Memoir回憶錄回忆录
童年Childhood Memories
Pan Zhao-Qiang recalls his childhood in Taiwan, where he grew up in the Huangpu military village in Fengshan. He later spent 37 years at sea.
潘招強回憶在台灣鳳山黃埔二村度過的童年。他後來從事航海生涯三十七年。
潘招强回忆在台湾凤山黄埔二村度过的童年。他后来从事航海工作三十七年。
本文保留原文的繁体字。
作者简介
潘招強，浙江省人，民國36年次（1947），誠正國小49年班，住黃埔二村50年，高雄水產職校55年班畢業，陸軍官校專修班畢，從事航海生涯37年。
童年
童年應該是指七歲到十二歲這段年紀，七歲正是開始讀小學一年級，懵懵懂懂的記憶，留下的印象不深。印象深的是在十歲至十二歲，所以說童年其實並不長，現在的小孩生活安定舒適，怎麼過的童年都說不出來。十二歲後進入初中，這三年印象就很清晰，這算是少年階段，也是最值得回憶的階段，每個人都有童年，這是人生具有記憶的起點，如果想不起來，也許父母會幫你找尋回來，媽媽一定知道。
我的童年是在1956-62年代，最缺的是照片，那時誰也沒看過照相機這玩意，連報紙登的也是黑白照，我只有一張兩歲時跟父母與大哥的合照，是在廣州照相館照的，到小學畢業時有一張團體合照，當中十年是啥模樣自己也不知道。媽媽抱我，爸爸抱大哥。
童年的生活是由父母決定的，每個人童年都不同，因生活的環境不同，時代背景不同，家庭的富裕不同，父母的管教不同，孩子的個性不同，小孩哪裡知道苦與不苦，因無從比較。在50年代正逢戰亂，政府從大陸撤退到台灣，物質欠缺，生活艱苦可想而知，三餐能吃飽都成問題，童年沒餓死是很幸運了。
我九歲時，爸爸從台北調到高雄服務，一家人就在高雄租屋居住，租的房子也是在軍人眷村裡，起碼和鄰居溝通沒有問題，還能互相幫忙。搬了兩次家，總算遇上有人願意頂讓，才花錢在眷村定居下來，在眷村一住就是五十年，最後拆遷，留下太多的回憶，我的童年生活就是在眷村渡過的。
我住在高雄的鳳山市黃埔二村，鳳山有陸軍軍官學校，陸軍步兵學校，中正預備幹部學校，還有陸軍二軍團，鳳山憲兵隊。鳳山眷村也很多，黃埔新村、黃埔一村到七村，還有工協新村、四維二村、勝利新村、鳳山新村、協和新村、五甲新村、成功新村、海光新村、憲光新村、慈暉一村到五村、染整新村、實踐新村等。眷村住的都是軍人家眷，全是從大陸各省撤退來台灣的，眷村跟台灣本省居民不相往來形成另一個天地，本省居民說的是閩南話，眷村裡雖然各省都有，大家以國語來溝通，政府也在推行國語，學校也都以國語教學。
眷村在台灣各縣市都有，1982年全台灣眷村有879處，有98000多戶，人口約50萬人，高雄算是很多的，因為三軍官校都在高雄，經過了60多年，已形成了一種文化。如今眷村老舊，第一代老了，經不起歲月摧殘，上了耄耋，日漸凋零，第二代也成了老年，第三代已成中年，第四代已脫離眷村，眷村逐漸除，2008年全台只剩下148個眷村，眷村文化終將成為歷史，讓人不捨，讓人懷念，政府也應人民要求，將保留一些當為古蹟，高雄左營海軍建業新村，鳳山黃埔新村將登錄為文化景觀。
黃埔二村每家有根大煙囪，黃埔二村的眷舍是接收日本人留下的軍官遺舍，是瓦蓋的平房，家門口有個小院子，家家有個水泥煙囪，院子裡有顆大榕樹，家裡有地板，木板隔間，一個大門原本住一家的，被分為兩家人住，因為眷舍不夠，只有如此，家家小孩都有4個以上，還好那時都小，打地鋪擠在一起睡。村子裡有六條巷子，分成東西兩邊，中間是條馬路，巷口有個防空洞，我住在西二巷10號，巷子約4米寬，門對門，一邊有八個門戶，兩邊共16個門，一個門住兩戶，就是32戶，一戶平均有4個小孩就有128個小孩，光是西二巷就夠熱鬧了，其實是很擁擠，東二巷戶數較少些，也有16戶。
