一、飛來橫禍，少女的隱痛與高考失利
上海人常說「一二勿過三」，意思是倒霉事頂多兩件，第三件總該轉運了。可俗話也說：「屋漏偏逢連夜雨，船遲又遇打頭風」。繼77年和78年的兩次高考相繼落榜、結結實實挨了兩記悶棍之後，就在這短短的一年裡，老天居然把第三記悶棍，也給我砸了下來。那是真真切切的「澳門痛」——一種有苦說不出的痛。
那時，漁業隊的老房子已經分配給其他連隊使用，我們的老寢室裡住了四五個男生。我每次騎自行車出門，還是要經過那裡。老房子東邊有一條四五十米長的小彎道，兩旁灌木叢生，通往一條可以推車上到兩米多高夯土大堤的斜坡。途中，還要經過一個搭著兩塊木板、長滿野草的小幹溝。每次騎車經過這座木板小窄橋，都必須做到穩、準、快，否則就得乖乖的下車推過去。
年輕時的我比較愛逞能，上海話叫「投三投四」或「投五投六」。每次經過，我都喜歡冒險快速騎過去。前車軲轆過去了、後車軲轆一偏掉進溝裡的事，以前也發生過一次，好在幹溝不深，並沒傷著。
1978年秋日的某一天，我又一次騎車快速通過了小幹溝。正得意著拐彎呢，突然，後車轱轆咯噔地彈跳了一下。車子沒倒，我卻被猛地顛了一下。硬硬的牛皮車坐墊，生生地把我給硌著了。說時遲那時快！胯下正中間有拳頭大小的區域，像是被引爆了一顆炸彈，瞬間一股劇烈疼痛閃電般襲來。
「嗚哇——！」我差點兒沒哭出聲來。慌忙下了車，雙手摀著小腹蹲下身子，臉色煞白，淚水在眼眶裡打轉，大半天都緩不過勁兒來。原來，我的後車軲轆剛才壓過了一顆碎石塊兒。
剛才坐在我們老屋門前的一位高個子男生走了過來，看到我痛苦地蹲在地上，問我怎麼了、要不要幫忙。我說不出話來，只是強打笑顏，尷尬地、弱弱地朝他搖了搖頭。一想起剛才自己神神抖抖過窄木板橋的得意樣子,肯定被他看在了眼裡，心裡的羞愧甚至蓋過了疼痛。
我強忍著痛，推著車一步一步挪回宿舍。脫下褲子看，一灘鮮紅的血啊！心裡慌亂得不得了。第二天，褲子上還有點兒血跡。真是不如意之事接踵而來。
第二天，正好場部醫院婦產科的一位40歲左右的上海老知青W醫生陪人來隊裡買魚。聊天時，我跟她說了這件事，擔心地問她：「要緊伐？」她說，那就是處女膜破了，隨即問我：「要我忒儂看看伐？」比我懂事兒的室友D也在一旁勸：「對、對、對，讓W醫生檢查一下，開個證明。」
可我那時候根本不懂開證明幹嘛，給誰看，誰會查問。既然無大礙，少女的羞澀也讓我沒好意思讓W醫生給看看。W醫生說，騎車的姑娘很容易破處。
后来，也后悔过当初没让W医生给看看，那样的话就会有个诊断证明了，万一将来遇到什么麻烦的话，也能有个交代。可是世间是没后悔药賣的。六年後的那第一次，照樣疼，甚至有一種上海話裡「拆骨頭」般硬生生骨肉分離的痛楚，但確實沒有流一滴血。
二、山區療癒，時代齒輪下的家庭命運
兩次高考落榜，加之身體遭此意外，我情緒十分低落。但也正因如此，我迎來了人生中第一次出遠門的機會——去大山深處療癒。1979年初，我跟著六哥去江西，與在那裡的父母團聚一起過年。那時，六哥正在辦理頂替手續。等我爸正式退了休，他就可以在江西工作，不用再回到雲南西雙版納的深山老林裡，天還沒亮就去橡膠林割膠、喝那沒油水的「玻璃湯」了。
回想起來，我們一家的命運軌跡，早就在環環相扣的歷史齒輪中被悄悄注定了。父親是1914年在北京出生的，屬虎。1973年，他積極報名參加支援小三線建設，毅然離開上海去了七一二廠。後來母親也去了江西，跟爸爸團聚。按照常理，父親在1974年滿60歲就該退休了，也許他是廠裡老資格的八級工，技術過硬，國家需要他繼續發光發熱，做點「貢獻」，於是便繼續留任、晚退休了幾年。
