Cheerful and Shameful Moments

#2026-0406

Cheerful and Shameful Moment

A story from Dearmlike Reality

When I was a student in the middle grades of elementary school, I was once elected as the “township chief” of the school—a title that also meant I was chosen as the model student of the entire school, not just of my class. At that time, I felt quietly proud of myself. It was not a loud or boastful pride, but a warm sense of being recognized.

I knew, however, that I owed much of this honor to my teacher, Mr. Naiqin Zhang. He had guided me, encouraged me, and even helped prepare the speech that allowed me to stand before others with confidence. To him, I felt deeply grateful.

Around that same period, I experienced another cheerful moment—one that came not from recognition, but from laughter.

When I was in Grade Three, our class was chosen to participate in a school performance. A temporary stage was set up in the playground, and the villagers were invited to watch on a breezy early summer evening. The whole school seemed alive with excitement. There were songs, dances, and short plays prepared by different classes.

Our class presented two performances. A group of girls performed a graceful musical dance, while four boys—including myself—put on a silent comedy titled A Clever Fool. I played the main character.

My role required me to act in a serious manner, never smiling, while doing foolish things that would make the audience laugh. At the time, I did not know whether I was doing well. But the next day, a villager who had attended the performance met my mother on the road and said, “Your son was very funny last night. He never smiled, but he made everyone laugh.”

Hearing this, I felt a quiet joy. Perhaps, without realizing it, I had learned how to stand before people, to express myself naturally, and to connect with others. That experience stayed with me in later years.

Yet life, even in those early days, was never made of cheerful moments alone.

In Grade Five, I encountered something that shook my confidence deeply. Arithmetic had always been my best subject since Grade One. I had thought of it as something simple, almost effortless. But when the results of our first midterm examination were announced, a strange and discouraging truth emerged—none of the students in Grade Five had passed the Arithmetic test.

Even I, who had scored the highest in the class, received only a little over fifty points.

I remember the feeling clearly: confusion at first, then disappointment. How could something that had once seemed so easy suddenly become so difficult? It seemed that the lessons had leaped too far ahead, leaving all of us struggling behind. For the first time, I realized that confidence could be fragile.

But what truly left a mark on my heart was not this academic failure—it was a moment of public embarrassment.

One morning, during the flag-raising ceremony, all the students stood assembled in the playground. The national flag fluttered gently above us. It was a usual scene, calm and orderly.

Then, names began to be called.

One by one, several students—including myself—were called forward to stand on the square wooden platform near the flagpole. There were about fifteen of us. We stood there in silence, facing the entire school.

The reason was simple: we had not yet paid the Parents’ Association fee.

The fee was only ten NT dollars per family. But for my family, even such a small amount could not always be paid on time. My younger sisters also attended the same school, yet I, as the eldest, was expected to hand in the fee. Usually, we paid other necessary expenses first, leaving this one until later, when our parents could manage it.

Standing there in front of everyone, I felt a deep sense of embarrassment. Was this a reminder? A form of pressure? Or a kind of punishment? At that age, I could not fully understand. I only knew that I wished I were not standing there.

Looking back now, I understand more about the circumstances. But the feeling of that moment—of being exposed before others for something beyond my control—remains vivid even today.

Fortunately, not all such moments ended in discomfort.

That same year, our teacher was again Mr. Xincheng Cheng, who had taught us in Grade Two. He seemed more approachable now, and he worked hard to guide our large class.

During the summer vacation, he organized extra lessons to help students prepare for the entrance examinations for junior high school. Many students paid to attend these sessions, but I could not afford the fee.

Yet Mr. Cheng allowed me to join the class without charge. He even asked me to serve as the class leader, as I had done before. His kindness gave me both relief and encouragement.

One morning during those lessons, I tried to bring him a glass of tea. I did not realize how hot the tea in the pot was. As I poured it into the glass, the heat burned my fingers, and I could not hold it steadily. The glass slipped from my hand and shattered on the floor.

I stood there, shocked and ashamed.

To my surprise, Mr. Cheng did not scold me. He simply said, “Never mind,” and calmly went to fetch a ceramic cup instead. His gentle response eased my embarrassment more than any words could have done.