夏天時巷子是大人乘涼的地方，因有大榕樹遮陰，也是小孩玩遊戲的地方，那時還沒有電視、收音機，電風扇也買不起，電爐還不能用，因為電壓不夠，一用就會跳電，整條巷子都黑了。小孩子待在家很沒意思，不如在巷子玩。玩的名堂隨著季節而變化：打蛋珠：參加的，一人出兩個珠珠放在方格裡，打出方格就是你的。吹橡皮筋：一人出十條，放在一起，誰吹出線外就是你的。玩陀螺、玩紙牌都是有點賭博性，大人打麻將的也很多。我們二巷特別熱鬧，別的巷子小孩也常來二巷，我就很少到別的巷子去玩。不玩賭博的也有玩跳繩、跳高、打棒球、躲貓貓、踢毽子、製作彈弓、水槍、橡皮筋槍，總之是不花錢的。
村子南面及西面是台灣糖廠種的甘蔗園，一望無際，所以想吃甘蔗就吃。暑假收甘蔗時糖廠會舖上鐵軌.將火車開來運甘蔗，工人下班後，就是輪到我們去玩推火車、跳火車最刺激。平時除了上學很少離開村子，小孩的爸爸都在軍中，很少回家，我們也不敢亂跑，因為本省人跟我們不合，罵我們是外省豬，後來才知道他們認為我們外省人來台灣不用耕田種稻就有飯吃，像豬一樣。他們不知沒有軍人保衛台灣，台灣早就被共黨拿走了。
最難忘的是看電影，鳳山街上有兩家戲院，一是鳳山戲院，一是東亞大戲院，眷村是很貧窮的，哪有錢去看電影.但每隔一個月或是兩個月，軍中會派人來村子放電影，白天會在村子佈告欄貼出"今晚七點在村子球場放映電影"我們放學經過布告欄發現後趕緊回家告訴媽媽，趕緊吃晚飯、寫功課，天沒黑就拿小凳子去球場佔位置，電影是放映在一塊白布上，都是黑白片，那時看的有名的明星是李麗華、嚴俊、尤敏、鐘情、蔣光超、劉恩甲、葛蘭、林黛、胡金銓、張揚、葛香亭、井淼、王引、趙雷、魏平澳…很多很多。
進入初中以後看電影有了新去處，村子附近有個陸軍步兵學校，裡面有電影院，也在村子佈告欄貼廣告，票價很便宜，好像是一元，假日時大家就會去看，小一點的孩子找個大人帶進去，大一點的就想法子溜進去。記得1963年轟動台灣的'梁山伯與祝英台"我也看到了，還有許多美國的西部片、泰山片都是在步兵學校看的。進入步兵學校玩是暑假最愛的約會，學校裡有游泳池可以游泳，有很多芒果樹、桂圓樹、蓮霧樹，摘幾個吃沒問題，經過伙房還能要個饅頭吃，等天黑了摸進電影院看電影，先跟媽媽報備，免得她操心。談到游泳，村子邊有條河，河寬約五公尺，深約一米多，是我們小孩夏天常去的地方，個個都是游泳健將，河水很急，逆游而上，大家也沒人教，狗爬式自然就會了。
黃埔二村原本一個門住兩家，慢慢都變成一家，孩子大了擠不下，只有想辦法，家家前院後院花錢加蓋，改善居住空間，這是以後的事，村子一遇颱風就淹水，水在地板下前院通後院，後院茅坑也滿出來，整個村子有股臭味。颱風過後有幾次上面發了一些美國來的救濟物質，一些舊衣服，好的就被村長自己留下了，分到家裡就幾條短褲，很不平衡。還有一次發每家一包玉米粉，都不知如何吃法。還有一次上面派人在巷口的雜貨店早上燒牛奶，每家拿鍋子、茶壺去領，為何不直接發奶粉，就不知道了。
眷村補給也是令人難忘，每人有眷補證，分大口、中口、小口，每月有米票、油票、鹽票、煤票(煤代金)。每月由農會用牛車運到村子發放。發的米始終不夠吃，老媽就買地瓜加入飯裡，燒飯是用煤碳，家家生煤冒煙，後來改用煤球也是會冒煙，老媽的氣管不好就是那時造成的。
爸爸都在軍中忙，媽媽一人要照顧我們五個孩子，真是很堅苦。我們放學回家能幫的只有擦擦地板，帶帶小妹，小妹差我10歲，我記得還幫忙洗她的尿布。老媽在院子養了幾隻鴨子，早上天剛亮老媽要我去田邊檢蜗牛，放學回來要我去挖蚯蚓，鴨子吃得很壯，過年過節可以加菜。爸爸回來，媽媽會加一個雞蛋炒酸菜，那時的日子就是連雞蛋都吃不起的日子，爸爸還是國家軍官，到底是誰對不起誰?
