1979 Gold Age

Chapter 10: The Emotional Blogger in 1979

After Dinner

The evening glow was particularly beautiful today. In the courtyard, there was no such thing as peaceful and quiet days—only the trivialities of everyday life.

Inside the house, Chen Jianjun was fixing a fountain pen under the dim light of dusk, while Chen Qi sat beside Yu Xiuli, helping her wind yarn into a ball. The three of them were quiet, listening intently to the only household appliance they owned—the radio—broadcasting Yuan Kuocheng’s storytelling of Tracks in the Snowy Forest.

At this time, the old storyteller had not yet begun his Romance of the Three Kingdoms series; he was still narrating revolutionary tales.

"When was his god-granddaughter born again?"

"I think it was in '87. That’s still eight years away. By then, I’ll be 27… quite a big age gap! Hey, wasn’t her grandfather a Xihe Drum singer? Should I befriend him so I can recognize her as my god-granddaughter too?"

"But honestly, Liu Shishi is aging beautifully. Especially after having a child—she’s even more charming than when she was young…"

As he wound the yarn, Chen Qi let his thoughts drift decades into the future, jumping through time as if in a quantum wave fluctuation.

The storytelling segment ended, followed by a health awareness program, and then a rebroadcast of the daytime news:

"At the end of this month, the Ministry of Culture will hold an awards ceremony at the CPPCC Hall to honor outstanding films and young creators. This marks the second time since 1956 that awards will be issued under the government’s name."

Hearing this, Yu Xiuli suddenly perked up. She was a dedicated film enthusiast and immediately exclaimed, "Liu Xiaoqing! She’s definitely on the list!"

"Tang Guoqiang, for sure!"

"Recent films have been great—Chen Chong, Li Xiuming, both stunning!"

"That Chen Peisi from Look at This Family is hilarious. Hey, I heard his father is Chen Qiang?"

"No need to ‘hear’—it’s a fact."

*"Wow, the Chen family really produces talents!" Yu Xiuli remarked with playful sarcasm.

Chen Qi protested, "Mom, that hurts my self-esteem."

"Oh no, I didn’t mean it like that! Not about you, of course."

Yu Xiuli quickly corrected herself, worried she might have bruised her eldest son’s pride over his tea-selling business.

Just then, a voice called from outside, "Is Chen Qi home?"

Judging by the tone, it was Wang Dama. She was like an NPC, periodically checking in with updates on their tasks. Entering the house with a smile, she said, "Oh, the whole family’s here! I need to talk to the boy."

"What is it?"

"Nothing big. Just an update on the tea stall situation."

Chen Qi followed her to the courtyard entrance, where she sighed and said, "Kid, I wasn’t messing with you—I really spoke to the plastic factory. They’re taking it seriously and will definitely give you a response after their discussions."

"Discussions?"

"Of course, they have to hold a meeting! You think they can just hand out punishments on a whim? Everything needs a meeting! Be patient, just wait a couple more days."

"Alright, I’ll wait. Thanks for your trouble."

Wang Dama was surprised. This kid is suddenly so easygoing? She even offered some advice: "Sometimes, it’s best to let things go. If they apologize in private, just accept it."

"Mmm, sure!"

Chen Qi hummed absentmindedly, sent her off, and went back inside to continue winding the yarn.

Midnight

While the vast city of Beijing still slumbered, some were already up and working.

At the entrance of a printing factory, under a few dim streetlights, stacks of freshly printed newspapers were loaded onto trucks—some bound for city agencies and newsstands, others headed for the suburbs, and the rest to the post office for nationwide distribution.

One batch arrived at a newspaper stall in Xicheng District.

Cao Yulan had woken up early, packed some dry food, and was on her way to the community’s knitting cooperative.

Their cooperative, composed of over 20 young women, specialized in hand-knitting sweaters. Customers provided the yarn, and they did the knitting. Business was booming—they had already received over 60 orders within days, leaving them overwhelmed with work.

Cao Yulan came from a modest background and had a diligent personality—whatever tasks were assigned to her, she would complete them without complaint.

As dawn broke, she arrived at a street corner.

The newspaper stall had already opened, neatly displaying copies of People’s Daily and Guangming Daily. Normally, she didn’t buy newspapers since the community provided them, but as she glanced over the headlines, her eyes landed on a bold headline:

"The Road of Life—Which Path Should We Take?"

Huh?

Cao Yulan halted. The road of life? I’ve never thought about it before.

Almost instinctively, she stepped forward and asked, "One copy of China Youth Daily, please."

"Five cents."

She took out a handkerchief, pulled out a bill, and handed it over in exchange for the newspaper.

Further down the street, she reached an old courtyard—the designated workplace for their cooperative. She was always the first to arrive, unlocking the door, tidying up, and earning an extra three yuan a month for her efforts.

Cao Yulan sat on an old crate, using the faint morning light to read.

"I am 19 years old. You could say I have just begun my journey in life... When I was a child, I often heard stories of How Steel Was Tempered and The Diary of Lei Feng..."

It was a letter from a young man, recounting his life from childhood to adolescence to young adulthood.

He described returning to the city, being assigned to a cooperative, and selling tea near Qianmen—experiencing discrimination and ridicule, struggling with feelings of inferiority and confusion. "I often wonder—what is the purpose of living?"

"A person must build their own spiritual home—it will illuminate even the darkest corners of their soul."

"I still believe life is full of sunshine!"

Cao Yulan held the newspaper close, reading every word carefully. Though she had never met the author, everything he described felt deeply familiar, deeply relatable. And he was so sincere, so kind, so optimistic. His final words struck her the most:

"I hope you all can face the sea, with spring flowers blossoming!"

"Plop, plop."

Tears welled up in her eyes and fell onto the paper, smudging the ink.

No one had ever said such words to her before. No one had ever told her she could “face the sea, with spring flowers blossoming.”

What is the meaning of life?

For the first time, a soft, unspoken force struck her heart. She had spent years studying, working, being sent to the countryside, returning to the city, and working again—without realizing that twenty years had slipped away.

"Yulan, why are you crying?"

"Did someone bully you?"

Another coworker arrived, concerned.

"No, I just feel… moved."

She handed over the newspaper, and her friend, though puzzled at first, soon had reddened eyes as well. "Yulan, why did you make me read this? It’s too emotional for the morning!"

One by one, more coworkers arrived, each passing the paper along. Before long, all of them sat there, eyes red like rabbits.

"Truly, no one has ever said such things to us before!"

"And this writer is our age!"

"Facing the sea, with spring flowers blossoming… so beautiful! He put into words exactly what we feel!"

The girls nodded in unison.

Elsewhere in the City

In different corners of Beijing, young workers, students, and intellectuals read this article, some even writing letters to the author, eager to express their thoughts.

Meanwhile, at a plastic factory, the leaders also read the newspaper.

Their faces turned green.