直到1979年我進山時，65歲的父親依然在崗位上忙碌。而正是這寶貴的幾年延遲退休，才給六哥的命運留出了一線生機——如果父親按時退休了，此時六哥的「頂替」恐怕就完全沒影兒了。
六哥的命運在早年其實挺「慘」的。他小時候有幸進了人人羨慕的5年制「普陀區中心小學」，比那些只能讀6年制小學的同齡人早一年畢業。可誰能想到，命運竟然這樣折磨人，這寶貴的一年領先，卻偏偏讓他迎頭趕上了知識青年上山下鄉的一片紅，只能捲起鋪蓋去西雙版納割膠。
好在1978年國家出台了知青頂替政策，他才終於有機會離開雲南的深山，來到了江西這家國家級大廠。他於1979年底正式進入七一二廠，在車隊裡從修車幹起，後來開車。直到1986年，恰逢上海剛剛開放、極其缺乏成熟司機，加之夫妻分居兩地的困難，他才得以正式調回上海，在電視台開車。
我六嫂也曾是雲南建設兵團與六哥同一個連隊的，不過她先回了上海。這背後，或許也是得益於頂替政策，抑或是與1978年底那場震撼全國的雲南知青大返城運動爆發有關。
爸爸退休後與母親一同回到上海，在1982年左右前往北京居住了一年多。在那個物資匱乏、生活條件艱苦的年代，出一趟遠門是一件天大的事情，普通人根本沒有餘錢四處出遊。那是老倆口離開故土40多年後，這輩子頭一次、也是最後一次回北京看看。
三、初出遠門，火車與大山深處的震撼
再說79年去江西過年，那是我第一次出遠門，一切都是那樣的新鮮。最有感觸的是第一次目睹火車站裡那湧進湧出、擠上擠下的人群。恍惚間，我似乎看到了芸芸眾生急急投胎來世，又匆匆趕著離去，便生出一陣茫然與惆悵。
車廂裡比較擁擠。對面靠窗坐著一位長相英俊的男子，三十上下，而且很愛幹淨。水杯碗筷都用潔白柔軟的捲筒紙擦了又擦。在那個年月，我從未見過那種紙，後來才知道那是捲筒衛生紙，更沒見過洗完的碗筷用紙擦了又擦的講究男子。六哥在一旁調侃說，對坐的那個男的讓我不淡定了，看那男子的眼神都不對了。我心虛地犟嘴道：「哪能呢！」其實，面對心裡隱隱有感覺的男子，我哪裡敢正眼去看，流露出來的往往是加倍的矜持與清高。
在萍鄉車站下了火車，再乘長途車進山。在平原長大的我，爬過的只是上海長風公園裡那座26米高的人造「鐵臂山」。這一下闖入了滿目蔥蘢的山區，感覺除了驚嘆，還有心顫。有一個急轉彎是在懸崖峭壁上，我坐在外側靠窗，轉彎處窗下根本看不見路肩。我本能地緊閉雙眼，咬緊牙關才熬了過去。六哥因為在西雙版納大山裡工作，每次下了火車還要坐長途車顛簸四天四夜才能到達目的地，人早就皮實了。
汽車在大山深處穿行，偶爾能見到一些穿著黑衣服、滿身泥土的半大孩子，彎著腰背著高高的柴禾。看到車子路過會停下來，用茫然、空洞的目光看著車子駛過。那情景剎那間使人感到心酸或是悲憐。感覺我們生活在兩個不同的世界。我雖然沒有考上大學，心情低落，但跟他們比好太多了。
幾經周折，我們終於來到了坐落在棋盤山區的國營七一二廠。那個廠子是國家的重點工程，是上海五四二廠的小三線企業。曾屬於保密單位，連家屬都不知道他們的工作性質，不像現在，公司的招牌上可以直接大大方方地寫上「印鈔」二字。山裡的工人和職工家屬生活條件極好，開闊整潔大氣。山腳下，一條清澈的小溪緩缓缓流淌。放眼遠眺，群山環繞，雲卷雲舒，真是美極了的地方。
父母的家在半山坡上一棟三層樓的底層，兩房，沒廳，沒內廁，有小伙房。母親還養了幾隻下蛋的鸡。平時，老兩口經常登上後山鍛煉身體。有一天，他們帶我上了後山，我爬得氣喘吁吁，他倆卻「勝似閒庭信步」。可等到了下山，果然應了那句老話：上山容易下山難！山路很陡，往下看一眼，感覺人就會栽下去。我的雙腿發顫、心亂跳、頭發暈。