記得小學六年級畢業，爸爸去學校跟導師談話，知道我的功課不是很優秀，導師說最好再讀一年，考初中比較有把握，那時很流行留級，爸爸認為有理，就決定讓我再讀一年，我也不敢反抗，感覺是很丟人的。我們讀的是誠正小學，位於黃埔新村，班上的學生不是黃埔新村的就是黃埔二村的，留級怎會不丟人呢。做一個堂堂正正的中國人，做一個活活潑潑的好學生，鳳山鎮後來升為鳳山市，想想那時家裡連個書桌都沒有，燈光也不亮，如何用功讀書，遇到不會的能問誰呢？媽媽是文盲沒上過學堂，一切靠自己了。小學六年級第二年，有兩班，我分到孝班，全班有50人，導師是一位高中畢業的年輕人，班上有不少住在二村的，如同巷子的沙金媛、許大倫，三巷的楊組和唐滿娥，五巷的錢光東。導師希望學生放學後留在學校一小時學習，但要每人一個月繳10元，媽媽說沒錢不參加，我就沒繳，老師也沒說，還是讓我在校溫習。那時媽媽一個月只有300元，一天買菜只能花10元，哪來多餘的錢啊!老師留校一小時，一個月就能賺500元，現在想起來真是沒良心歐.。
50年代的小孩當然無法跟現代小孩相比，那時沒有電視、電腦，資訊不發達，一切很保守。那時也有漫畫書，買不起有出租的，我沒錢租，同學租來看，我可以跟著看，"諸葛四郎大戰魔鬼黨"，"原野奇俠"西遊記.等，我看得不多。眷村過年.家家會包香腸、曬臘肉、做年糕、打掃除、炸麻花，買點糖果、花生、瓜子，老媽會按大陸老家習俗做饅頭、做麥油紙(春捲)。除夕下午祭拜祖先，貼對聯，年夜飯後發壓歲錢，錢是不多，買個鞭炮玩玩。過年巷子更熱鬧了，白天小孩一堆一堆的在賭錢，晚上巷子跟巷子用沖天炮互攻。老爸喜歡過年帶全家去大貝湖看風景，大貝湖就在鳳山，這是唯一的出遊。住在眷村裡，跟外界很少接觸，所以台灣話(閩南話)也不會說，第二次讀小學六年級時，班上來了一批本省人，是從過碑里來的，跟我們也不太來往，居然還有一位姓潘的，一直到畢業也很陌生。後來過碑里成立了分校，就不用跑到我們眷村裡來讀了。
最懷念巷子裡的大榕樹，每家門口一顆，樹枝高大，枝葉茂盛，頂部相連，整條巷子陰涼，一到黃昏，麻雀歸巢，滿樹都是麻雀，晚上有人帶氣槍專程來村子打麻雀，比我們用彈弓打要準多了。
懷念颱風夜停電的晚上，媽媽點著臘燭在查看房子漏水情形。
懷念去河裡游泳游得精疲力盡，回到家聞到媽媽正在蒸包子。
懷念自己製作的風箏飛上天空，真是美極了。
懷念滿足於獲得了幾張用過的郵票。
懷念在學校寫毛筆字都是沾用同學的墨汁。
懷念撿到電線將銅絲賣了，買枝冰棒吃。
懷念到河邊田裡偷地瓜烤來吃。
還懷念過年沒有新衣服穿，心裡很不高興。
懷念小時看見家裡有客人來，總是躲在房間不敢出來。
懷念睡覺時老是被臭蟲咬，發現臭蟲都是躲在蚊帳裡。
懷念睡覺時老是尿床，是營養不良嗎?
