A new hometown in Heze

 

The next several days were a blur. When not asleep Scotty's parents constantly prepared food. "The fatter the better," his mother kept saying. She repeated it at meal times, begging us to eat one more steamed bun, just another bowl of lamb soup, two more pieces of Hongshao Pork, maybe even a slice of apple.

His mother I remember the most. One night before bed, she came to check on us and began reading our palms. The lines on my hands were so shallow in comparison. Years of apple farming gave her sturdy hands. She told us both the future would be bright, and with such knowing eyes, of course, I believed her.

Scotty's father was stoic, but I could see the family resemblance. I tried to drink as much as I could to impress him and Scotty's other relatives, but I feared for my liver. I could only look on with awe as they drank cup after cup of baijiu.

When the day came for us to leave, Scotty's mother began to cry profusely. She told me I was like her own son and that as soon as I got to Beijing I should give them a call. Sometimes after a long trip has come to end, your face may look the same but your insides swell, and on the bus back to our train, I found myself crying as well. I am not from Shandong, but now you could say, I have family there.

By Greg Young