於是，爸爸走在前面擋住我的視線，牽著我的手，母親走在後面拽著我的衣服。我走在正中間，低著頭，一小步、一小步地往下蹭。直到終於蹭到了山下，我才長長地鬆了一口氣。
四、絕境逢生，風雪之夜的貴人相助
山區的清新與寧靜，讓我從高考失利的低落情緒中，慢慢恢復了過來。
大年初三那天，我意外接到了四哥從上海的來信，說華東師大給我寄了一份體檢通知。我的心狂跳了起來。那是教育局委託華師大舉辦的一期教輔人員培訓班，學期兩年，畢業後給予中專待遇，由市教育局統一分配至本市有關高校大專和新辦的各分校，從事實驗員教輔工作。哇！雖然只是個中專，距理想太遠，但好壞也算是跨入了夢寐以求的大學校園哪。
記得小時候去長風公園，過了金沙江路，到公園2號門的那段棗陽路平時很清靜。夏日炎炎的午後，路上人煙尤其稀少，走在路面發燙、有些發白的柏油馬路上，鞋底偶爾還會粘上點黑色的柏油。滿耳朵灌的是路東邊那條雜草叢生的小河兩岸傳出的、此起彼伏的各種小昆蟲的叫聲。樹上的知了也不厭其煩地叫著「熱死它、熱死它」。那條小河像是公園「西老河」的支流末端，河對岸一溜望不到頭的竹籬笆，後面是鬱鬱蔥蔥的樹木，參差的樹梢上，隱隱約約地露出高低錯落的樓頂。
這邊沒橋沒路，無法通往河對岸。這就加深了我對那片世界的好奇，那籬笆和綠林給好奇添上了神秘，令人覺得是那麼的遙不可及。每每路過那裡，我都會對籬笆裡面的世界產生遐想。不曾想，那片小時候心心念念、無限憧憬的地方，竟然就是華東師大的校園。
先別高興得太早，再往下一瞅，報到日期是1979年2月3日。牆上的掛曆清楚地寫著今天是大年初三，1月30日。只剩四天了！錯過就是自動放棄！我的心頓時涼了半截，外面大雪封山，交通斷絕，我怎麼可能趕得上去報到？！我爸媽去跟廠長說了這個緊急的狀況。善良、通情達理、體卹職工的廠長，立刻答應讓他的司機開著他的專用吉普車送我下山。我爸媽也坐在車裡，吉普車在冰天雪地的大山裡穿行，連夜送我到了萍鄉火车站，搭上了回上海的火車。
我沒見到過廠長，也不知道他姓什麼，一直心存感激的是一位善良的老廠長。結果2024年5月，時隔46年，我問了六哥，才知道廠長姓楊，叫楊福基，當時才40幾歲！那麼年輕就是一所保密級別極高的大廠的廠長了！真是一位年輕有為、敢於擔當、有能力有氣魄的少帥啊！
後來想想，如果沒有那位福建「大學生」老S的一兩次功課輔導，高考時可能就少了關鍵的幾分；如果沒有四哥及時把體檢通知信息千里迢迢寄到大山裡，如果沒有小三線楊廠長的吉普車連夜雪中送我下山，我可能就錯過了報到。人生路上的這幾個「轉折點」，每一個都閃爍著那個時代人與人之間最純粹的善意。他們每一個，都是我生命中的貴人。
五、夢迴廠址，對七一二廠的追憶與父親的夢境
十二年前上網查國營七一二廠，這個爸爸、媽媽和六哥曾經工作、生活過的地方。卻找到了這張一片廢墟的照片。這裡曾經是那麼的充滿生機，如今卻是人去樓空、一片荒涼。看得心裡好一陣惆悵。如今再看，這種潛在心底的隱痛再度復甦。一棟棟孤寂的樓房，一個個空洞的門窗，那緊緊扒著斷壁殘垣的遒勁枯藤，看了除了感傷，還是感傷。嘆歲月無情，世事無常。
爸爸在我的夢中總共才出現過三、四次。
早在他出事前的十天，也就是1987年4月29日，我就做了一個極其反常而可怕的夢，夢見父親在公共浴室裡溺水。那是我這輩子頭一次夢見父母。幾天後，爸爸去廠裡領退休工資順便泡了個澡，回家的途中在公交車站出了意外，幾天后不幸去世。
第二次的夢境是一個秋夜，風很大，爸爸睡在一張公園椅上，周圍很空曠，覺得他很冷。後來爸爸就向遠方隱去了。我當時在讀雪城大學（SU），專業是計算機圖形學，正在學用電腦作畫，這便是我用Alice三維應用程序做的那張椅子。