When I entered Grade Six, we were led by a new teacher, Mr. Yunxing Liao. He was young, energetic, and full of life. He played with us during breaks, spoke to us like an older brother, and often brought creativity into the classroom.

Under his guidance, we experienced many new things. Among them, one small moment remains especially meaningful to me.

One day, our class went on a hiking trip in the nearby mountains. Each student was expected to bring a lunch box. That morning, however, my parents had already left for work, and there was nothing suitable at home for me to bring.

I felt embarrassed and hesitant. I did not know what to do.

When I mentioned this quietly, Mr. Liao turned to the class and asked if anyone could help. After a brief pause, a few students offered. Finally, he asked a girl named Xiuhua, whose home was not far away.

About twenty minutes later, she returned, carrying a lunch box for me.

I can still remember that moment clearly—the simple kindness, the quiet understanding. I was deeply moved, though I could hardly find the words to express my gratitude.

Another unforgettable experience came near the end of our final year.

Mr. Liao had prepared a thank-you speech for the graduation ceremony and asked two of us—Shuilin and me—to memorize it. He gave us a curious instruction: the first one who could recite the speech perfectly would be allowed to rest, while the second would have to continue practicing—and would be the one to deliver the speech on stage.

We were both surprised. Normally, one would expect the better or faster student to be chosen for such a role.

We went to memorize the speech. As it turned out, Shuilin completed it first, while I was slower.

And so, according to Mr. Liao’s rule, I was the one assigned to stand on the stage and deliver the speech at the graduation ceremony.

At the time, I did not fully understand his intention. Why did he choose the slower learner? Why give such responsibility to someone less prepared?

Years later, I began to see a possible answer. Perhaps he wanted to give the quieter or less confident student a chance to grow. Perhaps he understood that sometimes what we need is not reward, but challenge.

In the end, however, life took another turn. When our final results were settled, it was not I but Shuilin who became the top graduate. He was admitted to junior high school without taking the entrance examination, while I had to go through the test to continue my studies.

Looking back, I find that my memories of those years are filled with both cheerful and shameful moments.

There was pride in achievement, and joy in laughter. There was also embarrassment, disappointment, and confusion. Yet, between these moments, there were acts of kindness, patience, and quiet encouragement—from teachers and classmates alike.

Now, after so many years, I realize that these experiences cannot be simply divided into joy or shame. Often, they are closely intertwined. A moment of shame may lead to growth, while a moment of success may carry hidden uncertainty.

Life, even in its earliest stages, teaches us in such subtle ways.

And perhaps it is through these cheerful and shameful moments together that we gradually come to understand ourselves—and others—a little better.

= = =

相關文章 (See also)：

1)  前一篇 (Nest Story)： The Master of Many Ways     (2026)

2)  下一篇 (Previous Story)： [working] The Narrow Gate Ahead     (2026)

3)  首　篇 (First Story)： Small Hands     (2026)

4)  First Sounds     (2026)

5)  情長紙短 huà 詩詞 (Part 1 of 2)     (2020)

The Master of Many Ways

#2026-0403

The Master of Many Ways

A story from Dreamlike Reality

When I think of my years in Grades Three and Four, one figure rises above the rest—not because he spoke loudly, but because everything he did seemed to carry a quiet power.

His name was Mr. Naiqin Zhang.

He came from Shandong Province, following the government to Taiwan in earlier years. In my eyes, he looked almost like a soldier—upright, steady, and composed. He spoke clear and standard Mandarin, the kind we were only beginning to learn. There was something in his bearing that made him seem both approachable and quietly commanding.

By that time, school was no longer new to me. I could read, write, and follow lessons without much difficulty. But it was under Mr. Zhang that learning began to feel different—not just something to complete, but something to experience.

It began, perhaps, with drawing.

In those years, the school offered what we called “extra curriculum” activities. Students from Grades Three to Six could choose a group according to their interests. Without much hesitation, I joined the Drawing and Painting group.

That was where Mr. Zhang led us.