懷念感冒發燒時，媽媽為我在頸肩抓沙，我忍著痛。
懷念放學回家到，廚房摸摸菜籃，摸到一個蕃茄.太興奮了。
懷念老媽學做衣服，幫我縫了一條短褲。
懷念過年全家一起製作年糕，端午包粽子。
懷念冬天咬著牙沖冷水洗澡。
懷念上茅房總是憋著氣，因為真臭啊。
懷念每天來村子賣豆沙包、賣冰棒、賣銅賣鐵的叫賣聲。
懷念經常來村子用芋頭換米的山地人。
童年真是迷迷糊糊的過去，我努力找尋記憶深處，有關童年的點點滴滴，絕不是現在小孩能想像的那個時代，大家窮，窮得開心，窮得有希望、有目標。不花錢也可以度日，不花錢也可以開心。小時因為沒有電視，我的眼睛視力一直在1.2，有助於我航海工作。因為沒有電腦，我的字寫得比別人好看。因為沒有錢，讓我養成節儉樸實，量入為出的習慣。因為童年的苦，讓我吃不挑食，穿不求名牌，熱愛生命，珍惜每一天。因為媽媽的辛苦，讓我未到退休之年就待在家照顧他的晚年。因為住在眷村，讓我有愛國心，有刻苦耐勞的毅力。童年雖然不長，但影響深遠。
"童年"這首歌是1982年羅大佑寫的歌，由張艾嘉唱，大家都聽過。但是跟我的童年是有差距的，只有口袋裡沒有半毛錢是真的，我讀到高中時還是如此。池塘邊的榕樹上知了在聲聲叫著夏天，操場邊的鞦遷上只有蝴蝶停在上面.黑板上老師的粉筆還在拚命嘰嘰喳喳寫個不停，等待著下課等待著放學，等待遊戲的童年，福利社裡什麼都有就是口袋裡沒有半毛錢，諸葛四郎和魔鬼黨到底誰搶到那隻寶劍，隔壁班的那個男孩怎麼還沒經過我的窗前，嘴裡的零食手裡的漫畫，心裡初戀的童年，總是要等到睡覺以前才知道功課只做了一點點，總是要等到考試以後才知道該念的書都沒有念，一寸光陰一寸金，老師說過寸金難買寸光陰，一天又一天一年又一年，迷迷糊糊的童年。沒有人知道為什麼太陽總下到山的那一邊，沒有人能夠告訴我山裡面有沒有住著神仙，多少的日子裡總是一個人面對著天空發呆，就這麼好奇就這麼幻想這麼孤單的童年。陽光下蜻蜓飛過來一片片油綠綠的稻田，水彩臘筆和萬花筒畫不出天邊那一條彩虹，什麼時候才能像高年級的同學有張成熟長大的臉，盼望著假期盼望著明天，盼望長大的童年，一天又一天一年又一年，盼望長大的童年。
2016.10.18 海鷗不飛
About the author
Mr. Pan Zhao-Qiang was born in 1947 in Zhejiang Province, China. He completed his elementary school education in 1960 at the Cheng-Zheng Elementary School in the township of Feng-Shan in Taiwan and lived in the Huang-Pu Military Residential Village-II for 50 years. He graduated from the Kao-Shiung Marine Products College in 1966 after completing the diploma class of the Army Officers Academy and had spent 37 years in a seafaring career.
Translated from the Chinese by AI (Claude) in November 2026. Not yet reviewed by the author.
Childhood
Childhood ought to mean the years from seven to twelve. Seven is just when you start the first grade of primary school; the memories are hazy and leave no deep impression. What leaves a deep impression is the years from ten to twelve, so childhood is really not long at all. Children today live settled, comfortable lives, and cannot even say how they spent their childhood. After twelve you enter junior high, and those three years stay very clear in memory; they count as adolescence, and they are also the stage most worth remembering. Everyone has a childhood. It is the point where life's memories begin. If you cannot recall it, perhaps your parents can help you find it again: Mom is sure to know.
My childhood was in the years 1956–62. What we lacked most was photographs. In those days nobody had ever seen such a thing as a camera, and even the pictures printed in the newspapers were black and white. I have only one photo of myself at two years old, with my parents and my eldest brother, taken at a photo studio in Guangzhou, and a group photo from my primary school graduation. What I looked like in the ten years between, I don't even know myself. Mom is holding me, and Dad is holding my eldest brother.