第三次是2007年12月3日，看到爸爸在一棟廢墟樓的二層，靠牆坐著，很感悲涼。我問他是否要去我那裡。他問我，「你過得好嗎？」其實他也知道我過得不咋樣。
然後他就隱去了。是對這片曾經工作過的地方留戀而回訪嗎？這真是片夢魂繚繞的地方，我的夢他的魂。
第四次夢裡，是他有家了，房屋幹淨簡潔，爸爸的臉上還帶著笑容。
七一二廠在1983年10月21日搬遷去了南昌。有報道說，國營七一二廠舊址在2011年12月被蓮花縣定為縣級重點文物保護單位。慶幸啊，在故土之上，終於有那麼一片我去過的地方，也是父母及六哥曾經工作生活過的地方，會長期保留下去。
故國變化太大了，曾經走過、待過的地方大都已是面目全非，再也回不去、找不著了的。但幸好，那片大山深處的驚心動魄與純粹善意，已經永遠刻在了1979年大年初三的那個風雪之夜。
六、圓夢師大，十年韶華與歲月流轉
也是在1979年，命運用幾記「悶棍」將我「打」到了那排籬笆的另一邊，那片兒時心心念念、十分憧憬的地方。
入校後，我還特地繞到校園西側「老三館」後邊那片人跡罕至的綠林裡。我想去親自感受一下，去圓那個孩提時代就懷揣著的夢。只可惜當時那片林子稀稀疏疏的大概只有四、五排樹，但給了我空寂落鄉的陰森森的感覺，彷彿與世隔絕。我立刻「逃」了出來，也沒能親手去摸一摸後面斑駁的竹籬笆。發覺有點葉公好龍啊。
那時，小河的北端其實已經幹枯了，但籬笆還在。河西食堂旁邊的籬笆牆上有個大豁口，後來我在師大工作時，和同辦公室一位同事的女友——那個青春靚麗的嗲妹妹，還經常一起鑽過那個籬笆洞，橫穿過已經幹枯了的河床，抄近路去住師大二村的她男朋友家玩。
再後來，歲月流轉，路邊雨後春筍般出現了許多小商店和小飯店，那條陪伴了我童年遐想的小河，便徹底消失在了地圖上。
我在華師大讀書、工作，這一呆，就是整整十年。人生中最青春、最美麗的時光，就這樣飄然灑落在了這片曾經如此遙不可及、離開後卻又依然讓我魂縈夢繞的校園裡。
Beyond the Bamboo Fence and Deep in the Mountains: Echoes of 1979
Part I: An Unexpected Disaster: A Maiden’s Hidden Pain and Exam Failure
Folks in Shanghai often say, "Misfortune never outlives a third turn," meaning bad luck peaks at two, and the third time should bring a change of fortune. Yet, as another old saying goes, "When the roof leaks, it rains non-stop; when the boat is delayed, it faces a headwind." Following my failures in the 1977 and 1978 college entrance exams—two solid, heavy blows to my life—heaven saw fit to hurl a third blow right at me within that single, short year. It was a deep, searing ache—the kind of pain you swallow in silence, unable to utter a single word.