One afternoon, he placed a portrait on the front table—a picture of Yue Fei, a historical hero. We were asked to copy it using pencils and colored crayons. One by one, we bent over our papers, trying to follow the lines, the shapes, the colors as carefully as we could.

When we finished, we submitted our work and gathered around him as he began to look through the drawings.

When my picture appeared before him, I spoke without thinking.

“This one is not good enough,” I said.

I meant my own drawing. I thought I was being modest.

Mr. Zhang turned to me and said gently, “Don’t be so critical of your classmates’ work. This one is not too bad, is it?”

I was startled. For a moment, I could not speak.

Only later did I begin to understand that he had not simply misunderstood me. He had used that moment to teach something else—that learning was not only about skill, but also about how we looked at others, and perhaps at ourselves.

Under his guidance, drawing became more than copying lines. It became a way of seeing.

But Mr. Zhang’s influence did not remain within the classroom.

One year, the school organized an election. It was meant to teach us the idea of democracy. Each class selected a “model student,” and from among them, one would be chosen as the “township chief” of the school.

To my surprise, I became one of the candidates.

I did not know how to speak, nor how to persuade others. But Mr. Zhang helped me. He wrote a campaign speech for me and arranged for me to read it through the loudspeaker in the teachers’ office.

That was not all.

On the day of the campaign, some classmates formed what they called a “horse” by placing their hands on each other’s shoulders. I sat above them, lifted slightly higher than usual, as we moved from classroom to classroom.

“Please give me your precious votes,” I repeated, again and again.

From that small height, I felt both excited and uncertain.

When the results were announced, I was chosen as the “township chief.”

I was only in Grade Four.

Some older students laughed at me afterward. They played with words, making light of my title, as if to remind me that I was still younger than they were. At the time, I felt a little embarrassed, but not deeply hurt.

What remained stronger in my mind was something else—the feeling of being supported, of being lifted, quite literally, by those around me.

And behind it all, I knew, was Mr. Zhang.

His way of teaching was never limited to one method.

One morning, he brought steamed bread he had made at home. He broke it into small pieces and gave one to each of us.

“Do not swallow it too quickly,” he said. “Chew it slowly. What do you taste?”

We followed his instructions.

“It’s a little sweet, isn’t it?” he continued. “That is the starch. When you chew it, it becomes sugar.”

It was a simple lesson, but I remember it clearly even now—not because of the explanation, but because of the experience itself.

Another time, he took us to the playground and arranged us in rows of four. We stood in formation, as if preparing for a march. But instead of marching, he asked us to pose—lifting one leg, stretching our arms.

Then he took photographs from different angles.

When the pictures were later displayed, they showed a perfect procession, as if we had been moving in complete unity.

We had not been marching at all.

Yet through his camera, we saw something we could not see while standing still.

Even in the classroom, he found ways to make things come alive.

Once, during a teaching demonstration for other teachers, he told a story using a series of drawings. The pictures were arranged in layers at the top of the blackboard. As the story unfolded, he moved them one by one, revealing each scene in order.

It was like watching something appear and disappear at the same time.

We followed every movement, every image, as if we were part of the story ourselves.

There were also moments when he was strict.

Before one examination, he set different expectations for different students. For me, he expected a score of ninety-five.

When the results came, I had scored ninety.

According to his rule, I received five strikes of the bamboo stick.

Yet even then, I could feel that he did not strike with full force. There was discipline, but there was also restraint.

He demanded effort, but not without understanding.

Under his guidance, I began to feel that learning was not only about knowledge, but about becoming something more than I had been before.

Then, not long after I graduated from the school, he left.

He moved to a distant place to continue teaching.

I did not expect how much I would miss him.

One day, while I was already in junior high school, I saw a jeep passing by near Changliu. On its side was a round plate with the character “勤” (qin).

My heart suddenly stirred.

Perhaps it was his bearing—always a little like that of a soldier—that made the thought come to me so quickly.

That was the same character as in his name—迺勤 (Naiqin).

Without thinking, I began to run after the jeep.

I thought he had returned.

The vehicle moved quickly along the road, and I ran as fast as I could, trying to catch up. When I could no longer see it clearly, I turned toward the place where he used to live.

