Quilts and Dumplings

Between about 1959 and 1961, Mingde Village gained several newlywed couples. There were not enough houses, so the unit built ten more to the left of the village gate. Each of those families had three or four children; at the busiest time, not counting adults, there were more than a hundred children in the whole village—very lively.

To return to our story: in the second year after we moved to Mingde Village, a week after the Dragon Boat Festival, I gave birth to our fourth child—a boy.

Our third and fourth were only a year and a half apart. The third had just learned to walk when the fourth was born. I grew busier; there was never an end to the work. Fortunately our seven-year-old eldest, in first grade, could help—tying our daughter on his back with a carrying strap and going outside to watch children his age play marbles and spin bottle caps. Because he was carrying his sister he could only stand and watch others play. I was sad he could not join in and could only comfort myself: the eldest brother always has to bear a little more.

Winters by the sea are very cold. When a cold snap comes, the quilts at home are not enough; we were one quilt short. Warm-hearted Mrs Li, a stout Shandong woman, cared about us. She knew my husband’s income was modest and that children kept arriving one after another; she did not know where money for expenses beyond daily living was to come from.

The winter I bore our fourth child, Mrs Li came to teach me to lay cotton and make padded jackets and trousers for the third and fourth. She found our quilts thin and said, “It is so cold—you should buy another quilt or the children will catch cold.” I knew she was right, but a six-jin quilt cost two hundred and ten dollars, about a third of my husband’s monthly pay; we truly could not scrape the money together. She thought a moment and said, “Do not worry—I will find a way.” Then she went home.

On the third day Control Officer Mr Luo came to our house, chatted politely, and slowly turned the conversation to money.

He told me gently, “Mrs Li says you need a quilt but you are too embarrassed to borrow from her. Here is what we will do: seven of us will join a club—you as the organiser, thirty dollars each, two hundred and ten in all, enough for one quilt. Each month we draw lots; whoever wins takes the pot, no interest. Can you accept that?” I was moved by his sincerity and could only nod and thank him. For a long time afterwards Mr Luo kept helping us with money, asking his pilot comrades to bring clothes and trousers for me to alter so I could earn a little more.

Mrs Li from Shandong was warm-hearted, especially fond of me and caring, treating me like a niece.

Whenever she had time she came to see if anything needed doing. As the children grew day by day their energy and appetites grew too; preparing three meals every day took great ingenuity. Flour from American aid was distributed through the church; we received a lot, but as a native Taiwanese I had never made wheat foods at all.

Mrs Li was patient. Every day she spared a little time to teach me: cat’s-ear pasta, dumplings, hand-pulled noodles, pan-fried leek cakes, dough-drop soup, steamed buns, mantou, and many other kinds.

From mixing flour to rolling dumpling skins and wrapping, she showed me bit by bit. Before I had learned she did it for me until I could do it alone. While she was teaching me she had to run between two houses.

She also had to cook at her own.

She lived at number twenty-four; we at twenty-nine. Watching her run back and forth, I felt awful.

But when making dumplings I really needed her help. Our children’s appetites kept growing; one batch was more than a hundred. Without Mrs Li, even if I worked half a day I could not finish in time for them to eat. I was unspeakably grateful.

So every Saturday and Sunday when the children were home we made wheat foods. The children were delighted and all thanked Mrs Li for her help.