By then, the old housing of the fishery team had been reassigned to other squads, and four or five young men had moved into our old dormitory. Every time I rode my bicycle out, I still had to pass by that place. To the east of the old house lay a winding path about forty to fifty meters long, flanked by overgrown bushes, leading up a slope to a two-meter-high rammed-earth levee. Along the way, I had to cross a small, weed-filled dry ditch bridged only by two wooden planks. Racing across this narrow wooden footbridge required absolute stability, precision, and speed; otherwise, you had to swallow your pride, get off, and push the bike. In my youth, I loved to show off—what we call "tou-san-tou-si" in Shanghai dialect. Every time I passed it, I took the risk and sped across. Once before, my front wheel made it over, but the back wheel slipped into the ditch. Luckily, the ditch wasn't deep, and I escaped unhurt.
One autumn day in 1978, I once again sped across that small dry ditch on my bike. Just as I was turning the corner, flushed with pride, the back wheel suddenly gave a sharp, violent jolt. The bicycle didn't topple, but I was thrown upward. The hard, stubborn leather of the bicycle seat slammed mercilessly against me. Before I could even register what happened, a fist-sized area right between my thighs felt as if a bomb had been detonated; a wave of excruciating pain struck like lightning. "Waaah—!" A cry nearly escaped my throat. I frantically scrambled off the bike, clutching my lower abdomen as I squatted on the ground, my face turning deathly pale. Tears welled up in my eyes, and it took an eternity just to catch my breath. As it turned out, my back wheel had just run over a rogue piece of crushed stone.
A tall boy who had been sitting outside our old housing walked over. Seeing me squatted on the ground in agony, he asked what was wrong and if I needed help. Unable to speak, I forced a tight smile, awkwardly and weakly shaking my head at him. The thought that he had undoubtedly seen me moments before, acting all high and mighty as I dashed across that narrow plank bridge, filled me with a shame that briefly eclipsed the physical torment. Nursing the pain, I pushed my bike and limped step by step back to my dormitory. When I took off my pants to look, there was a pool of bright red blood! My mind fell into an absolute panic. The next day, there were still faint bloodstains on my pants. Misfortunes were indeed tumbling down upon me one after another.
The following day, Dr. W—a Shanghai educated youth in her forties who worked in the OB-GYN department at the farm headquarters hospital—happened to accompany someone to our team to buy fish. During our chat, I related the incident to her and asked anxiously in Shanghai dialect, "Is it serious?" She replied that my hymen had likely ruptured, immediately asking, "Do you want me to take a look for you?" My roommate, D, who was far more mature than I was, urged from the sidelines, "Yes, yes, yes, let Dr. W examine you and write a medical note." But back then, I had no concept of what a medical note was for, who would look at it, or who would ever question me. Since there seemed to be no major danger, my maidenly shyness made me too embarrassed to let Dr. W examine me. Dr. W noted that it was quite common for girls who rode bicycles to rupture it. Later in life, I did regret not letting her check; had I done so, I would have had a diagnostic certificate—a way to account for myself just in case I ran into trouble down the road. But there is no medicine in this world to cure regret. Six years later, during my very first time, the pain was just as severe—carrying a wrenching, bone-deep ache of separation that felt like what we in Shanghai call 'chai-gu-tou' (having one's bones dismantled)—but true to that fateful autumn day, not a single drop of blood fell.
Part II: Mountain Healing: Family Destiny Under the Gears of Time
Crushed by two consecutive college exam failures and the trauma of my physical accident, my spirits hit rock bottom. Yet, it was precisely because of this dark valley that I welcomed the very first long-distance journey of my life—traveling deep into the mountains for healing. In early 1979, I accompanied my sixth older brother to Jiangxi to reunite with our parents for the Lunar New Year. At that time, he was processing the paperwork to take over our father's job position. Once our father officially retired, my brother could secure work in Jiangxi, freeing him from returning to the dense, primeval forests of Xishuangbanna, Yunnan. There, he would no longer have to tap rubber trees before dawn and survive on that nutrient-deficient, oil-free "glass soup."
