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Nestled in fields, deep in the countryside, there is a village named Water Village, meaning "Seeping waters". Mountains enclose it on four sides, rising in array, some close, others far in the distance. Right at the front of the village, there is an exquisite wooden house, one storey high, five rooms, and one small shed attached to the main building at each end. The wooden walls are treated with tung oil, which from a distance appears as a deep black lacquer, but from up close you can see red flush through the black. Every few years, a new layer is added. Then, as time passes, the thin tung oil coat cracks, and becomes threaded with fine-lined patterns, so that it starts to look like amber.
According to folklore, a tile-maker's skill resides in the craftsmanship of the corners of their tiles, while a carpenter's skill can be judged by the quality of their stools, specifically the feet of their stools. In fact, country people have a long string of similar standards for judging craftsmanship, mostly relating to feet and corners.
Any traveler passing through the area is certain to see this big wooden house, eyes drawn to its roof tiles, which never fail to draw a sigh of admiration from those passers-by who know what they are looking at. Because they understand, good tiles on the outside must mean good, upstanding people living inside. As a jingle of countryman goes, a plasterer's skill can be leveled by the craftsmanship of their walls, while a failor's skill is mirrored in the footprints of their thread in the clothes.
The tiles curl up ever so slightly over the eaves of the roof, so that the house looks like an eagle that has just come in to land. The gable ends of the roof ridgeline peck at the sky, like beaks of baby birds waiting for food from the mouths of parents, their beauty born of nimble hands and a craftsman's inspiration.
The hands that made these tiles so lovely belong to the owner of the house, a man named You Yu. In the village, most people just called him Grandpa Yu, at least, those who were two generations or younger than him did so. This is common practice in close-knit communities throughout China. Grandpa Yu was a carpenter, though he was also a capable tile-maker, as well as a tradesman-painter. In carpentry, there is fine carpentry, and rough carpentry. Fine carpentry means making furniture, while rough carpentry means building houses. Although carpenters usually stick exclusively to either fine or rough, Grandpa Yu could, and did, do both. Once the furniture is made, it's the tradesman-painter's job to decorate it, usually with patterns of flowers or birds and animals that are considered auspicious. But their work doesn't end there — they also must be able to carve. In Water Village, people have different names for coffins, such as retirement homes, thousand - year homes, long-life wood vessels, and so on. These days, there isn't so much demand for handmade furniture, because people can go to the city and buy what they need ready-made. This also means there's no longer much need for tradesman-painters. And so, the only work left for Grandpa Yu was the carving and painting of coffins.
According to Water Village custom, it is the daughter's job to prepare grave clothes for her parents, while the son for his part must make all the coffins his family elders require. Grandpa Yu didn't follow this convention. When he was sixty years old he took the making of his own coffin, and his wife's, into his own hands. It's not that his children were unfilial, exactly. On the contrary, they had done very well in life, and that was why they couldn't carry out the customary duties. His two sons had both left China, for good. One was in America, the other in Germany. His daughter was a little closer — in Hong Kong, with the man she married.
The son in America was named Wangtuo, and the one in Germany Fatuo. They no doubt had other names in America and Germany, but in Water Village, they were Wangtuo and Fatuo. The daughter's name was Qiaozhen, but in Water Village people called her Qiao'er. Somehow, Grandpa Yu's life paths brought him some extra standing in the village, even though they didn't follow the traditional routes to reflected parental pride — which normally was either to get a job as a government official, or simply make lots of money.
When they couldn't come home for New Year or any of the other festivals, Grandpa Yu did receive visits from strangers who arrived in the cars from the county town and introduced themselves as friends of his children. The other villagers couldn't bear to watch, at least, those who were adults and had their own families. Drying their eyes, they would laugh, and make gentle fun of their own children:
"Aren't we lucky to have such good children, staying home every day and looking after your old mum and dad! It's a good thing you didn't do well at school like Grandpa Yu's kids — you might have studied your way out of the country and forgotten about us like they did!"
The children took part in these jokes too:
"You're right. We are your biggest blessing — without us you'd have to carve your own retirement homes!"
Grandpa Yu made his coffin of camphorwood. Originally, he'd planned to use the wood to make furniture for his children, but then they left, leaving him with a shed full of camphorwood. So, he made his coffin big and thick. His wife, Grandma Yu, died of a sudden illness before the thought of making her own grave clothes ever occurred to her. So, the Yus' next - door neighbor, Grandma Hui, offered up her own grave clothes. The year after that, Grandma Hui's husband died. The dead man had been very close with Grandpa Yu. They are practically brothers, though they are at most distant relatives, inevitable when families live for generations in the same small place and don't leave. Although the Huis had no daughter, Grandpa Hui's grave clothes were already taken care of, thanks to his wife who had planned ahead and made them herself. They did have a son, Qiangtuo, but he had failed to make a coffin in time. Though the coffin wasn't ready, he did have a well - prepared excuse — he hadn't even finished building his own house yet, so how was he supposed to find money for a coffin? Then, he asked his parents why they were in such a hurry to die.
Word got out, and Qiangtuo's negligence became a hot topic of discussion in the village. Everyone agreed he was a swine.
In the countryside, people build houses in much the same way that swallows build their nests — a mouthful of mud, then a mouthful of straw, and so on. But Qiangtuo's house was just an empty brick shell. Furniture, windows, even doors all seemed a long way in the future. He had to wait. Grandma Hui didn't blame him. She just wished he would show a little more compassion when he spoke. His rough manner and way of talking hurt Grandma Hui embarrassed in the village. Grandpa Yu knew the situation. He called Qiangtuo over to his house, and told him to take his camphorwood coffin and let You Hui have it. And so, Grandpa Hui was laid to rest in Grandpa Yu's retirement home. The whole village congratulated him on his great good fortune. Such a beautiful coffin!