A child's life is decided by the parents. Everyone's childhood is different, because the surroundings they live in are different, the times are different, the family's means are different, the way the parents bring them up is different, and the children's characters are different. How would a child know whether life was hard or not? There was nothing to compare it with. The 1950s were a time of war and upheaval. The government had retreated from the mainland to Taiwan, goods were scarce, and you can imagine how hard life was. Getting enough to eat at three meals a day was a problem in itself; to come through childhood without starving was lucky indeed.
When I was nine, Dad was transferred from Taipei to a post in Kaohsiung, and the family rented a place to live in Kaohsiung. The house we rented was also in a military dependents' village, so at least there was no trouble talking with the neighbors, and we could help one another. We moved twice before we finally found someone willing to sell us their place, and only then did we pay and settle down in the military village. Once there, we lived in the village for fifty years, until it was finally torn down and everyone moved out. It left so many memories. My childhood was spent in the military village.
I lived in Huangpu Second Village (黃埔二村) in Fengshan City, Kaohsiung. Fengshan had the Army Officers Academy, the Army Infantry School and the Chung Cheng Preparatory Cadre School, as well as the Army's Second Army Group and the Fengshan Military Police unit. Fengshan also had many military villages: Huangpu New Village (黃埔新村), Huangpu First to Seventh Villages (黃埔一村到七村), and also Gongxie New Village (工協新村), Siwei Second Village (四維二村), Shengli New Village (勝利新村), Fengshan New Village (鳳山新村), Xiehe New Village (協和新村), Wujia New Village (五甲新村), Chenggong New Village (成功新村), Haiguang New Village (海光新村), Xianguang New Village (憲光新村), Cihui First to Fifth Villages (慈暉一村到五村), Ranzheng New Village (染整新村), Shijian New Village (實踐新村) and others. The people living in the military villages were all soldiers' families, all of them having retreated to Taiwan from the various provinces of the mainland. The military villages had no dealings with the native Taiwanese residents and formed a world of their own. The native Taiwanese spoke Minnan. Although the military villages had people from every province, everyone communicated in Mandarin; the government was promoting Mandarin too, and the schools all taught in Mandarin.
There were military villages in every county and city in Taiwan. In 1982 there were 879 of them across Taiwan, with more than 98,000 households and a population of about 500,000. Kaohsiung had a great many, because the academies of all three armed services were in Kaohsiung. Over more than 60 years they have formed a culture of their own. Now the military villages are old and worn. The first generation has grown old and cannot withstand the ravages of the years; in their eighties and nineties, they are fading away day by day. The second generation has also grown old, the third has reached middle age, and the fourth has left the military villages behind. The villages are gradually being removed: by 2008 only 148 military villages remained in all of Taiwan. Military village culture will in the end become history, which is hard to let go of and leaves us longing for it. At the people's request, the government will also preserve some of them as historic sites: the Navy's Jianye New Village (建業新村) in Zuoying, Kaohsiung, and Huangpu New Village in Fengshan will be registered as cultural landscapes.
In Huangpu Second Village every house had a big chimney. The houses of Huangpu Second Village were officers' quarters left behind by the Japanese and taken over: single-story houses with tiled roofs. In front of the door was a small yard, every house had a concrete chimney, and in the yard grew a big banyan tree. Inside there were wooden floors and wooden partitions. A house with one front door, originally home to one family, was divided between two families, because there were not enough houses; there was no other way. Every family had four or more children. Luckily they were all small then, and slept squeezed together on bedding laid on the floor. The village had six lanes, divided into an east side and a west side with a road down the middle, and at the head of the lanes was an air-raid shelter. I lived at No. 10, West Lane 2. The lane was about 4 meters wide, with doors facing each other: eight doors on each side, 16 doors on both sides together. Two households lived behind each door, which made 32 households. With an average of 4 children per household, that made 128 children, so West Lane 2 alone was lively enough; in fact it was very crowded. East Lane 2 had somewhat fewer households, but still 16.
