Back then, we lived in a courtyard called Caojia’an (曹家庵)in downtown Chongqing. The yard was enclosed by brick walls, thickly covered with lush creepers that climbed and climbed until it spilled over the top, creeping onto the outer side. Along the base of the walls were diamond-shaped bricks, and inside, the ground was carpeted with soft green grass and liriope, dotted with tiny star-like flowers. The single-story houses had a covered walkway outside, and my grandma would often sit on the wooden bench there, sewing.
Grandma had a "little treasure basket"—a round, black-lacquered wicker container. Over the years, the paint had worn away, and the bottom had thinned to reveal patches of faded red primer. But it was still her most cherished possession, something she could never do without. Inside the basket were needles, thread, shoe patterns, fabric scraps, buttons, thimbles... oh, so many things! I was always discovering something new in it. But what I remember most were the two or three magazines tucked inside—though they were too big to fit properly, so they mostly just sat on top. Those magazines, though tattered, were full of colorful pictures of beautiful people. They were the most precious of her treasures because they held countless shoe patterns and bundles of silk and cotton thread in every color.
Grandma had a silver thimble and a silver needle case, small and delicate, engraved with floral patterns. I knew they were heirlooms. From the time I was very young, she would say to me, "Xiao Ju, when I die, this silver thimble and needle case will be yours." Back then, I paid no attention to her words—how could Grandma ever die? And if she did, what would even be the point of anything? In those days, in that courtyard, she was my dearest person, my warmth.
My earliest childhood memories are of Yi’ai Temple(遗爱祠) in Chongqing, which later became Eling Park. At Yi’ai Temple, my father had bought a house with front and back gardens. I remembered my young aunts and uncles projecting films onto the white walls, and a fruit tree in the back garden—though I couldn't recall anything else. By the time my parents moved to Caojia’an in the city center, I was about four or five, old enough to remember things clearly.
That was before Grandma had her stroke—the happiest time we spent together. How I miss those days!
In my memory, the sky was a deep, endless blue, and the creeper leaves were a rich, dark green. Sometimes, a plump white caterpillar would suddenly drop from the leaves, scaring me half to death. The sun shone warmly, and occasionally, vendors’ calls would drift over the creeper-covered walls: "Bosi tang, bosi tang..." ("Candy floss, candy floss..."), "Chaomian tang kaishui! Chaomian tang kaishui!" ("Fried rice hot water with sugar!").my grandma and I sat on chairs in the hallway—she was doing her needlework while I was endlessly flipping through her "treasure trove" of magazines, never getting tired of them. One day, she said, "Xiao Ju, let me teach you how to read." I was overjoyed! I had long been curious about what those magazines said and couldn’t wait to unlock their secrets. My grandma became my first literacy teacher, and those colorful magazines turned into my textbooks.
Once I started learning, I loved those magazines even more. I realized how wonderful it was to be able to read. Before, I could only look at the pictures, but as I slowly recognized more characters, I began to understand what those pictures meant—and discovered that beyond the images, there was so much more rich content. The process of learning to read was like watching an unknown world gradually unfold before me. This world was so vibrant, so beautiful, and so captivating that once you stepped into it, you never wanted to leave.
I started learning characters clumsily at around five years old. As I recognized more and more, many characters still felt half-familiar, and when I read them aloud, they often came out completely wrong. One memory stands out: my grandma once tested me by pointing at a headline—"The Story of the Rose" I thought the character “玫” looked like the “改” I had learned before, and “瑰” resembled “塊.” So I said to my grandmother, “This is The Story of the Gai Kuai Flower.’ Grandma nearly died with laughter.
During my early reading days, I was impatient and eager to learn as many characters as possible and as quickly as possible. The result is, I skimmed through them carelessly, making countless mistakes with misreadings and incorrect substitutions. This bad habit has stuck with me to this day—I still can’t shake it. That’s why it’s especially important to focus on forming good habits during childhood. Otherwise, once bad habits take root, they become incredibly hard to correct.
