the Second Ring Road. Hong Tao couldn’t remember exactly which year the subway’s Line Two was built, but he knew it was after he’d started primary school. During its construction, the entire side of the Second Ring was dug up, turned into a massive trench, which severely interfered with his adventures leading his little team to play in Ditan Park. He’d once led them across a metal pipe over the trench, only to be caught by workers and reported to the school. As a result, the squad leader badge he’d worked so hard to earn was stripped from him.

At that time, the Second Ring Road wasn’t as wide as it is now. There were no overpasses or elevated roads—just a simple street with wooden utility poles on either side, coated with pitch-black tar for preservation. Beyond the Second Ring was the moat, which, like the road, was nothing impressive back then—just a shallow, muddy stream less than a meter deep. Both banks were lined with massive willow trees, each requiring two people to encircle them, spaced every few meters, stretching endlessly as far as the eye could see.

The old folks called these “official willows.” At first, Hong Tao used the name as well. Later, when he was older, he happened to recall it and looked it up online, only to learn that “official willow” wasn’t a botanical term at all, but a colloquial way to refer to willows planted by the authorities or in large batches—a custom dating back to the Jin dynasty, it’s said.

Ditan Park lay just outside the Second Ring, though back then it wasn’t even called a park—just Ditan, the Temple of Earth—a site from the Qing dynasty used for imperial sacrifices to the Earth God. After the founding of the People’s Republic, it was turned into a park, but unlike Beihai, Zhongshan, or the Summer Palace, it wasn’t recognized as a real park by Beijing’s citizens. It was practically deserted, with no entrance fee, just a vast, overgrown tract of land surrounded by high brick walls, open to anyone who wished to come in. Outside the south gate was an empty expanse, flanked on either side by military barracks. A small iron bridge stood there, facing directly toward the park’s south entrance.

People back then didn’t have the habit of morning exercise. Most needed to rise early for work, and those left at home were either the elderly or children. In those days, folks had only just begun to eat their fill, with little oil or fat in their diets—so no one worried about getting diabetes, gout, or high cholesterol, those so-called “diseases of affluence.” Even fat people were rare.

As for running, boxing, or dancing in the morning—well, there were a few, but very few. The more you exercised, the hungrier you got, and with no snacks at home, most families had only three meals a day and ate every grain. Unless it was a festival or New Year’s, there simply wasn’t anything extra to eat, so few people went to parks for exercise with nothing better to do.

But that’s not to say people didn’t value physical fitness. In fact, they were more enthusiastic about sports than people today. Every proper work unit—whether government office, factory, or school—started their day after clocking in with group calisthenics on the playground or an open square. Every day around eight, you’d hear the broadcast calisthenics music playing everywhere.

At the time, the labor unions did more than just hand out movie tickets or women’s products; they organized all sorts of sports competitions—within departments, between neighborhoods, between police and civilians, between soldiers and civilians. Every work unit had teams for table tennis, badminton, basketball, volleyball, and soccer, and the skill levels weren’t low, either. In the 1980s, many national team athletes were recruited directly from these work units and factories—assembled together, they became the national team. That was true “national fitness.”

This year, Ditan Park was lively. Even before reaching the main gate, Hong Tao could see people coming and going of all kinds and all ages. But these people weren’t there to exercise—they actually lived in the park, or to be precise, their temporary homes were there: earthquake shelters.

Anyone born in Beijing in the 1970s would remember the term “earthquake shelter,” as it was a defining feature of the city at that time. The name came about because the Tangshan earthquake in ’76 affected Beijing as well. Few buildings collapsed or people were killed, but many old houses developed cracks. Fearing aftershocks, the city government allocated timber, tar paper, and other building materials, and the neighborhood committees organized the construction of temporary shelters in open spaces for residents to live in until the danger had fully passed.

The earthquake struck in July, the height of summer, so the shelters were simple: a few wooden posts or bamboo poles stood upright, a tarpaulin thrown over, tied down with rope and weighted with bricks. The main point was to keep out the rain, not the cold.