In summer the lane was where the grown-ups sat out to cool off, because the big banyan trees gave shade, and it was also where the children played games. Back then there was no television or radio yet. We couldn't afford electric fans, and electric stoves couldn't be used yet because the voltage wasn't high enough: switch one on and the power would trip, and the whole lane would go dark. Staying at home was dull for a child; better to play in the lane. The games we played changed with the seasons. Marbles: everyone who joined put two marbles in a square, and whatever you knocked out of the square was yours. Blowing rubber bands: each player put in ten, all together, and whichever ones you blew over the line were yours. Spinning tops and card games all involved a bit of gambling, and plenty of the grown-ups played mahjong too. Our Lane 2 was especially lively. Children from other lanes often came to Lane 2, so I seldom went to play in other lanes. Those who didn't gamble played jump rope, high jump, baseball, hide-and-seek and shuttlecock kicking, and made slingshots, water guns and rubber-band guns. In short, things that cost no money.
South and west of the village were sugarcane fields planted by the Taiwan Sugar mill, stretching as far as the eye could see, so whenever we wanted sugarcane we ate it. At harvest time in the summer holidays the sugar mill laid rails and brought trains in to carry the cane away. After the workers went home it was our turn: pushing the train cars and jumping on and off the trains was the most thrilling of all. Usually we seldom left the village except to go to school. The children's fathers were all in the army and seldom came home, and we didn't dare wander off, because the native Taiwanese didn't get along with us and cursed us as "mainlander pigs." Only later did I learn that they thought we mainlanders had come to Taiwan and got our food without having to plow the fields or plant rice, like pigs. They didn't know that without soldiers defending Taiwan, Taiwan would long ago have been taken by the Communists.
The most unforgettable thing was going to the movies. There were two cinemas on the streets of Fengshan, the Fengshan Theater and the East Asia Grand Theater. The military village was very poor; where would we get money to see a film? But every month or two the army sent people to the village to show a film. During the day they would put up a notice on the village notice board: "Film showing tonight at seven at the village ball court." When we passed the notice board after school and saw it, we hurried home to tell Mom, hurried to eat dinner and do our homework, and before dark took little stools to the ball court to save our places. The films were projected onto a white cloth, all in black and white. The famous stars we saw back then were Li Lihua (李麗華), Yan Jun (嚴俊), You Min (尤敏), Zhong Qing (鐘情), Jiang Guangchao (蔣光超), Liu Enjia (劉恩甲), Grace Chang (葛蘭), Lin Dai (林黛), King Hu (胡金銓), Zhang Yang (張揚), Ko Hsiang-ting (葛香亭), Jing Miao (井淼), Wang Yin (王引), Chao Lei (趙雷), Wei Ping'ao (魏平澳)... many, many more.
After I entered junior high there was a new place to see films. Near the village was the Army Infantry School, which had a cinema inside, and it too put up posters on the village notice board. Tickets were very cheap, one yuan I think, and on holidays everyone would go. The smaller children found a grown-up to take them in; the bigger ones found some way to sneak in. I remember that I too saw "Liang Shanbo and Zhu Yingtai" (梁山伯與祝英台), which caused a sensation in Taiwan in 1963, and many American westerns and Tarzan films as well, all seen at the Infantry School. Going to play at the Infantry School was our favorite summer outing. The school had a swimming pool where we could swim, and lots of mango, longan and wax-apple trees; picking a few to eat was no problem. Passing the mess kitchen we could even ask for a steamed bun to eat, and when it got dark we slipped into the cinema to see a film, having told Mom first so she wouldn't worry. Speaking of swimming, at the edge of the village was a river about five meters wide and a little over a meter deep. It was where we children often went in summer, and every one of us was a strong swimmer. The current was swift and we swam upstream against it. Nobody taught us; we all just picked up the dog paddle naturally.
In Huangpu Second Village two families had originally lived behind each door, but gradually each became one family's. As the children grew there was no room to squeeze in, so we had to find a way: every family paid to build additions in the front and back yards to improve their living space. That came later. Whenever a typhoon hit, the village flooded. The water ran under the floors from the front yard to the back yard, the latrine in the back yard overflowed too, and the whole village stank. A few times after a typhoon, the authorities handed out relief supplies from America, some old clothes. The good ones were kept by the village head himself; what reached our family was just a few pairs of shorts. It was very unfair. Another time each family was given a bag of cornmeal, and nobody knew how to eat it. And another time the authorities sent someone to boil milk in the mornings at the grocery store at the head of the lane, and every family took pots and kettles to collect it. Why they didn't simply hand out milk powder, I never knew.
