At that time, Dad was really young, probably around thirty-six or thirty-seven years old, wearing a white shirt, looking energetic, carrying a bamboo basket, and walking toward the three of us siblings with a big smile.

Unknowingly, my tears gushed out like a flood breaking through a dam.

Why was I so emotional?

Because, in my previous life, Dad had already passed away two years ago. The bond between us father and son was extremely deep. After Dad passed away, I often dreamed of him.

I never expected—truly never expected—that I would actually be able to see Dad again. And it was such a young and handsome Dad. Besides, I clearly remembered that Dad died of a sudden heart attack on August 21, 2007. Now that I have been reborn, of course I will take precautions in advance. How could I let this damned “sudden heart attack” so easily take down Dad again? Even if history really can’t be changed and Dad still passes away in 2007, we father and son still have thirty years together!

Heavens, you are truly generous!

Compared to that, being able to reunite with Dad for another thirty years—what does a mere “five years of iron bars” in elementary school matter?

My crying stunned Dad and my second and third sisters.

Dad quickly put down the bamboo basket, scooped me up in his arms, lifted my shirt, and started checking my body.

It seemed Dad misunderstood, thinking I was hurt somewhere and in a lot of pain. Well, of course—how could he possibly imagine that his son now had traveled back from 2009, and in terms of mental age, was actually a few years older than he was now?

I hurried to stop my tears, put on a smile, and said, “Dad, I’m fine, really fine. I’m just happy.” Dad ignored me, and after carefully checking to make sure I wasn’t hurt, finally let out a long sigh of relief and said with a smile, “As long as Little John is fine, that’s good, that’s good. You must be hungry, come on, let’s all eat.”

Chapter 4: Foresight

The meal was white rice, a big bowl for each person. The dish was stir-fried pickled radish strips.

That was already pretty good—there weren’t many families in the whole Liujia Mountain brigade who could eat white rice. Most families ate sweet potato rice. As the name suggests, sweet potato rice was rice mixed with bits of sweet potato. The amount of sweet potato depended on the family’s financial situation. The better off the family, the less sweet potato was mixed in; the poorer, the more. Some extremely poor families even ate only sweet potato rice.

There was no helping it—at that time, it was collective production, rice varieties hadn’t been improved, and yields were very low. They had to mix in a lot of sweet potato. Sweet potatoes had high yields, fewer pests, and were relatively easy to harvest. For many years, Chinese farmers—especially those in the south—relied on sweet potatoes to make a living.

For me, this meal was not bad at all—just to my taste.

Having just traveled back, my memories were still stuck in the twenty-first century. I was tired of all the rich food. Such authentic pickled radish strips were actually hard to come by. I picked up my bowl and started eating heartily, smiling at Dad as I ate.

Seeing me eat with such appetite, Dad was also very happy. He patted my head and took out a “Flying Pigeon” brand cigarette to light up.

In 1976, being able to smoke manufactured cigarettes was a symbol of status and position. Rural people usually smoked hand-rolled cigarettes—tobacco grown and cured at home, rolled in paper, commonly called “trumpet tubes.” Only when going out would they buy a pack of manufactured cigarettes for appearances, usually the eight-cent “Economy” or the ten-cent “Torch.”

“Flying Pigeon” cigarettes cost eighteen cents a pack, considered good cigarettes. Dad was a government employee, a well-known figure in Liujia Mountain, so it was fitting for him to smoke manufactured cigarettes. But his monthly salary was thirty-six yuan and fifty cents, and my mother’s was about the same. They had to support four children and also care for my maternal grandparents, so expenses were high. Even so, the “Flying Pigeon” cigarettes couldn’t be smoked freely; at home, he sometimes still smoked “trumpet tubes.”

“Dad, how come you’re home today?” Second sister asked while eating.

Dad was the typical loving father. In my previous life, he never hit us siblings, and rarely scolded us. We all felt very close to Dad.

“Oh, tonight I have to go to Matangwan to show a movie.” Dad was a cinema technician, specializing in repairing projectors and generators. But sometimes he also had to go to the countryside to show movies. Back then, rural entertainment was extremely limited—only outdoor movies and local opera. The county’s cultural troupe was short-staffed and rarely went to the countryside to perform. Each commune or even brigade had its own cultural team, but their skills were very amateur and props were extremely lacking. During the Cultural Revolution, only eight model operas were allowed, and people got tired of seeing the same few acts over and over. By comparison, outdoor movies were much more frequent and of higher quality than local opera. So, movie projectionists who went to the countryside were seen as capable people by the villagers.

Matangwan brigade was right next to Liujia Mountain brigade. The dispatcher at the Xiangyang County Film Projection Management Station had a good relationship with Dad, so whenever there was a projection task in Liujia Mountain or nearby brigades, they would assign it to Dad. It was a win-win for both public and private interests.

Matangwan?

A flash of inspiration struck me—I vaguely felt there was something about it, but couldn’t recall exactly what.

“Great! Dad, take us to Matangwan to watch the movie tonight!” Third sister cheered.

Dad nodded with a smile.