Core narrative
Sixty-nine trees, sixty-nine chapters, each chapter has more than 6,000 words. From the perspective of his daughter Mo Jialin, it tells the life epic of his father Mo Deshan from a miner in Shanxi to the guardian of the 11,600 acres of camellia oleifera forest in Wawu Mountain in southwestern Hunan.
[Five-volume structure]
Volume 1 "Black Gold Years": The three kilometers of darkness in the mine, the miner's certificate, the gas explosion, and the bowl of noodles when he came out of the mine.
Volume 2 "Green Gold Transformation": Going south to open up wasteland, from pickaxe to hoe, three thousand acres of forest took shape in loneliness.
Volume Three: "The Trouble of Watching": intergenerational tensions, tuition bills, miners' lungs, and the desolate reconciliation of father learning to use a smartphone.
Volume 4 "Ecological Valley Dream": 11,600 acres of blueprint, Taigongshan Zen Temple, the 667th follower, the birth of Mr. Wawu - the return of the prisoner, and a group photo of three generations.
Volume 5: "Eternal Rings of Growth": Father's first poem, ten years of wine burial, and the 11,600 trees in his will. Jialin took the hoe and the growth cycle continued.
Narrative Features
Poetry proves the double excellence: each chapter uses a seven-character/nine-character quatrain or "Partridge Sky" to condense the theme, and the prose extends the artistic conception.
The personification of objects: miner's certificate, grafting knife, medical records - each item is a mark of my father's life, and is also a witness to the era when barren mountains have turned into "golden mountains".
Ecological Valley Note: The twenty-four solar terms health preservation and the effects of camellia oleifera transform family history into the emotional companionship of 70 million middle-aged and elderly people.
Mr. Wawu·2026 Spring Equinox in Wawu
This chapter was written very slowly. From the "eternal cycle" of the 60th tree to the "farewell lesson" of the 70th tree, there are ten blank spaces in between, like the weak tea brewed in the father's enamel jar. Someone asked me why "Dad's Story" was written to 70? I said, because my father lived to be 70 years old - no, my father only lived to be 68 years old. But he lived 70 years in my memory, and the extra two years were the time for me to learn to lie and tell the truth.
The 667th follower is me. This truth is three years late. I say it now, not because of courage, but because the 70th tree needs a crack to let the light in.
Jialin writes better poems than I do. "There are new crows deep in the crooked branches." She understands better than me that inheritance is not copying, but mutation. What the crow feeds back is the rules. Rules are not constraints, they are the wind under their wings.
Next chapter? Maybe, maybe not. If written, the 71st tree would be Jialin's tree. If I didn't write it down, these seventy trees would have formed an array, and there would be no leakage - someone would listen to the leakage. Mr. Wawu, this is the first draft of Chapter 70.
This chapter is written very high, because the roof is high, the tiles are high, the tiles are high, and the sound of rain falls from high places. When I was writing, I kept climbing on that imaginary roof, from the ladder to the ridge, from the ridge to the tile cracks, and from the tile cracks to the tiles, over and over again, like my father climbed countless times, like me climbing now, like Mo Jialin will climb in the future. In the end, my father repaired the roof, pulled out loose tiles, and brought down a cracked tile. This is true, or I hope it is true. That kind of "last time", heaviness, that kind of "be gentle, the tiles are alive", gentleness, that kind of "listen and you will know" wisdom, are what my father taught me, and what Roof taught me. Mo Jialin said "the roof is talking". This sentence made me think about it for a long time, not to understand it, but to feel it. Feel the physical and intellectual feeling of "the wind is walking in the cracks of the tiles, like people walking in the corridor". This kind of wisdom is truer than any language and heavier than any roof, because it is remembered with ears, passed down with silence, and heard through three generations, countless rains, and countless tiles. In the next chapter, I want to write about the door of the stone house, how my father left his traces on the door, and how the door becomes another kind of archive, another kind of memory, and another kind of proof of "I am here". Mr. Wa Wu, in the early morning, in Xinjiang.
This chapter was written very slowly, because the road is slow, the rocks are slow, the turns are slow, and the ice is slow. When I was writing, I kept walking that imaginary path, from the lakeside to the stone house, and from the stone house to the lakeside, over and over again, just like my father walked for sixty years, like I am walking now, and like Mo Jialin will walk in the future. The third turn, the blind turn, I slipped, and this was true, or, I hoped it was true. That kind of staggering, that kind of steady holding on to the stone, that kind of determination to keep walking, my father taught me, and the road also taught me. Mo Jialin said, "This road is alive." This sentence made me think about it for a long time, not to understand it, but to feel it. Feel the physical and wisdom of "the foot knows to turn to the right". This kind of wisdom is truer than any language and more accurate than any map, because it is remembered with the soles of the feet, passed down with the body, and stepped on by countless pairs of feet over sixty years, three generations. In the next chapter, I want to write about the roof of the stone house, about how my father climbed on the roof and repaired the tiles when it leaked, and about how the tiles became another kind of archive, another kind of memory, another kind of proof of "I am". Mr. Wa Wu, in the early morning, in Xinjiang.