The military village rations are also unforgettable. Everyone had a dependents' ration card, graded as large, medium or small "mouths," and every month there were coupons for rice, oil, salt and coal (cash in lieu of coal). Every month the Farmers' Association brought them to the village by ox cart and handed them out. The rice we were given was never enough to eat, so Mom bought sweet potatoes to add to the rice. We cooked with coal, and every family's coal fire gave off smoke; later we switched to coal briquettes, which smoked too. Mom's weak lungs came from those days.
Dad was always busy in the army, and Mom alone had to look after the five of us children; it was truly hard. When we came home from school, all we could do to help was wipe the floors and mind our little sister. She is 10 years younger than me, and I remember helping wash her diapers too. Mom raised a few ducks in the yard. In the morning, just at daybreak, she sent me to the edge of the fields to pick up snails, and after school she sent me to dig earthworms. The ducks grew fat, and at New Year and on holidays they made an extra dish. When Dad came home, Mom would add an egg to the stir-fried pickled greens. Those were days when we couldn't even afford eggs, and Dad was an officer of the nation. Who, in the end, had wronged whom?
I remember that when I finished sixth grade, Dad went to the school to talk with my homeroom teacher and learned that my schoolwork was not very good. The teacher said it would be best for me to study another year, so I would have a better chance in the junior high entrance exam. Repeating a year was very common then. Dad thought this made sense and decided to have me study another year. I didn't dare protest, but I felt it was very shameful. We went to Chengzheng Primary School (誠正小學), in Huangpu New Village, and the pupils in our class all came from either Huangpu New Village or Huangpu Second Village. How could repeating a year not be shameful? Be an upright Chinese, be a lively, good pupil. Fengshan Township was later upgraded to Fengshan City. Thinking back, at home we didn't even have a desk, and the light wasn't bright; how could I study hard? And when I came across something I didn't understand, whom could I ask? Mom was illiterate and had never been to school; it was all up to me. In my second year of sixth grade there were two classes, and I was put in the Filial Piety class (孝班). There were 50 pupils in the class, and the homeroom teacher was a young high school graduate. Quite a few in the class lived in the Second Village: from my own lane, Sha Jinyuan (沙金媛) and Xu Dalun (許大倫); from Lane 3, Yang Zu (楊組) and Tang Man'e (唐滿娥); and from Lane 5, Qian Guangdong (錢光東). The teacher wanted the pupils to stay at school for an hour after class to study, but each had to pay 10 yuan a month. Mom said we had no money and I wouldn't join, so I didn't pay. The teacher said nothing and still let me stay at school to review. Back then Mom had only 300 yuan a month and could spend only 10 yuan a day on groceries; where would spare money come from! For keeping pupils an hour after school, the teacher could earn 500 yuan a month. Thinking about it now, that really was heartless, wasn't it.
Children of the 1950s of course cannot compare with children today. There was no television or computer then, information was scarce, and everything was very conservative. There were comic books then too; if you couldn't afford to buy them you could rent them. I had no money to rent them, but when my classmates rented them I could read along: "Zhuge Silang Battles the Devil Gang" (諸葛四郎大戰魔鬼黨), "Knight of the Wild Plains" (原野奇俠), "Pilgrimage to the West" (西遊記) and so on, though I didn't read many. At New Year in the military dependents' village, every family made sausages, dried cured pork in the sun, made New Year cakes, did a big cleaning and fried dough twists, and bought some sweets, peanuts and melon seeds. Following the customs of our old home on the mainland, Mom made steamed buns and "wheat-oil paper" (spring rolls). On the afternoon of New Year's Eve we made offerings to the ancestors and put up couplets, and after the New Year's Eve dinner we were given New Year money. It wasn't much, enough to buy a few firecrackers to play with. At New Year the lane was even livelier: in the daytime the children gambled in little huddles, and at night lane attacked lane with skyrockets. Dad liked to take the whole family to Dabei Lake (大貝湖) at New Year to enjoy the scenery. Dabei Lake was right in Fengshan; it was our only outing. Living in the military dependents' village we had little contact with the outside world, so we couldn't speak Taiwanese (Minnan) either. In my second time through sixth grade, a group of native Taiwanese pupils joined our class. They came from Guobei Village (過碑里), and they didn't mix much with us either. There was even one surnamed Pan, yet we remained strangers right up to graduation. Later a branch school was set up in Guobei Village, so they no longer had to come all the way to our military dependents' village to study.