Looking back, our family’s destiny had long been quietly predetermined by the interlocking gears of history. My father was born in Beijing in 1914, under the Year of the Tiger. In 1973, he eagerly volunteered to support the construction of the "Third Line" defense industries, resolutely leaving Shanghai for Factory 712 in Jiangxi. Later, my mother joined him there. By all standard rules, Father should have retired in 1974 upon turning sixty. However, as a veteran, highly skilled Grade-8 technician, the country needed him to keep shining his light and making "contributions." Thus, he remained on duty, delaying his retirement by several years. Even in 1979 when I entered the mountains, my 65-year-old father was still busy at his post. Yet, it was this precious handful of years of delayed retirement that threw a lifeline to my sixth brother’s fate. Had our father retired on schedule, my brother’s opportunity to take over his post would have completely vanished.
My sixth brother’s fate in his early years was quite tragic. As a child, he was fortunate enough to enter the highly envied five-year curriculum at Putuo District Central Primary School, graduating a year ahead of peers stuck in six-year schools. Who could have guessed that destiny would play such a cruel joke? That precious one-year head start caused him to crash headfirst into the peak of the Sent-down Youth movement, forcing him to pack his bags and head to Xishuangbanna to tap rubber. Fortunately, when the state introduced the job-takeover policy for educated youth in 1978, he finally seized the chance to leave the mountains of Yunnan for this major national factory in Jiangxi. He officially entered Factory 712 at the end of 1979, starting as a mechanic in the motor pool before becoming a driver. It wasn't until 1986—when a newly opening Shanghai faced a desperate shortage of experienced drivers, combined with the hardships of a married couple living apart—that he was officially transferred back to Shanghai to drive for the television station. My sister-in-law had also served in the same Yunnan Production and Construction Corps company as my brother, though she managed to return to Shanghai earlier. This breakthrough was perhaps a benefit of the job-takeover policy, or tied directly to the massive late-1978 protest movement of Yunnan youth demanding their return home.
After his eventual retirement, Father returned to Shanghai with my mother. Around 1982, they traveled to Beijing and resided there for over a year. In that era of severe scarcity and harsh living conditions, embarking on a long-distance journey was a momentous event; ordinary citizens simply had no spare money to travel for leisure. That trip marked the first time—and the very last time—the elderly couple returned to see Beijing since leaving their native soil more than forty years prior.
Part III: Leaving Home for the First Time: Trains and the Shock of the Deep Mountains
Traveling to Jiangxi for the Lunar New Year in 1979 marked my very first time leaving home, and everything felt incredibly fresh. What struck me most was witnessing, for the first time, the massive crowds flooding in and out, squeezing on and off the trains. In a trance, it felt as though I was watching the souls of all living beings rushing to be reincarnated into this world, only to leave again in a desperate hurry, which filled me with a sudden sense of detachment and melancholy. The carriage was quite crowded. Sitting across from me by the window was a handsome man in his early thirties who was fastidiously clean. He used a piece of bright white, soft rolled paper to repeatedly wipe his water cup and utensils. In those days, I had never seen that kind of paper before (only later did I learn it was roll toilet paper), let alone a gentleman so refined that he would wipe clean dishes over and over. My sixth brother teased me from the side, claiming the man across from us had made me lose my composure and that my gaze gave me away. Weakly defensive, I talked back, "No way!" In truth, whenever I felt a faint stir of emotion toward a man, I never dared to look him in the eye; instead, what surfaced was an exaggerated display of reserve and aloofness.
We disembarked at Pingxiang Station and boarded a long-distance bus to head into the mountains. Having grown up on the flat plains, the only "mountain" I had ever climbed was the 26-meter-high man-made "Tiebi Hill" in Shanghai's Changfeng Park. Plunging suddenly into this lush, sprawling mountain range brought not just awe, but a literal trembling of my heart. One sharp turn hugged a sheer cliff; sitting on the outer window seat, I looked down at the bend and could not see the road shoulder at all. I instinctively squeezed my eyes shut and clenched my teeth just to endure it. My sixth brother, hardened by his years in the mountains of Xishuangbanna—where he had to endure four days and four nights of bumpy bus rides after leaving the train—was entirely unfazed.
