Home inside and outside the gate

 　　(I)

　　I've never thought about the size of my family before, but today, after receiving and making the phone call, I sipped my tea and quietly pondered this question.
　　The caller was a neighbor, a woman from the village. She said that due to the continuous heavy rains these past few days, the mud wall of my old house in the village collapsed last night, leaning against her wall. If it wasn't cleared, it would crush her wall. She urged me to quickly call my brothers to come and clear it to ensure her safety. The sound of the collapse last night still terrifies me.

　　Yes, if that wall, several meters high, were to collapse, how many things would it crush? Fortunately, it didn't fall horizontally, but rather the water had seeped through the base, causing it to lose its foundation and lean against my neighbor's wall. If the neighbor's wall also lost its foundation, it would collapse as well, crushing my neighbor to pieces. Thinking of this, my fear was no less than my neighbor's. I hurriedly called my younger brother, uncle, and cousin. On the phone, I emphasized our family, that our old house wall had collapsed. The response I received was neither sunny nor cloudy, but rather a calm and unhurried question: "Which wall collapsed?"

　　I seemed to understand. Yes, it was the wall in my kitchen. I didn't say anything, but told my brother to rush back to the village and organize rescue efforts. At the same time, I asked the village officials to pay attention to the disaster and request their help in organizing relief efforts. I thought that in this weather, asking villagers for help without some compensation would be unacceptable, so I immediately offered to cover all the wages.

　　My brother rushed from the city to the village to organize the relief efforts. On the phone, he told me that it definitely wouldn't be enough to clear everything in one day; it would take two or three days and require a lot of wages. He asked if everyone who owned a piece of the old house could contribute, with us covering the majority, to lighten the burden. At that moment, I seemed to have a new understanding of the concept of "home." I immediately told him, "No need! I'll take care of everything. You just need to organize the relief efforts and ensure the safety of the neighbors." Fortunately, he listened and eliminated the flood hazards for two consecutive days.

　　On May 10th, my neighbor called again to thank my family. Of course, this family wasn't everyone inside the old house. She said she had called many people, but none of them showed up. Only my younger brother was organizing the village's disaster relief efforts.

　　I remember the heavy rain started on the 7th and lasted only two days. The old wall, which had stood for two or three hundred years, actually collapsed. Judging from the property rights, four generations had lived in this old house. Inside the main gate were my grandfather, my second great-uncle, and my seventh great-uncle—three families in total. The old house was jointly owned by these three families. My grandfather had many brothers, seven in total. Outside the main gate were my fourth, fifth, and sixth great-uncles, each with their own small house with a separate courtyard. As for my third great-uncle, I heard from the elders that he was conscripted and sent to Taiwan, but he was never found and may have died young.

　　In the past, every Ghost Festival, a large table would be set up in the second-floor hall of this old house, and all the great-uncles outside the main gate would bring offerings and their grandchildren to gather at this house to worship their ancestors. Although my grandfather was the eldest, the ancestral rites were always presided over by my second great-uncle. He would chant: "Father, Grandfather, please enjoy your meal in peace. After you've enjoyed it, please bless every descendant of this family with peace and safety. Only then can we prepare this large feast for you every year and burn lots and lots of paper money for you."

　　The "family" that my second great-uncle referred to wasn't just his own family, but also the families of several uncles outside the gate. As the eldest grandchild in this large family, both inside and outside the gate, I naturally became the eldest brother. They called me that, and they acknowledged it in their hearts, so I naturally took on the role of the eldest brother. Whether I was studying at school, going into the mountains to chop firewood, or playing in the village, I always looked after my younger brothers and sisters inside and outside the gate as the eldest brother. At the slightest disturbance, I would bring my cousin to the scene, bringing the family together.