This chapter is written very quietly, because the lake is still, the reflection is still, the ice is still, and the fish's eyes are still. When I was writing, I kept thinking about what my father said, "The me in the water is the real me." This sentence made me think about it for a long time, not to understand it, but to feel it. Feel the inverted philosophy of "I am the shadow on the ground, and I am the body in the water". I didn't understand it in the end, but I felt it, the moment the ice cracked and the two me merged, the moment I saw myself in the fish's eyes, and the moment I saw three generations of people in Mo Jialin's words. This kind of feeling is more important than understanding. As my father said, "Sitting is using the whole body." Seeing is also using the whole body, not with the eyes, but with the whole body, the whole memory, and the whole family history. In the next chapter, I want to write about the path leading from the lake to the stone house, how my father walked on this path for sixty years, and how the end and the beginning of the path became the same thing. Mr. Wa Wu, in the early morning, in Xinjiang.
This chapter is very full because the iron box is full, the file is full, and my father's life is full. When I was writing, I kept touching the imaginary iron box, which was black, oxidized, and scratched, like a stomach, a uterus, and a seed. The scene where my mother opened the iron box was real, or I hope it was real. She said, "He let me see it." This sentence made me cry for a long time, not because of sadness, but because of some kind of "it turns out that he is not alone" and relief. The strips added by Mo Jialin were made up by me, but I hope they are true. She wrote, "If grandpa is here, he will be satisfied. If dad is here, he will also be satisfied. If I am here, continue." This kind of progressive confirmation across three generations is what I want to express ultimately in this series. Archives are either dead or alive. If they are growing, they are alive. This sentence is what my father said, what I said, and what Mo Jialin will say in the future. In the next chapter, I want to write about Tingchong Lake, how my father fetched water, washed vegetables, and looked at the reflection by the lake, and how the lake water became another kind of archive, another kind of memory, and another kind of proof of "I am here." Mr. Wa Wu, in the early morning, in Xinjiang.
This chapter was written very slowly because the bamboo chair is slow. It took forty years for it to become soft, forty years to remember a person's shape, and forty years to transform from an ordinary chair into a part of my father's body. While I was writing, I kept touching my chair - not made of bamboo, but made of wood. I bought it in the city. It has no memory, no dents, and no one's shape. I suddenly envied my father, envied him for having such a chair, envied him for being able to embed himself into something, and envied the simplest kind of companionship that "leans on each other and cannot fall down". The part where my mother helped me repair the armrest was true. Her hands are thick but nimble. The wire is obedient in her hands, but rebellious in mine. This is the difference between generations, and it is also the inheritance between generations - what she built is not a chair, it is some kind of deepest confirmation that "everything her family touches is right". The little basket I made is indeed ugly. It is placed next to the bamboo chair, like a father and son, like a clumsy but sincere continuation. In the next chapter, I want to write about the knife my father used to cut bamboo strips, and how it changed from a tool to a symbol of power and a family legacy that must be inherited. Mr. Wa Wu, in the early morning, in Xinjiang.
This chapter is written very quietly, because the sunset is quiet, the west window is quiet, and the father's posture when looking at the sunset is quiet. I spent a long time recalling the rhythm of his right foot tapping, tap, tap, tap. It was not music, it was heartbeat, breathing, the weakest yet strongest signal of "I am still alive." I always remember what my mother said, "The sunset is round," but I didn't understand its weight until I sat on that chair. That's not describing the weather, it's reporting your mood. It's the most concise way of expressing "I'm fine, don't worry." Mo Jialin's phone call was real, she did ask me these questions, and I really didn't know how to answer them. Now, I have written it down, hoping that she will understand it when she reads it later. I decided not to patch up the crack in the window sill, and let it remain, like the blank left by my father, waiting for her to fill it in. In the next chapter, I want to write about that bamboo chair and how it changed from an ordinary chair to a part of my father's body and became some kind of inseparable connection between me and my father. Mr. Wa Wu, in the early morning, in Xinjiang.