As the bus threaded through the deep valleys, we occasionally spotted local children, covered in dirt and dressed in dark clothes, bending low under the weight of towering bundles of firewood. When our bus passed, they would stop and watch us with blank, hollow stares. That sight instantly brought a pang of heartache and pity; it felt as though we lived in two entirely different worlds. Though I was depressed over failing the college exam, my life was a luxury compared to theirs. After many twists and turns, we finally arrived at the state-run Factory 712, nestled within the Qipan Mountains. The facility was a key national project, a "Third Line" sister enterprise of Shanghai's Factory 542. It used to be a highly classified unit—even the workers' families were kept in the dark about the nature of the work, unlike today, where the company signboard proudly and openly displays the word "Minting." The living conditions for the mountain workers and their families were excellent—the area was spacious, clean, and grand. At the foot of the mountain, a crystal-clear stream flowed gently. Looking into the distance, surrounded by peaks under shifting clouds, it was an incredibly beautiful place.
My parents' home was on the ground floor of a three-story building halfway up the slope—two bedrooms, no living room, no indoor toilet, but with a small kitchen. Mother even raised a few egg-laying hens. Normally, the elderly couple would hike up the back mountain for exercise. One day, they took me along; I ended up huffing and puffing while the two of them walked as casually as if they were strolling through a courtyard. But when it came time to head back down, the old saying proved all too true: It's easy to go up a mountain, but hard to come down. The trail was incredibly steep; one look downward made me feel as if I would plunge headfirst. My legs shook, my heart raced, and my head spun. So, Father walked in front to block my view while holding my hand, and Mother walked behind, gripping my clothes. Sandwiched safely in the middle, I kept my head down, shuffling downward one tiny, agonizing step at a time. It wasn't until we finally drifted back to the foot of the mountain that I let out a long, deep sigh of relief.
Part IV: Survival Against All Odds: A Noble Helping Hand on a Snowy Night
The crisp air and tranquility of the mountains gradually lifted me from the gloom of my exam failure. On the third day of the Lunar New Year, I unexpectedly received a letter from my fourth older brother in Shanghai, stating that East China Normal University (ECNU) had sent me a medical exam notice. My heart leaped into my throat! It was a two-year training program for educational support staff commissioned by the Bureau of Education. Wow! Although it was only a technical school degree—a far cry from my original dream—it still meant stepping onto a coveted university campus. I remembered my childhood trips to Changfeng Park. Passing Jinshajiang Road toward Gate 2, that section of Zaoyang Road was usually peaceful. On scorching summer afternoons, pedestrians were especially sparse, the asphalt road would turn white and hot, occasionally sticking to the soles of my shoes. My ears would be filled with the overlapping calls of various small insects echoing from both banks of the weed-choked stream east of the road.
Across the weed-choked river ran an endless stretch of bamboo fencing, hiding lush trees and staggered rooftops. With no bridge or path to cross, that hidden world became an enchanting mystery, seemingly light-years away. I used to pass by and daydream about what lay beyond that fence. Never could I have imagined that this very place of my childhood yearning would turn out to be the ECNU campus.
But my joy was cut short. The deadline to report was February 3, 1979. The wall calendar clearly read January 30. Only four days left! Missing it meant automatic forfeiture! My heart instantly froze solid. Outside, heavy snow had blocked the mountains, completely severing all transportation. How could I possibly make it out in time? Desperate, my parents rushed to explain this critical emergency to the factory director. Kind, reasonable, and deeply empathetic to his workers, the director immediately agreed to have his driver take me down the mountain in his dedicated official Jeep. With my parents riding along, the Jeep fought its way through the frozen, snow-swept mountains, driving through the night to deliver me safely to the Pingxiang Railway Station, where I boarded a train bound for Shanghai.
I never actually met the director back then, nor did I know his name; I simply held a lifelong gratitude toward a kind "elderly" leader. Astonishingly, in May 2024—a staggering 46 years later—I asked my sixth brother and finally learned his identity: his name was Yang Fuji, and he was only in his early forties at the time! To hold the reigns of a highly classified national factory at such a young age—he was truly a brilliant, capable, and courageous "young commander" who wasn't afraid to take responsibility for his staff.
Looking back, if "the College Student" Old S hadn't tutored me on those few critical math problems, I might have fallen a few vital points shorter on the exam. If my fourth brother hadn't painstakingly forwarded that medical notice across thousands of miles into the mountains, or if Director Yang of the Third Line factory hadn't sent his Jeep to tear through the midnight snowstorms, I would have missed my chance forever. Every single turning point on my journey gleamed with the purest human kindness of that era. Every one of them was a guardian angel in my life.
