Wagyu and Fate
Count your blessings even though life isn't fair
Hard times raise strong men.
My Grandfather is one of them.
He was born into a maelstrom of a time in Chinese history—the Japanese attacked from the outside, the Communists corrupted from within. The trust that citizens had for each other was slim, and so were the food rations. Neighbors ratted each other out to the Party for a bowl of rice. Children scavenged the dirty street for bits of peach pits and boiled bones, primarily out of hunger but, also, partially out of boredom.
Grandfather’s family lived in Jiangsu, a seaside city about two-and-a-half hours north of Shanghai. His father was a mailman; it was an uncomplicated job that kept his family safe from the Cultural Revolution’s purge of intellectuals (among other political troubles). Fate changed in a millisecond when Grandfather’s father was shot and killed by a Japanese soldier in broad daylight. A tragedy, no matter how swift, is a tragedy.
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