I ran all the way to his dormitory.

But when I arrived, there was no jeep.

The courtyard was empty.

Only then did I realize that I had been mistaken.

Years later, I understood that the character “勤” on the vehicle referred to military logistics, not to a person’s name.

But at that moment, standing there and catching my breath, I felt something I had not expected.

A quiet emptiness.

And beneath it, something else—something that had begun long before, in those classrooms, in those drawings, in those carefully guided moments.

Even now, when I think of those years, I do not remember only what I learned.

I remember how I was led—sometimes gently, sometimes firmly—to see more, to try more, and to believe, even for a while, that I could become more.

= = =

相關文章 (See also)：

1)  前一篇 (Previous Story)： First Sounds     (2026)

2)  下一篇 (Next Story)： Cheerful and Shameful Moments     (2026)

3)  首篇 (The First Story)： Small Hands     (2026)

4)  人本自然～Chatting during Lunch!     (2024)

5)  I Remember You, Mr. T. P. Lu     (2016)

First Sounds

#2026-0402

First Sounds

A story from Dreamlike Reality

In those early school days, I first learned how to make sounds.

Not just any sounds, but the careful, deliberate sounds of bo, po, mo, fo—the beginning of language as it was given to us. At the time, I did not know that these small symbols would stay with me for the rest of my life. To us, they were only something to repeat, something to finish as quickly as possible.

When I entered Changliu Elementary School in September 1961, I was placed in Jia Ban—Class A. There were three classes in each grade: Jia, Yi, and Bing. I remained in Jia Ban throughout my six years there, though at the time, it was simply where I belonged, without question.

In the first few weeks, we had a teacher whose name I can no longer recall. He introduced us to the basic system of pronunciation—the thirty-seven symbols that formed the foundation of spoken Mandarin. We repeated them again and again, until we believed we had learned them well.

Then, several weeks later, a new teacher came.

His name was Mr. Yanshu Jian.

One day, after listening to us for a while, he asked the whole class to read the symbols together, from beginning to end. We did so smoothly, almost proudly, our voices rising and falling in what we thought was a perfect rhythm.

When we finished, he did not smile.

Instead, he shook his head.

Our pronunciation, he said, was mostly wrong.

The room became quiet.

We had not expected that. In our minds, we had already learned something important. But Mr. Jian asked us to slow down—to pronounce each sound carefully, clearly, one by one. He demonstrated, listened, corrected, and then asked us to try again.

There was no impatience in his voice, but there was firmness.

From that day on, the sounds were no longer something to rush through. They became something to attend to, something that required care.

Looking back now, I know how much that mattered. Without his patience, I might have carried those early mistakes much farther than I should have.

To us, he was a handsome and gentle teacher. But he was also strict when it was necessary.

I learned that one day in a way I did not forget.

A classmate of mine, Jinbao, took a toy I had made and broke it. It was a simple thing—a long, thin plastic tube that had once held juice, now filled with tiny grains of dry sand. To me, it was something I had made with care.

I told him it was mine. He did not listen.

Anger rose quickly in me. Before I could think, I kicked him hard. He cried out in pain.

When Mr. Jian heard what had happened, he called both of us forward. He struck my palms with a short plastic ruler. The pain was sharp, and I felt a sense of injustice rise within me. Jinbao had started it—why should I be punished as well?

But Mr. Jian spoke calmly. He told me that I should not answer harm with harm. He spoke to Jinbao differently, teaching him another lesson.

At that time, I did not fully accept what he said. I only remembered how it felt.

Yet that moment stayed with me, just as the sounds had stayed with me—something not fully understood, but not forgotten.

There was another memory from that year, quieter, but perhaps more lasting.

Our school was in a remote mountain village, and most families were poor. One day, Mr. Jian suggested that we take a group photograph. Those who wished to be included would need to pay for their own copies.

Only a few students agreed.

I was one of them.

I do not remember how I made that decision. Perhaps it was curiosity, or perhaps something else. I only remember standing there, among seven students and our teacher, facing the camera.

It was the first photograph I had ever taken in my life.