At the time, Beijing’s urban area had few tall buildings and lots of open ground. Each neighborhood put shelters wherever was convenient. Since Hong Tao’s neighborhood was near Ditan Park, and the park was as empty as could be, their shelters were set up right inside. As a child, Hong Tao loved staying in the shelters—Ditan Park was fun, full of tall trees, and the shade kept it cool during the day. There were all sorts of toys for kids: dragonflies darting everywhere, cicadas singing from morning till night, magpies and crows nesting in the branches, crickets in the cracks of the walls, grasshoppers in the undergrowth, and so on.

But as he remembered, he’d only stayed in the shelters for two days before his father dragged him home. His grandmother’s courtyard had once been a temple, built solidly with brick and tile and hardly affected by the quake—at most, a little plaster fell. Hong Tao’s own family lived in a three-story building that had served as army barracks a couple of years prior—solidly built as well. During the quake, the building shook but didn’t even lose any plaster. Neither his family nor his grandmother’s had to move into the shelters, so Hong Tao missed out on the fun—a lifelong regret.

The people coming and going from Ditan Park now were the neighbors from the area. Some had homes with cracks and didn’t dare sleep indoors; others, whose houses were fine, were simply too frightened to return, preferring to endure hardship in the shelters rather than risk their lives. But this would soon change—with autumn coming, the weather would get colder, living in the shelters would become unbearable, and as aftershocks faded, the remaining residents would have no choice but to go home.

“Old Hu, whose child is this?” A neighbor who knew his grandfather spotted him leading a little boy into the park early in the morning and called out, surprised.

“My second daughter’s son—my eldest grandson! Call him Grandpa Liu!” his grandfather replied, prompting Hong Tao to greet the man.

“Good morning, Grandpa Liu!” Hong Tao glanced at the speaker. He looked barely fifty, yet Hong Tao himself was over forty, and still had to call him “Grandpa”—how unreasonable! But in Beijing, etiquette and face mattered—even if two people weren’t on good terms, as long as they knew each other, greetings in public were a must, and you had to use the proper title. Calling a “grandpa” an “uncle” was an insult, and vice versa was even worse.

As for how to sort out these family ranks, there was no universal standard—it was usually decided case by case, hardly ever compared unless everyone gathered together and then ranked according to the parents’ or grandparents’ generation.

“Hey! Good kid, so polite. How old are you?” Since the other was speaking to them, it would be rude to walk on without replying, so Hong Tao’s grandfather stopped to chat a bit.

“Four years old!”

“Four, and already this tall—I thought you were in school! What are you doing in the park with your grandpa so early?” This old man was a chatterbox and wouldn’t stop questioning Hong Tao.

“Exercising to protect myself! Grandpa Liu, you should work on your belly—it’s nearly as big as a cricket’s! Look at my grandpa, he’s all muscle!” As he spoke, Hong Tao’s tongue started to run away with him—his habit of teasing from his previous life wouldn’t change overnight.

“Hahaha… ha ha ha…” As soon as Hong Tao finished, everyone nearby burst out laughing.

“Old Hu, who taught your grandson? He’s got the nerve to tease his Grandpa Liu!” Old Liu wasn’t angry—who’d take a child seriously? Banter was just a way to pass the time.

“You’re not wrong; you really should work on that flab. Come on, dear boy, let’s leave Grandpa Liu alone and go build some muscle!” Hong Tao’s grandfather admired everything about his grandson, even his insults and jibes—far from scolding him, he joined in.

“Just keep spoiling him!” Old Li called after them, half laughing, half scolding.

“Of course! If I don’t spoil my grandson, who will? See you around!” Hong Tao’s grandfather didn’t take “spoiling” as an insult at all—he saw it as confirmation of his role as head of the family. Even a rooster guards its chicks from hawks, so why shouldn’t a man do the same?

At this time, Ditan Park was desolate and open. Aside from a few dilapidated halls, there were only groves and wild grass—no asphalt or concrete paths, just dirt trails worn by footsteps. Hong Tao didn’t dare run in his plastic sandals—they’d fall apart before he’d gone two hundred meters on such roads. But if he couldn’t run, he could still exercise, so he decided to learn tai chi from his grandfather. Whether or not it was authentic didn’t matter—the goal was just to move his body, not to become a martial arts master.