Grandma didn’t just teach me characters; she often told me stories too. Tales like Looking for Mother's Beach(望娘滩) and An’an Delivers Rice (安安送米)all came from her. To this day, I can still recall the image she painted of the dragon, reluctant to leave its mother, turning back at every stretch of the river—each glance creating a new shoal, hence “The Dragon’s Look-Back Shoals.” As I listened, waves of sadness flooded over me, and tears welled up in my eyes. When she told me story An’an Delivers Rice, it was to teach me filial piety. She shared many other stories too, but I’ve forgotten them.
Grandma could also sing Sichuan opera, and I often heard her humming its melodies and interludes. The other day, a middle school classmate posted an article on Meipian(美篇) about her love for Sichuan opera, so I wrote out one of the interludes and sent it to her. I described how the actresses, with their four fingers up hand gesture and mincing steps, would circle the stage to the repeating strains of: “Suo suo mi la suo, suo duo la duo suo la suo, mi fa mi re duo duo re mi xi xi la suo duo...”
My classmate was amazed and asked how I could remember the interlude so clearly. Ah, how could I not remember? It’s what I grew up hearing Grandma humming.
My grandmother was incredibly skilled with her hands. She could embroider, tailor clothes, knit sweaters, operate a sewing machine... It seemed there was nothing she couldn’t do. One Children’s Day, she sewed me a dress on her sewing machine, and I was overjoyed—it looked so stylish on me. Every morning, she would comb my hair and braid it, then smooth it down with her homemade "moisturizing hair tonic" to keep it neat and frizz-free. She used the same solution on her own hair, always styled into a tidy bun at the back of her head, simple yet elegant.
By then, I already had a younger brother, Mingbai, nearly three years my junior. As a son—and very good-looking—he was especially doted on by our parents. Chinese families traditionally favored sons, and I, too, later fell into that mindset. Mingbai, inheriting the best of our parents’ looks, naturally made them proud. I remember he always wore fine clothes, even a dashing little sailor suit. Once, they took him, all dressed up, to the prestigious North Hot Springs Park—a place frequented by Soviet experts at that time. But they left me at home with Grandma. Oh, how I longed to go with them, to wear a pretty dress and a bow in my hair to that fancy park!But I was left. Instead, Grandma took me to the movies to cheer me up. The film happened to be The Cruel Heart, and as I watched, I thought bitterly, "How cruel their hearts are!"That thought lingered, and in that moment, I resolved to outshine Mingbai someday.
I was grateful for Grandma—she loved me most, even naming me herself. My three younger siblings were named by our parents, but not me. Grandma once told me she’d named me after a piece of jade. When I grew up and checked the dictionary, I learned that "Qiong" indeed means "beautiful jade." It moved me deeply—she’d given this plain-faced girl such a beautiful name. Now, as I write this, I want to thank her for that name and tell her in heaven: I’ve lived up to it. My heart is that piece of jade.
At that time, we also had a big yellow dog named Anning. Dogs weren’t pets then but guardians. Anning was excellent at his job, barking loudly to alert us of visitors. My father, financially comfortable at the time, was a kind and generous man, always helping relatives and friends in need. Even in college, a friend mentioned her family had once stayed in our courtyard—something I’d completely forgotten. But I remember Great-Uncle, Grandma’s brother, who often visited. Life had been hard for him after Liberation, and he usually came seeking help. Other guests faded from my memory, but not him—because he always brought me whole sheets of "foreign picture cards," which we’d cut into small pieces for games. To me, it was a treasure trove! So, whenever Great-Uncle visited our home, it was like a grand festival for me—a day of great fortune! People today can hardly imagine how us children felt back then. Our games—rolling iron hoops, flipping trading cards, hopscotch, spinning tops, "rooster fights" (one-legged hopping battles), and jackstones—were incredibly fun!
Anning was my companion. One vivid memory is I, standing with him at the gate of Caojia Temple, was watching my uncle leave to join the army. We were heartbroken, fearing he’d be sent to the Korean front. Thankfully, the war was ending, and he instead went to medical school, later working in an army hospital before retiring locally.
