2025-10-03

Hold on to That Land

Picture of Yian Wang

Yian Wang

Before I went to college, my family had been farmers for generations.

My grandfather had farmed the same piece of land for decades. To knew that every brick of the house and every inch of soil carried the weight of our family’s survival. For us children growing up in the countryside, even gifts at holidays were often just a little extra vegetable oil or salt.

Every year, to make some extra money, we planted bamboo shoots. Bamboo shoots were very popular in spring, and once the weather turned warm, their chances of surviving decreased. To get ahead of the market, we often rushed to dig them up and sell them. Planting them in winter meant braving the cold wind and freezing rain. The key was to use large hoes to dig deep, muddy soil, so my grandmother would always tie straw sandals around my feet, sending me off to the muddy fields.

Grandfather often carried a hoe and walked slowly toward the fields. He would bend down, stretch out his wrinkled hands, and dig carefully into the wet mud, his thick fingers stained with dirt, never stopping for hours. His wide palms would push forward, pulling up one large bamboo shoot after another. With each swing of the hoe, sweat mixed with rain and flowed down his wrinkled cheeks. The heavy breathing, the sound of the hoe striking the earth, and the crisp snapping of fresh shoots all blended into the melody of his life.

The hardest part was the moment when the newly sprouted bamboo shoots were cut open—the cold winter wind rushing in, the damp air spreading out, but Grandfather never stopped. Even when his hands were chapped and bleeding, he kept working, whispering: “No matter how hard it is, the land won’t fail us.”

Once, when I hesitated, unsure if the muddy soil would even hold my weight, Grandfather gave me a demonstration. When his feet sank deep into the mud, his weight made the soil release a faint smell of grass and earth. As I followed, I suddenly understood—the land was alive, breathing with us, carrying the heavy footprints of generations. My doubt faded. Instead, I felt a kind of warmth: the land was firm, and as long as we trusted it, it would hold us steady.

After finishing the day’s work, Grandfather and I carried the shoots home in a basket. On the road back, he suddenly turned to me and said, “One day, when doctors and teachers come to the countryside, these farmers won’t need to work so hard anymore. But remember, even if they leave the land, they must always respect it. Because the land will never abandon the people who work it.”

I will never forget that moment. His voice was calm but firm, like the land itself. He said again: “This is what I must teach you—the most important thing. Even if you leave here, never forget the land.” His last words sank deep into my heart, as heavy as a plow striking the earth.

From then on, every time I stood on muddy soil, I remembered Grandfather’s bent back and weathered hands. Step by step, I walked along the path he had left for me. Even in the cold winter wind, I felt the warmth of the earth beneath my feet—the warmth that came from countless generations who had lived and died holding on to this land.

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