A Glad Heart in the Northern Mountains

Last Wednesday I was glad to return to the northern mountains. Our tea company is located there. The factory sits in a narrow valley on the eastern slope of an ancient range. There the soil is dark and thick, and the depth of the valley keeps the air cool. For dozens of generations the same families have grown the same crop on terraces. The terraces climb the hillside like a staircase. Normally the weather is gentle. So I decided to book a flight to the small harbor town. The town lies at the foot of the rail line. The flight gave me a fine view of the green web of fields below.

Our factory is the largest in the region. Each season we export hundreds of chests of dried tea. We import fine porcelain cups from across the sea. This year the trade union pressed for higher wages. As board chairman I had to take the request into consideration. The boss of the packing hall was a fair and patient gentleman. He would never boss around the younger men. He warned me not to jump to a conclusion. I can't afford to ignore the fact that the workers are tired. So I promised to negotiate with their leaders in good faith. We also hired a few temporary workers for the busy harvest.

My younger brother manages the eastern warehouse. He once told me that travel would expand one's horizons. He was right. When I first saw the Far East as a young man, everything felt strange to me. I could not locate my way around for a week. Now I feel at home on the east side of our own mountains. I can distinguish between a good leaf and a bad one by its smell. I can distinguish one field from another by the shade of green. I retain information about every plot of soil we farm. My brother has a talent for tasting tea. He can perceive flavors that most people miss.

At home, my sister is a clinical nurse. Last month her surgery team saved a tiny infant who was born far too early. For weeks the child lived on infant formula. It was prepared with the care a chemist gives to a new formula. The surgery itself lasted three hours. My sister grows sick with worry whenever a patient suffers. Her long shifts tire her. She admits the sight of a suffering child can hurt her feelings. Still, she says the beauty of a saved life is worth every hour of anxiety. It is worth every cup of strong tea too.

Not every story in the mountains is gentle. A young operator in our factory fell into drug abuse two years ago. His family could not afford the cost of treatment. He tried to deny the charge at first. But in the end he sought help. He would later deny himself the comfort of strong drink to stay well. His recovery taught us to see the whole person, not a label. No worker should be labeled as a failure. Because we label every crate with care. We refuse to ignore the fact that addiction is an illness. We assist workers who struggle instead of turning them away.

At the annual meeting, the board chairman stood to outline the company's plan for the new season. He wanted to increase output without harming the soil. He asked every member to cast a vote on a proposal. The proposal was to plant a new crop of bushes on the north slope. The union, he said, must not be an enemy but a partner. Because the union of our two sides is our road to prosperity. His speech was practical and clear. The news of the new terraces will attract attention far beyond the valley. The mountains attract visitors every spring.

Talks were tense but honest. We had to negotiate every point, from wages to the number of breaks. Neither side wished to jump at the other's throat. Some older workers still saw the factory as a symbol of a cold machine age. A few spoke of the evil of poverty. They also spoke of the old soldiers who helped capture the fort in their youth. Yet the chairman reminded us that the bell above the entrance had rung for a hundred years. He also said that its sound was a sign of hope. The cost of delay, he said, was beside the point; safety came first.

After the meeting, I walked out to the fields to locate the place. The new terraces would go there. The chief engineer had outlined the design on a board. We agreed to incorporate his idea into the final plan. If we expand the drying shed and increase output slowly, we can pay higher wages without raising prices. The practical experience of the older growers matters here more than any theory. I always take their advice into consideration.

As the sun dropped, I caught sight of the whole valley glowing under a golden haze. It was a strange phenomenon of light and mist. I lifted my camera to capture the moment. The beauty of the mountains at dusk is almost too much to take in. The outline of the peaks against the sky looked as sharp as a drawing. The evening clouds cast a long shadow over the fields. The intense heat of the day began to fade.

That evening I climbed a flight of stairs to my old apartment above the office. It was a modest room with a rear window facing the pines. I began to feel sick from the long ride up the winding road. I ate a little bread and cheese and a square of chocolate. I brewed a pot of tea to quench my thirst. On the shelf stood a chest of family papers and a brass bell. My grandfather once used the bell to call the workers to their posts. Beside it lay a photograph of my parents on the day the factory first opened its doors.

The photograph stirred memories of my childhood. In those days I would sit on my father's knee. He would lecture me about patience and the seasons. I had no great talent for music. But I loved the composition of the workers' songs. I could hum every tune the men sang as they carried the baskets. My mother would brush the dust from my cheek with a soft brush. Her lip would tighten whenever I made a silly excuse. Because she knew a gentleman keeps his word.

As a boy, I had to submit an essay to win entrance to the county school. I had to write a composition every week. I learned to submit to the strict rules of the house. But writing came harder. I remember the anxiety of waiting for the answer. When the letter came, it was literally the first good news. Our family had not received any good news in a year. I still retain every detail of that morning. I remember the smell of the ink and the intense joy on my mother's face. I remember the cold stone of the chamber where the examiner read my name.

In those days many men turned to alcohol to soften their evenings. My uncle's weakness for strong spirit cost him his health and nearly his home. He would abuse the trust of anyone who lent him money. The smell of spirits would disturb the whole house. He would drag himself to the mill each dawn with heavy eyes. In time he conquered the evil temper that drove him to drink. The clinic shelves became a sign of hope. My sister later cleaned wounds with alcohol on those shelves.

Now I perceive that a healthy factory is like a healthy body. It needs a vital heart and a clear head. The workers need vital energy to match. We have switched every lamp to electric light. We store our harvest in a cool, dark storage room. There the leaves keep their strength, because proper storage is the secret of good tea. To motivate the workers and reward their participation, we share a small part of the profit. We also incorporate the old methods into the new ones. Higher wages do not necessarily mean higher prices, and success is not necessarily money. Each crate carries a simple symbol that tells its age. This new mode of working is literally a second life for the old building. The quiet hum of the machines has become a friendly tune of its own.

Across the valley lives an old teacher who rents a small room above the tea shop. Her apartment has a single warm room with a fireplace. She once told me, in a kind gesture, that I was totally wrong to doubt myself. Her words would embarrass me. Every week she gives a lecture in the school hall. Her pupils love to hear about the ancient architecture of the temple in the east. She once went to the city to study architecture herself. She wears a shawl in the latest mode. Each year brings a slight variation in the tea she serves. The telephone operator at the post office says she draws the curtain at dusk. She lights a single lamp. The whole room feels like a calm and quiet zone.

But the mountains are not always calm. One spring a sudden storm poured over the peaks. The flood water rose past a man's waist in a single night. The immediate cause was the heavy rain. But the real consequence of poor drainage was a stupid error we should have foreseen. The rising water split the road in two. A dozen workers filled sandbags. A dozen boxes of raw leaves were carried to higher ground. The flood hurt many families and left my chest tight with worry. A temporary shelter is not enough when nature tests you. Last night I stood at the entrance. I watched a spider spin a delicate web across the corner of the doorway. For a moment I felt a strange peace, as if time itself would suspend and let me rest. The news of the storm would shock anyone who had not seen it. I would suspend a lantern above the door each evening to guide late workers home. When the morning bell rang, I took the last leap of faith. Then I signed the agreement with the union. The tea would pour once more into the wooden chests. Our little company would enter a new season with a glad heart and a steady hand.