Diary of My Country Life-August 28th,2026

The original source of this blog: https://www.lotusandmichael.com/blogs/diary-of-my-country-life

08/28/2026 Friday 67-82F Cloudy 

It rained a lot this August. About two weeks ago, I started to notice crickets’ chirps. I don’t know whether there was any mysterious connection between rain and crickets, but every time it was raining, or right after the rain, the sounds of crickets became louder. If I stepped into the garden, they would stop their music immediately within the area a few feet around me. If I by chance moved a stone or pulled out some weeds in the garden, a fingernail-sized dark brown cricket would appear underneath. Sometimes it stayed still, being alerted; but I could feel the tension that it was watching for my next move. Sometimes when I turned up the stone where it inhabited, it would jump off right away. I don’t know either why they acted so differently, suppose because of their various characters?  Just like in the soccer field, someone are the defenders, someone are the strikers. 

Once it found its new spot and felt content, the musician would continue its performance. I read it somewhere before, perhaps in the book “Souvenirs Entomologiques“ written by Jean-Henri Fabre about how crickets make their sound, now I can’t remember it anymore.  

Somehow for no reason, I don’t feel they actually are singers; they are musicians playing a three-string instrument. Their music is bass, mellow, expansive and in depth; while cicadas just purely sing with several tones—these summer singers are untrained singing fanatics, but unfortunately lack talent 😂. 

Thousands of years ago, our ancestor wrote in a poem about crickets: 

"July, it’s in the fields; 

August, it’s near the house; 

September, it’s inside the door; 

October, it’s underneath my bed." 

The rain and crickets’ chirps brought me back to the mountains, where I stayed twice in early Autumn. The cottage was in the woods in the mountains and by a lake. On rainy evenings, sitting in the room I could hear the flops of fallen apples from the tree onto the ground. If in the old days when people used candles, I suspected that each flop would make my candlelight flicker. Against the dim dusk light, several blocks of dark shadows moved toward the wild apple tree, then stopped there. From the silhouettes, I knew they were deer eating the fallen apples silently.  

Those evenings were quiet—no light could be seen but the one from my cottage; nor any sounds but the pit-patting of the burning fireplace, the flops of the apples, the rain rustling on the leaves, and the whirring and chirping of the insects. I felt like I had travelled across time and back to many, many years ago, an era with no civilization but only the core of life. 

To me, what’s the core of life? A little food, necessary warmth, a shelter, and reverie 😛. “The revery alone will do, if bees are few.” (by Emily Dickinson)  

Fifteen years ago in April, I took a trip from Shanghai to meet a friend of mine from Beijing in a village in south Anhui province. That village was popular because of a famous movie. Tourism buses piled at the outskirts of the village; tourists, especially the students from art schools nation-wide poured in, scattered all over the village doing plein air. We were surprised to see so many people but not discouraged, and we lodged in a local household where no other tenants lived but us. During the days, we wandered among the shops in the village, strolled around the nearby fields yellowed by the heavily blooming rapeseed flowers. When it rained, we stayed in the room reading; if feeling bored, we walked to the pond watching ducklings swimming. If the weather permitted, we asked the landlord to carry out a small wood dining table so my friend and I could dine in the courtyard.  

One day before we hung out, the landlord suggested: “Someone will deliver some perch to me shortly. They were freshly caught this morning. Would you girls like to have one for dinner?”  

“Sure!” We agreed without hesitation. 

“Braise or make soup?” 

“Tofu soup please.”  

So when we came back to the house, the dinner was set in the courtyard: A small clay pot of perch-tofu soup, a dish of you choi-shiitake stir fry, and two bowls of rice. I bought some local rice wine sealed in a ten-inch-long bamboo pole, paired with two little wine cups made from green bamboo poles as well. My friend arranged some wildflowers in a clay vase.  

I still remember that dinner; the more time has passed by, the more vivid it becomes. The courtyard was very neat; near our table a cluster of white tree peony flowers were blooming. We toasted, then my friend raised her cup to the peony flowers:  

“Two friends are drinking alongside mountain flowers,”  

she stared to recite an ancient poem, 

“One cup after another then another. 

I am drunk and shall sleep soon so please leave me alone; 

You can come by tomorrow with your seven-string instrument.” 

That evening, we finished all the dishes and the wine. Later, it began to drizzle. She was a little tipsy and preferred to go to bed, while I walked out. Unlike the bustling daytime, the lanes and streets finally quieted down like a lady that has taken off all her makeup—not a soul but only water gurgling along the stone gutter in front of each household.  

I always took a fancy to country life. But at that time, I believed that I wasn’t the type of girl who could walk on the country road wearing high heels. Now many years later, I have packed up my high heel shoes for a long time; I wear clogs and sneakers only.