Fanghua in Huangqiu

When he came back, the barren hills were still barren hills. My father was lying on the bed while my mother cooked porridge. The villagers stood at the gate of the courtyard with bowls in their hands, looking at him as if he were a joke. Only she believed him. The eight hundred yuan note made my palms sweat. Thirty-seven years. He planted trees, raised chickens, set up cooperatives, and built industrial parks. Financial crisis, SARS, capital winter, and epidemic—five hurdles, none of which have been avoided. Some people stumbled, some cried secretly, and some took out the coffin and slapped it on the table. The tree is alive. People are still there. The barren hills are green. On the day of listing, he said: It's not the barren hills that need me, it's me that needs this mountain. This is the chronicle of a village and the rooted history of a group of people.