Part V: Dreams of the Factory: Memories of Factory 712 and Father’s Ethereal Realm
Twelve years ago, I searched online for State-Owned Factory 712—the very place where my father, mother, and sixth older brother had once worked and lived. Instead, I stumbled upon a photograph of utter ruin. This place had once been so bursting with life, yet now it was abandoned, hollow, and desolate. A heavy wave of melancholy washed over my heart. Looking at it again today, that dormant ache buried deep inside me awakens once more. Row after row of lonely buildings, rows of hollow doors and windows, and those fierce, weathered vines clawing desperately onto the broken walls—there is nothing to feel but profound sorrow. I sigh at how ruthless time is, and how impermanent the world remains.
My father has only ever appeared in my dreams three or four times in total. Exactly ten days before his fatal accident, on April 29, 1987, I had an extremely unusual and terrifying premonition—I dreamed that my father was drowning in a public bathhouse. That was the first time in my entire life I had ever dreamed of my parents. A few days later, Father went to the factory to collect his pension and took a bath while there; on his way home, he met with a tragic accident at a bus station and passed away a few days later. The second dream occurred on a windy autumn night. Father was sleeping on a park bench in a vast, empty space, and I felt he was so bitterly cold. Afterward, he faded into the distance. At that time, I was studying Computer Graphics at Syracuse University (SU), learning how to create art with computers. That virtual bench I modeled using the Alice 3D application was a direct reflection of that dream.
The third dream came on December 3, 2007. I saw Father sitting against a wall on the second floor of a ruined building, looking incredibly sorrowful. I asked him if he wanted to come stay at my place. He simply asked me, "Are you doing well?" In truth, he already knew I was struggling through my own rough patches. Then, he vanished into thin air. Was he revisiting this old workplace out of lingering attachment? This truly is a place where dreams and spirits entwine—my dreams, his soul. In the fourth dream, however, he finally had a home of his own. The house was clean and simple, and a genuine smile graced my father's face.
Factory 712 relocated to Nanchang on October 21, 1983. Reports show that the original site of State-Owned Factory 712 was designated as a county-level key cultural relics protection unit by Lianhua County in December 2011. What a relief! On my native soil, there is finally a place I have personally been to—a place where my parents and sixth brother once worked and lived—that will be preserved for generations to come. My homeland has changed so drastically; most of the places I once walked and stayed have become unrecognizable, gone forever and impossible to find again. Yet, thankfully, the thrilling urgency and pure human kindness found deep within those mountains remain eternally etched into that snow-swept night of the third day of the Lunar New Year in 1979.
Part VI: Fulfilling the Dream at ECNU: Ten Golden Years and the Flow of Time
It was also in 1979 that destiny, using those heavy blows of misfortune, somehow "shoved" me to the other side of that very bamboo fence—the world I had yearned for and dreamed about since childhood. After entering the university, I made a special trip to that secluded grove behind the "Old Three Buildings" on the western edge of the campus. I wanted to experience it personally, to fulfill the dream I had harbored since I was a little girl. Unfortunately, that grove was quite sparse, containing perhaps only four or five rows of trees, and it gave me a desolate, eerie feeling of being completely isolated from the world. I turned and "escaped" immediately, never even touching the weathered bamboo fence behind it. I realized I was just like Lord Ye who professed a love for dragons but fled when a real one appeared.
By then, the northern end of the small river had already dried up, though the fence remained standing. There was a large gap in the bamboo wall near the Hexi Cafeteria. Later, when I was working at ECNU, a colleague's girlfriend—a beautiful, charming, and sweet Shanghai girl—and I would often squeeze through that hole in the fence. We would cross the dry riverbed as a shortcut to visit her boyfriend, who lived in the Second ECNU Village. As the years rolled on, small shops and restaurants mushroomed along the roadside like bamboo shoots after rain. The little river that had accompanied my childhood daydreams completely vanished from the map.
I studied and worked at East China Normal University, staying there for a full decade. The most youthful, most beautiful years of my life were thus gently scattered across this campus—a place that once seemed so utterly out of reach, yet continues to haunt my dreams long after leaving it.
Special thanks to Gemini AI for providing the spirited translation and text refinement.
第三百五十六篇
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