Word CountAbout 6400 words
This chapter is very specific because the stove is specific. Thirty-seven stones, each one has its origin, each one is the father's words. When I was writing, I kept thinking about how my father felt when he wrote "Fire is here, people are here"? Is it self-encouragement in despair or natural expression in calm times? My guess is the former. He had just retired from the mines, he was forty-three years old, and his future was like an empty well. He had to find a fulcrum for himself. The stove is this fulcrum. When the fire is lit, people come to life. So simple, yet so heavy. What my mother said about "different division of labor" made me think about it for a long time. Fire is his business, food is her business. This is how a family operates. There is no vigorous work, just everyone performing their duties. When I wrote this poem, the fire in the stove was raging, the paper was spread on my knees, and the pen leaked and soiled my pants. But I don't care. The poems written in that state are not exquisite, but real, like boiled eggs in camellia shells, like father's words, like the winter in Wawu Mountain. In the next chapter, I want to write about that west window and how my father sat in front of the window in the evening and watched the sunset set over the camellia oleifera forest. It was another story, another silent, tenacious thing that burned like fire. Mr. Wa Wu, in the early morning, in Xinjiang.
Word CountAbout 6500 words
This chapter was written very slowly. It's not that I'm not good at writing, it's that I don't dare to write fast. I'm afraid that if I write too fast, I'll miss something; I'm afraid that if I write too fast, I'll be frivolous. It has been a year since my father left. I thought time would dilute it, but time has only turned strong things into something mellower. The Camellia oleifera in Wawu Mountain blooms every winter. I used to think this was a natural law, but now I know it is some kind of promise, some kind of code for "I'm still here." My mother is right, a flower is a flower, it blooms, there is no dispute. But people are not flowers. People need to give meaning to flowers, otherwise how can they survive? Most of what the mother said in this chapter is true. She wouldn't say it in such a polite way, but she meant the right thing. I translated and asked her not to be offended. In the next chapter, I want to write about the stove in that stone house and how my father used stones to build a place where he could cook. That is another story, another silent, tenacious thing like camellia flowers. Mr. Wa Wu, in the early morning, in Xinjiang.
"Dad's Story" has finally come to an end with sixty chapters and sixty trees.
This is not a sad story. My father is gone, but the trees he planted are still there. The miner's certificate is yellowed, but the numbers are still there. The mountain guard shed is empty, but the person guarding the mountain is still there. The annual rings of Wawu Mountain grow round and round, extending a person's life into the life of a mountain forest.
I want to thank everyone who reads this. Thank you for accompanying me through these sixty chapters, from the wells of Shanxi to the mountain tops of Hunan, from my father's youth to his twilight years, from one person's loneliness to the inheritance of a generation.
Special thanks to the 667th follower. Your presence convinced me that these stories deserve to be written down.
Finally, I want to say to my father: Dad, I have finished writing your story. But your tree continues to grow, and your annual rings continue to turn. I will come back to see them with thoughts, one year, two years, many years. Until one day, Niannian came with her children, pointed to the top of the mountain and said, "Look, that is the first tree planted by Grandpa Grandpa. That is the first tree planted by me."
At that time, will you laugh in the annual rings?
I think you will.
Mr. Takuya
April 17, 2026
Yuwawu Mountain
This chapter was written very slowly. From the "eternal cycle" of the 60th tree to the "farewell lesson" of the 70th tree, there are ten blank spaces in between, like the weak tea brewed in the father's enamel jar. Someone asked me why "Dad's Story" was written to 70? I said, because my father lived to be 70 years old - no, my father only lived to be 68 years old. But he lived 70 years in my memory, and the extra two years were the time for me to learn to lie and tell the truth. The 667th follower is me. This truth is three years late. I say it now, not because of courage, but because the 70th tree needs a crack to let the light in. Jialin writes better poems than I do. "There are new crows deep in the crooked branches." She understands better than me that inheritance is not copying, but mutation. What the crow feeds back is the rules. Rules are not constraints, they are the wind under their wings. Next chapter? Maybe, maybe not. If written, the 71st tree would be Jialin's tree. If I didn't write it down, these seventy trees would have formed an array, and there would be no leakage - someone would listen to the leakage. Mr. Wawu, this is the first draft of Chapter 70.