Years later, when our family moved, that photograph was lost.

But the moment of standing there has never entirely disappeared.

By the time I entered Grade Two, our teacher changed.

Mr. Xincheng Cheng came from Guangxi, a place that, to me, was distant and almost unimaginable. At home, most of us spoke Taiwanese or Hakka, and we had only just begun learning Mandarin in school. Mr. Cheng spoke Mandarin with a different accent—one that sounded unfamiliar to us, though we could still understand him. He taught as other teachers did, yet there was something in his voice that made him seem slightly apart, as if he had come from a place not only far away, but somehow beyond our small world.

Life in the classroom continued in its usual rhythm. We studied Mandarin, mathematics, and a subject called Common Sense, which included both nature and society. But something in me had begun to change.

I found that I liked certain things more than others. I enjoyed singing. I enjoyed drawing. Even when these were not required, I practiced them quietly, as if they belonged to me in a different way.

Outside the classroom, we played freely. The school had no fence, and the fields beyond were open to us. We ran, chased one another, and imagined battles, calling out who had been “killed,” only to begin again moments later.

The world seemed wide then, even within the small space of the school.

One day, Mr. Cheng asked if anyone had a puppy that could be given to him. A few days later, Jinbao brought a small dog to school.

For a time, nothing seemed unusual.

Then, months later, some classmates found what they believed to be the remains of a dog in a nearby field. There were whispers, guesses, and rumors. Some said it was the same dog. Some said our teacher had eaten it.

At that age, we did not know what to believe. The story passed quietly from one to another, changing slightly each time. For a while, we avoided that part of the field.

Looking back now, I think it was not the truth of the story that mattered, but the feeling it left behind—a sense that the world was larger, and not always easy to understand.

Amid all this learning, there was also a quieter awareness—one that came without words.

In my class, there was a girl named Yuqin Wu.

Her father owned a Chinese medicine shop. She dressed neatly, often in a blouse and skirt, and carried herself with a quiet confidence. When I glanced at her, I felt something I could not explain.

It was not friendship, and not something I could name.

I only knew that she seemed different—something I could feel, but not yet speak.

Then, when we moved on to Grade Three, she was no longer there. I was told that she had transferred to another school in Puli.

She did not return.

Many years later, she came to visit my home with some former classmates. By then, she had grown into a woman, and her name had changed to something I could no longer remember clearly. Yet in my mind, I still preferred the name I had first known.

Some things change. Some things remain.

The sounds of bo, po, mo, fo had long since become part of my speech.

The photograph had been lost.

The stories about teachers had faded into uncertainty.

But certain impressions remained—clear, quiet, and unchanging.

Even now, when I think back to those early school days, I sometimes feel that I am still sitting in that classroom, listening carefully, learning how to speak—not only with my voice, but slowly, without knowing it, learning how to understand the world around me.

= = =

相關文章 (See also)：

1)  前一篇 (Previous Story)：Small Hands     (2026)

2)  下一篇 (Next Story)： The Master of Many Ways     (2026)

3)  Puppy Love     (2010; originally, 2003)

4)  Notes on Peace: From Lantern to Creek     (2025)

5)  (中譯版) 人本自然～Chatting during Lunch!     (2024)

Small Hands

#2026-0401

Small Hands

A story from Dreamlike Reality

In my memory, the mornings of that time were always quiet.

Before the sun had fully risen above the hills, my parents would already be preparing to leave. My father moved with few words, gathering his tools; my mother checked things one more time—water, fire, the small things that kept a home alive. Beyond the door, the mountain paths waited, and the rice paddies lay somewhere farther down, hidden in the pale mist.

Inside the house, three children remained.

I was five years old. My two younger sisters were three and one. At that age, I did not think of it as responsibility. It was simply the way things were. When the door closed behind our parents, the house became very still, as if it, too, were listening.

Our home was not a single solid structure, but a few simple spaces arranged around a small courtyard. On the northern side stood the living room and a bedroom; along the eastern side were the kitchen and another bedroom. On the western side stood a simple toilet beside the pig pen, where we kept a few pigs that ate leftovers and chopped sweet potato leaves. The southern side was bordered by a hedge, planted to keep people from falling down the steep slope beyond. Some parts of the hedge were broken, and through those gaps the ground dropped sharply down the mountainside.