　　(II)

　　In the family inside and outside the gate, the elders shouldered the important matters, and I took charge of the children's affairs. We all grew up smoothly. When we were able to walk out of the village, it seemed that this family had grown even larger. I was born and raised in a village of fewer than 500 people. Although it was an administrative village, it was really just a small mountain village. The village shops only sold daily necessities like salt, soy sauce, sugar, matches, and soap. It was difficult to find anything novel, like those "pencil sharpeners" that could be turned on to sharpen pencils—they were nowhere to be found, let alone comic books. However, the neighboring village, just two kilometers away, was our ancestral village. Compared to my village, it was a much larger village, and it had all those kinds of shops. I often went there with many of my friends of similar age to buy things we liked. The children from the neighboring village, seeing us newcomers, would instinctively provoke us, taking advantage of our location and the presence of strangers. But we were never afraid. This village was our ancestral village; we couldn't refuse to come. We could tolerate not buying things, but we couldn't miss watching the movies or attending the local opera performances. Besides, the Ma family's true immortal was our shared guardian deity, and we had a share in many things. Our ancestral hall was still located here. Could we be intimidated by that? We would boldly retaliate, first with words, then with fists, the lively scene always attracting the attention and intervention of adults. Adults from neighboring villages, without distinction, would shout, "We're all family, don't fight!" This wasn't the first time this had happened, and each time it ended with this admonition from the adults. Back in our village, the adults also said we were family and shouldn't fight.

　　"Family, family"—this phrase was emphasized every time we fought, and repeated every time we reconciled, repeatedly placing this "family" under the banner of our shared surname. Later, we and our former fighting and quarreling friends from the neighboring villages all went to study at the township middle school, truly becoming one family. Our family felt so big. When we returned to the village and told the adults about how our classmates with the same surname looked after each other at the township school, they were very happy, their faces radiating pride in the strength of our shared surname family. We felt that home wasn't just inside and outside the gate, but also in the village and beyond, within the same surname.

　　(III)

　　As I grew older, I sometimes participated in some major village events, and I gradually felt that the so-called clan system was not reliable. Once, a group of villagers gathered and got into a fight with some people from the ancestral village. The reason was that the founding ancestor had selected a plot of land in the ancestral village for each of his sons to build ancestral halls, intending for each clan to benefit from the auspicious feng shui of the ancestral halls and flourish. All the clans living in the ancestral village had built ancestral halls, but our clan had not, and for more than ten generations, the land had remained idle in the ancestral village.

　　In the 1980s, some people in the village said that now our clan had more than a thousand people, and we should be able to build an ancestral hall, so that our ancestors could live in peace in the ancestral village and have a place to smoke and chat with their brothers. However, when the villagers went to check the land left by their ancestors for the ancestral hall, they found that much of it had been occupied. Several elders tried to mediate through legal channels, but to no avail. The villagers decided to resort to violence, and dozens of people stormed into the ancestral village. This argument, in my heart, shattered the bonds of family affection and dismantled the walls of our clan. This was no longer a home; there was no distinction between elders and juniors, no respect, no humility or compromise. Everyone held their own opinion, and the argument ended in a bitter quarrel. Those I once knew not only refused to greet me but also turned their backs on me. I, like the others in the village, wore a long face and raised my voice, showing no trace of the feeling of a family gathering. Although this argument didn't escalate into a physical fight, the ancestral hall land remains in disrepair; those who occupy it are still using it, while those who haven't are still waiting.