Most of all I miss the big banyan trees in the lane, one at every door: tall branches, thick leaves, their tops meeting, so the whole lane was shady and cool. At dusk the sparrows came home to roost and the trees were full of them; at night people came to the village with air guns just to shoot sparrows, far more accurate than our slingshots.
I miss the typhoon nights when the power went out, and Mom checked the house for leaks by candlelight.
I miss swimming in the river until I was worn out, then coming home to smell Mom steaming buns.
I miss the kites I made myself flying up into the sky; they were so beautiful.
I miss being content with getting a few used stamps.
I miss always dipping my brush in my classmates' ink when we did calligraphy at school.
I miss finding electric wire, selling the copper, and buying an ice pop.
I miss stealing sweet potatoes from the fields by the river to roast and eat.
I even miss having no new clothes to wear at New Year, and how unhappy that made me.
I miss how, as a little boy, whenever guests came to the house I always hid in my room and didn't dare come out.
I miss always being bitten by bedbugs in my sleep, and finding that the bedbugs all hid in the mosquito net.
I miss always wetting the bed in my sleep. Was it malnutrition?
I miss Mom pinching the skin of my neck and shoulders (抓沙) when I had a cold and a fever, while I bore the pain.
I miss coming home from school, feeling around in the vegetable basket in the kitchen, and finding a tomato. So exciting!
I miss Mom learning to make clothes and sewing me a pair of shorts.
I miss the whole family making New Year cakes together at New Year, and wrapping rice dumplings at the Dragon Boat Festival.
I miss gritting my teeth through cold-water baths in winter.
I miss always holding my breath in the outhouse, because it really stank.
I miss the cries of the peddlers who came to the village every day selling red-bean buns, selling ice pops, and buying copper and iron.
I miss the mountain people who often came to the village to trade taro for rice.
Childhood really did pass in a haze. I have searched hard in the depths of my memory for the bits and pieces of my childhood. It was an era that children today could never imagine. Everyone was poor, but poor and happy, poor with hope and with goals. You could get by without spending money, and you could be happy without spending money. Because there was no television when I was small, my eyesight has always been 1.2, which helped me in my work at sea. Because there were no computers, my handwriting is better than other people's. Because there was no money, I formed the habit of living frugally and plainly, within my means. Because of the hardships of childhood, I am not picky about food, I don't chase brand names in clothes, I love life and cherish every day. Because of how hard Mom worked, I stayed home to care for her in her old age before I had even reached retirement age. Because I lived in a military dependents' village, I have a love of my country and the grit to endure hardship and hard work. Childhood may not be long, but its influence is deep and lasting.
The song "Childhood" (童年) was written by Lo Ta-yu (羅大佑) in 1982 and sung by Sylvia Chang (張艾嘉); everyone has heard it. But it is different from my childhood: only the part about not having a single penny in my pocket is true, and it was still that way when I was in high school. On the banyan tree by the pond the cicadas call out summer, call after call; on the swings by the playground only butterflies are resting. On the blackboard the teacher's chalk is still frantically chattering away, writing on and on without stopping; waiting for class to end, waiting for school to let out, a childhood waiting to play; the school shop has everything, but there's not a single penny in my pocket. Zhuge Silang and the Devil Gang: who will grab that precious sword in the end? Why hasn't the boy from the class next door passed by my window yet? Snacks in my mouth, a comic in my hand, a childhood with first love in my heart; only at bedtime do I always find I've done just a little of my homework, only after the exam do I always find I haven't studied what I should have; an inch of time is an inch of gold (一寸光陰一寸金), the teacher said an inch of gold can't buy an inch of time (寸金難買寸光陰); day after day, year after year, a hazy childhood. No one knows why the sun always goes down on the other side of the mountain, no one can tell me whether immortals live in the mountains; so many days, always alone, staring blankly at the sky, such a curious, such a dreamy, such a lonely childhood. In the sunshine dragonflies fly over field after field of glossy green rice; watercolors, crayons and kaleidoscopes can't paint that rainbow at the edge of the sky; when will I have a grown-up, mature face like the older pupils; longing for the holidays, longing for tomorrow, a childhood longing to grow up; day after day, year after year, a childhood longing to grow up.
October 18, 2016 — Haiou Bufei (海鷗不飛)