It was a modest place, built of bamboo, clay, and a few wooden posts, with a roof of dried straw. At the time, it was simply our home.

The youngest lay on the big bed in the bedroom. It was a wide wooden bed, built close to three walls, leaving only the front side open. To me, it felt like a small world of its own—safe on three sides, but uncertain on the fourth. I could not carry my baby sister for long; my arms were too weak. So I stayed near the edge of the bed, watching her carefully as she rolled, crawled, or waved her small hands in the air.

Sometimes she laughed at nothing I could see. Sometimes she made soft sounds, as if speaking to someone invisible. I did not understand her language, but I understood my task. If she came too close to the edge, I would gently push her back, or call her name, or simply stand there, alert and still.

Time in those mornings did not move quickly. It stretched, like a long breath that was never quite released.

Before leaving, my mother would give me a soft rice cake. It was made of rice powder and sugar, slightly sticky, and warm in my hand. She would say, “Feed your little sister later—around ten o’clock.” She had already divided the pieces for the three of us.

I always nodded. I believed I understood time.

The hours passed quietly. My elder sister played by herself, sometimes humming, sometimes talking to things only she could see. I stayed near the bed, guarding the smallest one. From time to time, I would look at the rice cake and wonder if it was time yet. The sunlight slowly shifted across the floor, but I had no clock to guide me—only a feeling that grew stronger as the morning went on.

When I finally decided it was time, I took a small piece and fed it to my baby sister. She accepted it, slowly and seriously, as if she knew it mattered. I watched her chew, feeling a quiet satisfaction that I had done something important.

In the evening, when my mother returned, she would ask, “Did you feed her?”

“Yes,” I always answered, without hesitation.

She would smile and say, “You are a good boy.”

That smile stayed with me longer than the taste of the rice cake.

When we grew a little older, the courtyard became our world. It was open, edged by the hedge on the southern side, and beyond it the slope fell away sharply. At the time, we did not think of danger in clear terms. We only knew the joy of movement.

Our father made a wooden board car for us. It had four wooden wheels and a flat board on top. One of us could sit, while another pushed from behind. We took turns, laughing as the car rolled forward, sometimes smoothly, sometimes with a sudden jerk.

One day, my youngest sister insisted on pushing the car by herself. There was no one sitting on it, but she pushed with all her strength, as if carrying an invisible passenger. She did not yet know how to guide it, how to turn left or right.

I remember watching her, perhaps a few steps away. The car moved faster than she expected. Then, before any of us could react, it went straight toward one of the broken gaps in the hedge.

There was a brief moment—so brief that it almost did not exist—when everything seemed to pause.

Then both she and the car disappeared over the edge.

We ran to the slope, our hearts beating wildly. Below, she was already trying to climb up, crying loudly. There was blood on her forehead, bright and shocking against her small face.

I do not remember whether we cried. I only remember the fear—sharp, unfamiliar, and deep.

After that day, we were more careful. Not because someone told us to be, but because something inside us had changed.

There were other moments that seemed to belong to a different kind of memory.

Once, when my parents were away, I tried to cook rice as my mother did. I had watched her often enough to believe I understood. I placed the pot on the clay stove, arranged the firewood, and waited as the flames grew stronger. The heat rose quickly, and the water began to boil. For a moment, I felt proud, almost like an adult.

Only later did I learn how worried my mother had been. The house could easily have caught fire. At the time, I did not think of such things. I only knew that I had tried.

And sometimes, along the path that led toward our home, a figure would appear.

We called her A-Moi-Jia—a Hakka way of saying “Sister A-Moi,” the name our parents used, and so did we.

She walked slowly, her clothes worn, one hand covering one eye. Whenever we saw her approaching, we would feel a sudden uneasiness. We hid behind the living room walls, or behind the bamboo rice storage, peering through small gaps to see how close she had come.

Curiosity always brought us back to look again.