　　This commotion, lacking organization and planning, was merely a fit of anger, driven by a sense of injustice. Naturally, it fizzled out after the initial outburst. Back in the village, everyone discussed establishing a council for the ancestral hall's construction, requiring the election of a leader, much like a patriarch in a family, to ensure someone could manage affairs and offer advice to those vying for land. Some suggested village officials as council chairpersons, but the village officials objected, citing township regulations prohibiting them from holding such positions. Others proposed officials working elsewhere, but these officials also objected. Only elders from various clans could serve, but these elders refused, saying they were too old to manage. The meeting lasted all night, with much chatter and venting of frustration. Those capable of wielding weapons expressed their ambitions, and those with strategic acumen offered numerous plans, but no one was willing to take the lead. Then, someone suggested I take the position, saying I had always been a leader among the children, capable of leading the village children in battles against those from the ancestral villages without ever losing, and therefore would be a suitable candidate. I did feel a bit heroic, but I was young and of junior generation, and a teacher at that. It was never my turn. There were plenty of elders and capable people above me. I laughed and said, "A teacher can't miss a single class. Besides, if I were to take the position, the villagers would laugh at me for having no manners." This matter dragged on for a day and a night, as if we had given our ancestors an explanation. All the great-grandchildren had tried their best, but because no one was in charge, it wasn't our fault. We'd wait until someone was born to take charge before doing this. Everyone in the village felt at ease, just as the woman beside them said when they returned home and closed the door, "Sleep peacefully. You're gone now. It's not just your business. Why are you sighing?" And that was it. The whole village was at peace amidst the sighs, and no one ever mentioned building an ancestral hall again.

　　I don't like recalling this day, because in just one day, from sunrise to sunset, it swallowed up the home in my heart, the home under the name of the village and the family name. After a night of dismemberment and digestion, I could no longer piece together the word "home." Home, only this home within five degrees of kinship remains. Home in my heart grew from small to large, then from large to small, and then small again to this home inside and outside the old house gate.

　　(IV)

　　I remember that within five degrees of kinship, an aunt ran away with a man from another place. The family members gathered together to discuss what to do, to raise money for travel expenses. The young women searched the surrounding area, while the able-bodied men of the family split into two groups and set off to intercept vehicles. No one dared to say no to the division of labor among the elders. No matter how busy they were, they put down their work and set off early the next day. It was completely one family, a family without distinction. This family was quite solid, as solid as the walls of the old house.

　　If we compare a clan to a wall, then time is like flowing water. In the rushing water, this rammed earth wall is no match for the solidity of stone, gradually becoming waterlogged and loose. Sweeping ancestral graves was originally a way for the clan to repair leaks and waterproof the walls. In the past, everyone would come together every year, but starting from some year, someone said the ancestral graves had bad feng shui for their family, causing misfortune for their descendants, some even experiencing accidents. Some said the graves had bad feng shui. Many more said they couldn't come home to sweep the graves because they were all working in other places. These reasons became cracks in the family wall. Although the grave sweeping still had to be done, it became perfunctory. Even when they gathered for a meal, they couldn't talk about anything; everyone became a representative of their own small family, each with their own agenda. From then on, they no longer gathered inside the old house to worship their ancestors during the Ghost Festival; each went their own way, worshipping separately. In this situation, I felt disheartened, gradually realizing I didn't have much responsibility or obligation within the clan. Every year, I always had my younger brother participate in these activities.

　　Even so, blood ties connect us, like intertwined trees, and the slightest disturbance affects every branch. I still cherish the memories of my many cousins; they are all on my mind. Whenever they need help, I always go out of my way as their eldest brother. But on May 7th, the mud wall of the old house collapsed, truly crumbling. This wall, when it stood, wasn't just the wall inside the gate, but also the wall separating the two sides. Now, it's just the wall of my small family. The collapse of this small family's wall naturally leaves all the consequences to my small family. I don't blame anyone, but I felt a pang of sadness when the wall fell. It was a wall that the larger family, both inside and outside the gate, would occasionally glance at. Now, with its collapse, they all avoid it. The family that the mud wall once protected will gradually drift apart.

　　A few days ago, my younger brother called again, saying that some of my cousins ​​inside the gate have decided to dismantle and sell the old house, dividing the proceeds among themselves. I sighed deeply and said, "Let them go." I was powerless to prop up the wall, powerless to protect the home inside and outside the gate.

　　On May 10th, the mud walls were cleared away, and the sun shone on the village as usual, but the rain in my heart continued to pour down. One by one, the mud walls of the ancestral home collapsed, leaving only an empty space; the gate and its surroundings were gone forever.