Salt Frost

In the late Qing Dynasty, at Tianjin Wei Pier, the three brothers of the Chen family started as salt workers and opened a palm-sized shop by carrying out bags of salt. After the eldest brother was injured, he had to be helped by a down-and-out scholar, the second brother smuggled salt and almost closed the shop, and the third brother sold his property to stabilize his life - these were the days of the first generation, clumsy, hard, like grains of coarse salt. The second-generation prodigal son mortgaged his shop, and Mingyuan climbed up from the bottom to improve the salt-drying method, and fled south to Fujian with a gold bar. The Taiping Army, the Nian Army, and the Eight-Power Allied Forces were in chaos and chaos, but their lives were like straw, but salt was always a hard currency. The four sons of the third generation each went their own way: the one who studied in Zhongju opened a school, the one who was in business expanded the Nanyang route, the one who was pragmatic built earth buildings, and the one who was an official mediated in the officialdom. This is not a cool article. There are no adventures, only abacus beads, IOUs, salt mixed with sand, and a knife stabbed in the back. Three generations have spent eighty years struggling to answer the same question: How far can one go between faith and survival?