One time, as I stepped quietly from behind the rice storage, trying to see through the cracks in the wall, I almost ran into her. She had already entered the house and was moving toward the bedroom.

I cried out in fear.

At the same moment, she seemed just as startled. She turned quickly and stepped back out of the living room, disappearing as suddenly as she had come.

For a while, none of us moved.

That moment stayed with me—not only the fear, but the strange closeness, as if two worlds had briefly touched and then pulled apart.

Now, many years later, when my own vision sometimes doubles and blurs, I think I understand her a little better. Perhaps she covered one eye to see more clearly. But at that time, she remained a quiet, uncertain presence at the edge of our small world.

When I look back on those days, I do not see them as difficult. We were too young to measure life in that way. What I remember instead is a kind of stillness—a space in which small hands learned, without knowing it, how to care, how to watch, how to act.

I could not hold my baby sister for long. My arms were too weak.

And yet, each morning, I stood at the edge of that bed, keeping her from falling.

Even now, I sometimes feel that those mornings have never entirely left me.

= = =

相關文章 (See also)：

1)  下一篇 (Next Story)： First Sounds     (2026)
2)  標題太長（五絕）     (2019)

3)  Echoes in the Courtyard     (2026)

4)  First Part of My Family Tale     (2010; originally, 2001)

5)  The 92 Coffee     (2020)

花蓮港山林事業所 (Symphony of Wood)

#2026-0330

花蓮港山林事業所

【木の交響】(Symphony of Wood)

地址：花蓮縣花蓮市菁華街６號

This afternoon, Jean and I took a longer walk around Meilun Creek than we usually do.

We first walked north along the western bank, crossed Hualien No. 3 Bridge to the eastern bank, then strolled south until we reached Jinghua Bridge (菁華橋). After crossing it, we returned to the western bank of the creek.

Near Jinghua Bridge, we came upon a pretty, distinctive house (see the photo above), where we stopped to enjoy fragrant coffee and warm, tasty scones.

Later, we learned that the house is part of Jinghua Forest Garden (菁華林苑), a quiet historic site hidden in the city. The complex was built in 1919 during the Japanese era and was first used by a timber company. Over time, it became home to different forestry offices and government units, reflecting the changing history of the region. After being left unused for many years, it was restored and officially recognized as a historic site in the early 2000s.

Sitting there, we could almost feel the past in the building itself. Its Western-style design, with graceful arches and simple decorative columns, gives it a calm and balanced appearance. At the same time, practical details—such as raised doorways and small openings beneath the eaves—show how it was designed to handle Hualien’s heavy rains and frequent typhoons.

We finished our coffee break sooner than expected when our grandson called. He told us that he would not be staying at school for additional study this evening. Instead, he had asked for leave and would be coming home early, as his midterm exams begin tomorrow.

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相關文章 (See also)：

1)  漫步到對岸／繞一圈回來     (2025)

2)  Tianpu Ecological Pond     (2026)

3)  七星潭 ~ A Short Stay, But Much Fun!     (2026)

4)  《花田小路．慶祝之日》     (2026)

Palm Sunday, 2026

#2026-0329

Today is the Sunday of the Passion, also known as Palm Sunday.

In previous years, Jean and I celebrated this special day at St. James' Church in Taichung. However, during our extended stay in Hualien, we celebrated it this year at St. Luke's Church—the only Episcopal church in eastern Taiwan.

Following tradition, we joined the congregation of St. Luke’s in the Liturgy of the Palms and the procession through the community. After returning to the chapel, we continued with the Liturgy of the Word. Everything felt familiar to Jean and me, though the change in location brought a somewhat new feeling.

I thank our Lord Jesus Christ for this Palm Sunday. I am also grateful to the Rev. Minglong Wu and others for leading the special service. In addition, I deeply appreciate the Rev. Mengrong Guo (郭夢蓉會吏) for her wonderful sermon this morning, which touched my heart in a quiet and unexpected way.

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相關文章 (See also)：

1)  棕枝主日 (Palm Sunday)     (2022)

2)  Palm Sunday, 2023     (2023)

3)  棕枝主日     (2024)

4)  Palm Sunday Again     (2025)