Mom's younger sister is middle-aged now, her thick black hair streaked with silver. Her voice, when calling out to her children, is strong and powerful, tinged with the wear and tear of time. Grandma, smiling warmly, like many other women who pick tea, has long since melded into the tea mountains. That tea affair, that long-haired girl Drinking Tea, who would remember any of it?
It only appears in my mind, transformed and shifting, that smile like a spring breeze through the forest. The tea-picking aunt is elderly now, suffering from rheumatism, her hands shaking as she walks alone around the house. Grandpa, who used to make tea, is skin and bones; he no longer has the strength to stand by the large iron wok and stir-fry a pot of Handmade tea for his children and grandchildren, much less go out to attend a tea event. This man who loved socializing and kept up appearances, after a serious illness, his face turned the color of tea. He gasped for breath and waved his hand, unwilling to eat meals at the same table as his children and grandchildren. Sometimes, getting out of bed required Dad's help. He took the food cooked by the family and picked at it with his chopsticks. He solemnly lifted a Cup of strong tea, his lips trembling as he tentatively touched the rim of his specially designated, tea-stained cup. After drinking, he sat down in his recliner, his gaze resting on the tea mountain outside the window and the vast red earth beneath the tea rows.
Groups of childhood friends from the tea mountain have moved away one by one. Following Dad's advice, I settled in the city through education, distancing myself from being called a country bumpkin. I also often encouraged my siblings back home to leave that impoverished corner and see the world beyond the tea mountain. Looking back, however, I often feel guilty, considering myself a traitor to my homeland and an unworthy descendant of my ancestors. I cannot speak about the craftsmanship of tea, my taste buds have never been awakened by tea, my mind cannot comprehend the business or culture of tea, and I am ignorant of the ways of tea.
Dogumao Tea Garden
In recent years, I've tried to be refined and elegant, often giving away tea from my hometown to teachers and friends who visit from afar. The tea mountain I exerted so much effort to distance myself from has become a place of nostalgia and homesickness. At a gathering in a city Teahouse, the owner brought out a packet of handmade Dogumao tea, said to be made by an old man. A friend was preparing to steep the leaves and take photos of them unfurling in the cup. An old tea master who practiced calligraphy came over. Upon hearing it was Dogumao handmade tea, his long eyebrows quivered with excitement as he told everyone, “Such a rare treasure should not be prepared in the usual way. You must use boiling water, pour it high, swirl it gently, then cover it, steep it, let it develop, and drink it hot in large gulps.” After drinking, the friend laughed, saying, “Now that was an eye-opener.”
Isn't it just a pot of handmade tea? I hesitated before taking a big sip. Strangely, this time, my taste buds miraculously came alive. The tea in my mouth was fresh and sweet, leaving a lingering floral and woody aroma in my Stomach. I felt my body growing, every pore finding its name. Whispering the name of my hometown, those memories resurfaced, those mingled joys and sorrows surging forth in the mist of tea.
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