This chapter is written very high, because the roof is high, the tiles are high, the tiles are high, and the sound of rain falls from high places. When I was writing, I kept climbing on that imaginary roof, from the ladder to the ridge, from the ridge to the tile cracks, and from the tile cracks to the tiles, over and over again, like my father climbed countless times, like me climbing now, like Mo Jialin will climb in the future. In the end, my father repaired the roof, pulled out loose tiles, and brought down a cracked tile. This is true, or I hope it is true. That kind of "last time", heaviness, that kind of "be gentle, the tiles are alive", gentleness, that kind of "listen and you will know" wisdom, are what my father taught me, and what Roof taught me. Mo Jialin said "the roof is talking". This sentence made me think about it for a long time, not to understand it, but to feel it. Feel the physical and intellectual feeling of "the wind is walking in the cracks of the tiles, like people walking in the corridor". This kind of wisdom is truer than any language and heavier than any roof, because it is remembered with ears, passed down with silence, and heard through three generations, countless rains, and countless tiles. In the next chapter, I want to write about the door of the stone house, how my father left his traces on the door, and how the door becomes another kind of archive, another kind of memory, and another kind of proof of "I am here". Mr. Wa Wu, in the early morning, in Xinjiang.
This chapter was written very slowly, because the road is slow, the rocks are slow, the turns are slow, and the ice is slow. When I was writing, I kept walking that imaginary path, from the lakeside to the stone house, and from the stone house to the lakeside, over and over again, just like my father walked for sixty years, like I am walking now, and like Mo Jialin will walk in the future. The third turn, the blind turn, I slipped, and this was true, or, I hoped it was true. That kind of staggering, that kind of steady holding on to the stone, that kind of determination to keep walking, my father taught me, and the road also taught me. Mo Jialin said, "This road is alive." This sentence made me think about it for a long time, not to understand it, but to feel it. Feel the physical and wisdom of "the foot knows to turn to the right". This kind of wisdom is truer than any language and more accurate than any map, because it is remembered with the soles of the feet, passed down with the body, and stepped on by countless pairs of feet over sixty years, three generations. In the next chapter, I want to write about the roof of the stone house, about how my father climbed on the roof and repaired the tiles when it leaked, and about how the tiles became another kind of archive, another kind of memory, another kind of proof of "I am". Mr. Wa Wu, in the early morning, in Xinjiang.
This chapter is written very quietly, because the lake is still, the reflection is still, the ice is still, and the fish's eyes are still. When I was writing, I kept thinking about what my father said, "The me in the water is the real me." This sentence made me think about it for a long time, not to understand it, but to feel it. Feel the inverted philosophy of "I am the shadow on the ground, and I am the body in the water". I didn't understand it in the end, but I felt it, the moment the ice cracked and the two me merged, the moment I saw myself in the fish's eyes, and the moment I saw three generations of people in Mo Jialin's words. This kind of feeling is more important than understanding. As my father said, "Sitting is using the whole body." Seeing is also using the whole body, not with the eyes, but with the whole body, the whole memory, and the whole family history. In the next chapter, I want to write about the path leading from the lake to the stone house, how my father walked on this path for sixty years, and how the end and the beginning of the path became the same thing. Mr. Wa Wu, in the early morning, in Xinjiang.
This chapter is very full because the iron box is full, the file is full, and my father's life is full. When I was writing, I kept touching the imaginary iron box, which was black, oxidized, and scratched, like a stomach, a uterus, and a seed. The scene where my mother opened the iron box was real, or I hope it was real. She said, "He let me see it." This sentence made me cry for a long time, not because of sadness, but because of some kind of "it turns out that he is not alone" and relief. The strips added by Mo Jialin were made up by me, but I hope they are true. She wrote, "If grandpa is here, he will be satisfied. If dad is here, he will also be satisfied. If I am here, continue." This kind of progressive confirmation across three generations is what I want to express ultimately in this series. Archives are either dead or alive. If they are growing, they are alive. This sentence is what my father said, what I said, and what Mo Jialin will say in the future. In the next chapter, I want to write about Tingchong Lake, how my father fetched water, washed vegetables, and looked at the reflection by the lake, and how the lake water became another kind of archive, another kind of memory, and another kind of proof of "I am here." Mr. Wa Wu, in the early morning, in Xinjiang.
This chapter was written very slowly because the bamboo chair is slow. It took forty years for it to become soft, forty years to remember a person's shape, and forty years to transform from an ordinary chair into a part of my father's body. While I was writing, I kept touching my chair - not made of bamboo, but made of wood. I bought it in the city. It has no memory, no dents, and no one's shape. I suddenly envied my father, envied him for having such a chair, envied him for being able to embed himself into something, and envied the simplest kind of companionship that "leans on each other and cannot fall down". The part where my mother helped me repair the armrest was true. Her hands are thick but nimble. The wire is obedient in her hands, but rebellious in mine. This is the difference between generations, and it is also the inheritance between generations - what she built is not a chair, it is some kind of deepest confirmation that "everything her family touches is right". The little basket I made is indeed ugly. It is placed next to the bamboo chair, like a father and son, like a clumsy but sincere continuation. In the next chapter, I want to write about the knife my father used to cut bamboo strips, and how it changed from a tool to a symbol of power and a family legacy that must be inherited. Mr. Wa Wu, in the early morning, in Xinjiang.