But later came a day that brought me in a flood of tears. Anning was killed by the "dog-beating squad." When word spread that they were coming, every household was ordered to kill their dogs. I panicked, trying to think of ways to hide Anning, hoping they’d skip our home. But they came. Grandma pulled me inside, holding me tight as I heard their shouts and Anning’s desperate barks. They chased him into a corner of the yard and beat him to death. I struggled, screaming to save him, but Grandma held me back. I hated those men—wished my uncle would return and shoot them! That was my first glimpse of human cruelty, and I’ve never forgotten Anning’s cries.
Grandma taught me to read and told me countless stories, sparking my lifelong love for books. As a child, I devoured fairy tales—Grimms’, Russian, Estonian, Ukrainian, Andersen’s，Chuk and Gek, The Little Match Girl, The Little Mermaid, The Seven-Colored Flower. Books were my greatest joy.
Later, we moved from Caojia Temple to a quieter area, Shangqing Temple’s (上清寺)Shanyi Village(山益村). Our three-story home faced a picture-story book stall, my favorite spot. I’d beg my mother for a penny to read books, eventually bargaining for two books per penny. Every birthday, I asked for books as my birthday gifts. Trips to the bookstore with my parents were pure bliss.
But our good days didn’t last. Soon after moving, Grandma suffered a stroke. One night, after my mother scolded Mingbai, he refused to sleep with her and insisted on staying with Grandma. When she got up to help him pee, she fell and had the stroke. Half-paralyzed, she could barely move, a shadow of her former self. Mingbai, Mingjian, Mingyao,the two younger brothers ,younger sister and I became her little helpers. Grandpa cared for her full-time, but when he was out, she’d ask us sweetly for small favors—always with a smile and a "thank you." As a child, I thought all grandmothers were like this.
Looking back now, where did my grandmother get such remarkable virtue and refinement? From my childhood until her passing, I never once saw her lose her temper—not even a hint of displeasure on her face! Even after suffering a stroke, when life became so inconvenient for her, she never uttered a single word of complaint or pain. She always greeted all her descendants and everyone who visited our home with a warm smile. Reflecting on those days, I’ve come to realize just how much wisdom, restraint, and courage it took for her to face people and life the way she did.
We lived in the three-story house in Shanyi Village for less than two years before being relocated due to the city’s construction project. Our three-generation family moved into a small, single-story apartment in the Chongqing Radio Station dormitory. The place was tiny—the outer room served as my grandparents’ bedroom, the "living room," and the "dining area." To the right was my parents’ bedroom, and behind it was a dark room with a large bed where the four of us children took turns sleeping. I say "took turns" because I later boarded at school, and Mingbai and Mingjian were often away, too—otherwise, how could one bed fit all four of us? Honestly, I can’t even recall how we managed.
My father had always been hospitable. Back when times were better and we had more space, hosting was easy. But even after our family fortunes declined and during the three years of natural disasters, he never changed his ways. The Liu family (my father’s side) and the Zheng family (my mother’s side) were both large—seven siblings on one side, eight on the other, totaling fifteen. Add in countless cousins and their descendants, and our idea of "family" wasn’t just our three-generation household but an extended clan of uncles, aunts, and their children. As the eldest son, my father had always supported his parents and younger siblings, but he also looked out for his cousins. I remember even after I was married, during a trip to my husband’s hometown in Guangxi, my father had me bring back a huge bag of sugar (Guangxi was known for its sugar). He then divided it into smaller packages for me to deliver to various relatives—Sixth Uncle, Sixth Aunt, Uncle Chen, Auntie, Eldest Aunt, and so on.
