This book collects the writer’s 28 proses of recalling his hometown， each from a uniquely personal view. With a simple style and true feelings， the writer recalled the interesting daily life which seems commonplace， depicted a rural picture in the Central Plains full of human feelings of ordinary life， and described the daily life and experiences of rural people.

As long as I can remember， there was a spinning wheel next to the podium （the wall that separates two rooms） in the central room of my old house. I can’t tell for how many years it was placed there and how many threads it spun. But I know the spindle and crank were polished， showing its work day and night. In front of the spinning wheel lay a straw rush cushion. That was your grandma’s seat. A square table with two wooden chairs on both sides was not far from the spinning wheel. The two chairs were used for treating guests during the day. In the evening， Grandpa， who had worked for a whole day， would rest on one chair （the deck chair）， and the other was used for me or your aunt to do homework. The spinning wheel was near the square table because there was a kerosene lamp on the table， and your grandma could spin under the light.

Winter nights were long. That was the best time for your grandma. After cleaning tableware， your grandma would sit in front of the spinning wheel like a sentry on duty. I did my homework at the desk. Soon， your grandpa would snore like thunder on the deck chair. He was exhausted after building houses and doing woodwork for a whole day. Every time， your grandma would ask your grandpa to go to bed， but your grandpa didn’t obey. He rubbed his eyes and said： “I will sit for a while.” He just wanted to stay longer with your grandma， who was spinning. The spinning wheel was still humming on a quiet night after your grandpa and I went to bed. Your grandpa called your grandma： “Darling， go to bed！” Your grandma said： “A few more cotton balls.” At this time， your grandma took the oil lamp off the table and hung it on the wall next to the spinning wheel， stirred the wick to brighten it， and started to spin ceaselessly. I saw her spin the wheel with her right hand and pull the thread with her left hand. As the spinning wheel danced round and round， the spindle was entangled with more and more thread. After a spindle was full， it was unloaded， and the next was installed.

This job needed both hands and eyes. “Spinning a thread requires the coordination of the whole body.” It is conceivable how much physical strength this job would consume. At that time， my room was only separated by a wall from your grandma’s spinning wheel. I used to sleep with the hum of the spinning wheel. Whenever I woke up， I could hear the hum of the spinning wheel. After another snap， it was still humming. Sometimes， I could not hear the hum but see the light. I would sit up and look out from the crack between the door and the frame. I saw your grandma sitting on the rush cushion in front of the spinning wheel. She was nodding off.

“Mum， go to bed！” I felt sorry for your grandma.

“Dear， go to bed. I will come soon.”

As soon as she said this， the spinning wheel hummed again， like a new movement after the previous one. The following day， your grandma was not sitting on the rush cushion. She had begun a day’s housework. Her figure flashed between the pot， the stove， and the pigpen. I touched the straw rush cushion next to the spinning wheel -- your grandma’s body temperature was left on it. The cotton balls piled in front of the spinning wheel were gone， while the basket was filled with white and fat “string dolls.” Night after night， year after year， I grew up with the sound of your grandma’s spinning wheel.

As the saying goes， “men plow the land and women weave cloth.” Actually， your grandma was not only engaged in weaving cloth. She could manage all the work in the fields. She was busy all year round. Weaving was her amateur activity after farm work and was usually done in slack season or on rainy days. Our old loom was placed at the door and window in the front room so she could see clearly in enough light.

Slack season or rainy days were farmers’ “Sunday.” At this time， your grandma was busier. She would spend this time weaving the cloths used for clothes， shoes， and covers of the whole family. She would sit next to the loom for hours. She stepped on it and weaved cloth one shuttle after another. The shuttle circled in every click when the weft was weaved into the warp. Like this， the cloth grew millimeter by millimeter. You cannot see the cloth grow like a spring seedling， but it got longer after a while. It required both physical strength and endurance. Shuttle by shuttle， it would be an inch long after thousands of shuttles.

My son， the unit for cloth is not “piece” but “bolt.” A bolt of homemade cloth is 1 or 1.2 chi long （about 0.4 meters）， and 3 or 3.6 zhang wide （about 10.33 meters）. As soon as she sat at the loom， your grandma would be oblivious to herself. I cannot remember how much cloth she could weave a day， one or two chi， I think. How long would it take her to weave a bolt of cloth？ Several bolts of cloth would take her more time. Your grandma could weave ordinary cloth， figured cloth， and cloth for sheets. The more complicated the cloth， the more time she needed. Your grandma spent all the slack seasons at the loom. She spent her life at the old loom. One bolt after another， day after day， she never stopped working. These cloths were made into our clothes， shoes and covers of the whole family. Your uncles， aunts， and I had clothes for all seasons and even in the new year. We could stand in front of others clean and tidy. We felt proud of this. Every thread on our bodies condensed your grandma’s blood and sweat！

When I left home as a soldier， I was dressed in a new uniform， but your grandma made a suit of shirt and pant with the homemade cloth. She said it fit the skin， absorbed sweat， and was warm. When I married your mother， your grandma sent two sets of bedding lined with homemade cloth. She and your aunts sewed them up thread by thread， lying on the bamboo mat. When you were born， your grandma sent us baby wear made of homemade cloth！ When your mother and I took you back to our hometown for the second time， your grandma was obviously old and feeble. She was ill and couldn’t move easily.

She asked your aunt to take a bolt of homemade cloth out of the case. Then she took your mother’s hands and said： “I have only this in the case. Take it back and you may use it in the future.” Her words implied the sadness of an old general who could no longer fight on the battlefield and were filled with endless love for future generations.

Over the years， your mother has carefully retained this bolt of cloth as a souvenir. You happened to see it， which reminded you of your deceased grandma. Your diary also reminded me of my mother.

Yes， everyone in the world is weaving their own “cloth.” You are right. Whether gorgeous or not， this bolt of cloth is precious because it exhausted her “l(fā)ifelong energy.” This reminded me of your grandma again. Your grandma was a very ordinary village woman. She had no dazzling brilliance， but she weaved her life into the threads， the cloths， and the clothes. She enjoyed this and never felt tired or complained. She brought infinite warmth and kindness to her family！

Not long ago， when I returned to my hometown， I specially went to see the spinning wheel and loom used by your grandma. There is no longer anyone who spins and weaves in our hometown， and nobody has taken good care of these outdated things. The spinning wheel in the central room was gone， while the loom in the front room remained as before， though covered with dust and cobwebs. I felt the loom and pondered for a good while. It seemed as if I had heard the click when your grandma weaved cloth， and I had seen her figure moving back and forth at the loom. Your uncle read my mind and said： “Take mother’s shuttle back as a souvenir！” We looked everywhere but couldn’t find it. Finally， I took a wooden spindle your grandma used for spinning and a wooden tube for rewinding.

Now， the two things lie in my bookcase. When I see them， I will remember your hardworking and kind grandma. Since I returned from my hometown， I have dreamed many times of the shuttle your grandma used for spinning. There is nothing precious about a shuttle. Let it go. I wish your grandma didn’t take it. I wish your deceased grandma would no longer spin in another world and she would live a happier life.

The Last Uncle

Fan Xi’an

Sichuan Literature amp; Art Publishing House

January 2023

42.00 （CNY）

Fan Xi’an

Fan Xi’an graduated from the School of Chinese Language and Literature， Jilin University， with a Master of Arts degree. He is a publisher， a poet， and a writer. He has written more than 20 collections of proses， collections of poems， documentary works， and novels. His works have been translated into English， French and other languages and published overseas.