This chapter is written very quietly, because the sunset is quiet, the west window is quiet, and the father's posture when looking at the sunset is quiet. I spent a long time recalling the rhythm of his right foot tapping, tap, tap, tap. It was not music, it was heartbeat, breathing, the weakest yet strongest signal of "I am still alive." I always remember what my mother said, "The sunset is round," but I didn't understand its weight until I sat on that chair. That's not describing the weather, it's reporting your mood. It's the most concise way of expressing "I'm fine, don't worry." Mo Jialin's phone call was real, she did ask me these questions, and I really didn't know how to answer them. Now, I have written it down, hoping that she will understand it when she reads it later. I decided not to patch up the crack in the window sill, and let it remain, like the blank left by my father, waiting for her to fill it in. In the next chapter, I want to write about that bamboo chair and how it changed from an ordinary chair to a part of my father's body and became some kind of inseparable connection between me and my father. Mr. Wa Wu, in the early morning, in Xinjiang. Word CountAbout 6400 words
This chapter is very specific because the stove is specific. Thirty-seven stones, each one has its origin, each one is the father's words. When I was writing, I kept thinking about how my father felt when he wrote "Fire is here, people are here"? Is it self-encouragement in despair or natural expression in calm times? My guess is the former. He had just retired from the mines, he was forty-three years old, and his future was like an empty well. He had to find a fulcrum for himself. The stove is this fulcrum. When the fire is lit, people come to life. So simple, yet so heavy. What my mother said about "different division of labor" made me think about it for a long time. Fire is his business, food is her business. This is how a family operates. There is no vigorous work, just everyone performing their duties. When I wrote this poem, the fire in the stove was raging, the paper was spread on my knees, and the pen leaked and soiled my pants. But I don't care. The poems written in that state are not exquisite, but real, like boiled eggs in camellia shells, like father's words, like the winter in Wawu Mountain. In the next chapter, I want to write about that west window and how my father sat in front of the window in the evening and watched the sunset set over the camellia oleifera forest. It was another story, another silent, tenacious thing that burned like fire. Mr. Wa Wu, in the early morning, in Xinjiang. Word CountAbout 6500 words
This chapter was written very slowly. It's not that I'm not good at writing, it's that I don't dare to write fast. I'm afraid that if I write too fast, I'll miss something; I'm afraid that if I write too fast, I'll be frivolous. It has been a year since my father left. I thought time would dilute it, but time has only turned strong things into something mellower. The Camellia oleifera in Wawu Mountain blooms every winter. I used to think this was a natural law, but now I know it is some kind of promise, some kind of code for "I'm still here." My mother is right, a flower is a flower, it blooms, there is no dispute. But people are not flowers. People need to give meaning to flowers, otherwise how can they survive? Most of what the mother said in this chapter is true. She wouldn't say it in such a polite way, but she meant the right thing. I translated and asked her not to be offended. In the next chapter, I want to write about the stove in that stone house and how my father used stones to build a place where he could cook. That is another story, another silent, tenacious thing like camellia flowers. Mr. Wa Wu, in the early morning, in Xinjiang.
"Dad's Story" has finally come to an end with sixty chapters and sixty trees. This is not a sad story. My father is gone, but the trees he planted are still there. The miner's certificate is yellowed, but the numbers are still there. The mountain guard shed is empty, but the person guarding the mountain is still there. The annual rings of Wawu Mountain grow round and round, extending a person's life into the life of a mountain forest. I want to thank everyone who reads this. Thank you for accompanying me through these sixty chapters, from the wells of Shanxi to the mountain tops of Hunan, from my father's youth to his twilight years, from one person's loneliness to the inheritance of a generation. Special thanks to the 667th follower. Your presence convinced me that these stories deserve to be written down. Finally, I want to say to my father: Dad, I have finished writing your story. But your tree continues to grow, and your annual rings continue to turn. I will come back to see them with thoughts, one year, two years, many years. Until one day, Niannian came with her children, pointed to the top of the mountain and said, "Look, that is the first tree planted by Grandpa Grandpa. That is the first tree planted by me." At that time, will you laugh in the annual rings? I think you will. Mr. Takuya April 17, 2026 Yuwawu Mountain