The four of us children inherited some of my father’s warmth and hospitality, especially me and my eldest brother. We often brought classmates home. Which of my close middle and high school friends didn’t remember my grandmother? She’d sit on the old sofa by the bed in the front room, greeting everyone with a smile, and our friends would affectionately call her "Grandma." Since my parents worked at a factory in Shapingba, our friends saw Grandma and Grandpa more often than our own parents. When my parents were home, the house was even livelier—relatives, our friends, sometimes a never-ending stream of guests. Just as we finished one meal, another visitor would arrive, and more food would be cooked. My mother found it exhausting, but my father was always delighted. I never once saw him annoyed by guests—no matter how many came, he welcomed them all joyfully. When I praised him, my mother would say, "Of course he’s happy! He doesn’t do any of the work—I do!" It was true. My father was often ill, so household duties fell to my mother.
Grandma was the same—always happy to see guests. Sometimes, when my aunts, uncles, and their children all came to visit, she’d beam with pride, saying, "They’re all my children! All my children!" She was immensely proud of having raised such a big family.
Nowadays, many multigenerational households are full of conflict, with constant bickering. But our three-generation home was rarely like that. My parents sometimes argued, but Grandma and Grandpa never interfered. Very occasionally, Grandpa might say, "Liu Chenghui, why do you meddle so much?" But I never once heard them criticize my mother. Even when we children quarreled with our parents, they never scolded us. Where else could you find grandparents like that?
As a result, our family’s "democratic" atmosphere was a bit excessive. The four of us would even mock our parents’ arguments and joke about them. Early on, our parents lost control over us, and since Grandma and Grandpa never reprimanded us, we became a little unruly. One incident stands out clearly—I was about eight or nine. I’d angered my father so much that he grabbed a rod to punish me. I took off running, all the way from Shanyi Village.(山益村) to my primary school at Lianglukou(两路口), then up the hill toward what’s now the Children’s Hospital. My father, panting and drenched in sweat, couldn’t catch me and had to storm back home. To avoid further trouble, I hid at my classmate Zhu Peifen’s house. Eventually, Grandpa found me and urged me to return, but I refused and said unless my father promised not to beat me. In the end, my father, exasperated, came to the door himself and called out, "I won’t spank you—come home!"
Only once did Grandma say something that broke my heart. It was in the chilly March of 1969, when I was leaving Chongqing to settle in the remote mountains of Xilong(兴隆) County as an "educated youth." It was my first long separation from home, with no certainty of return. That morning, I went to her bedside to say goodbye. She took my hands, trembling, and asked, "Xiaoju, will you ever see your grandma again?" I paused but quickly replied, "Of course! Of course! Grandma, you have to wait for me!" I let go, turned away, grabbed my luggage, and hurried out, fearing I’d cry in front of her.
Grandma did wait for me. In 1972, after much effort and a clever maneuver of my own, I finally left the mountains and returned to Chongqing.
We had four or five more years together. Though she grew thinner and frailer, her spirits remained strong. After returning, I trained as an English teacher at Chongqing Third Normal School. My English teacher, Mr. Ye, and his wife, Ms. Meng, took a liking to me, and our families became close. Ms. Meng adored Grandma, too, and their visits felt like family gatherings.
Grandma passed away the year after I married, having seen her beloved granddaughter start a family. But I regret deeply that she never met her first great-grandchild—I was already pregnant when she died. Had she held on a few more months, she would have seen my son.
We shared thirty years together, and I cherish every memory. As a child, she nurtured me, filling my heart with love. Her profound kindness and gentle wisdom shaped me, though I could never live up to her example. Even my love for literature began with her—which is why I can now write this essay, Dear Grandma. She gave me so much. She was my greatest influence, the root of my life.
I remember during her stable period after the stroke, I took her out a few times. Once, with a small stool in hand, I supported her as we walked slowly to the tram stop, riding downtown to celebrate her elder sister’s (our "Great Aunt") birthday. The table was piled with melon seeds, peanuts, and candy! Grandma was overjoyed and even played a few rounds of mahjong(麻将). I also took her to the nearby Stadium and the Cultural center. Once, our whole family even visited Eling Park. Those were such beautiful, sunny days.
I miss my grandma.
Grandma, I love you.
Mingqiong
October 15, 2020
