Chapter 32: Building a Chicken Coop, Digging a Fish Pond

In these times, a bicycle is truly a rarity. Throughout the entire residential compound, among the sixteen or seventeen households, there are only two.

One belongs to Xu Damao, the film projectionist specifically assigned to the steel mill. He constantly finds excuses to use public equipment for personal gain, occasionally riding it out to make his own travels more convenient.

The other belongs to the Third Master, Yan Bugui, who lives across the way.

Sometimes, one cannot help but admire the Third Master’s talent for calculation. He possesses a certain shrewdness and cleverness. Before 1955, bicycles were so unwanted that they were practically as common as hairtails. Later, to boost sales, special policies were introduced allowing factories and work units to help their employees purchase them on credit.

As Duan Chengliang understood it, this method was equivalent to a zero-down-payment, pure credit arrangement with interest-free installments. Even with such favorable terms, most ordinary people had no interest in buying a bicycle. Of course, spending over a hundred yuan on a bike was an overwhelming burden for most families. At that time, before the introduction of the new currency, a bicycle cost around one or two million yuan—equivalent to one or two hundred yuan today. For the vast majority of people back then, this was nothing short of a massive fortune.

Even with the installment plan, when people calculated their meager monthly wages and realized how much would have to be set aside for payments, they still felt the pressure. After all, due to the unique characteristics of the era, many households relied on a single breadwinner to feed several mouths. Money wasn't just pinched; it was stretched so thin it felt like it might melt away.

This is where Yan Bugui’s courage and calculating nature shone through. He was also a single earner supporting a wife and children, yet he stubbornly wrote several applications and campaigned actively until his work unit finally allowed him to purchase a Flying Pigeon bicycle on credit. By this year, 1958, he was still living his life with calculated thrift, but the bike was paid off. Being able to ride it to work every day in comfort and style gave him great face and significantly supported his secondary hobby: fishing. Because of this bicycle, Yan Bugui walked and spoke with a straighter back than anyone else.

As Duan Chengliang entered through the second gate, he couldn't help but glance at Yan Bugui’s bicycle, which was parked under the eaves. He polished that bike every single day, showing more care for it than he did for his wife, Yang Ruihua.

Duan Chengliang sighed softly. If he still couldn't secure one after queuing up this time, he would just have to wait until supplies loosened or tickets were issued. If he couldn't get a ticket through official channels, there were always other ways, just like with grain coupons. For now, he should focus his attention on his own personal space and find a way to organize it. That was the foundation of a happy life.

Duan Chengliang returned to his room, not even stopping to eat. Impatient, he carried the little hen he had just bought and entered the space.

Once inside, he noticed a problem. The hen couldn't enter the blacksmith’s shop, nor could it go into the small bedroom warehouse. It had to stay in the courtyard outside. However, as soon as Duan Chengliang released the hen from the tattered cloth bag, it was clear that it liked this place. The bird seemed exceptionally excited, scurrying east and west, pecking here and there, full of curiosity about the empty courtyard.

Duan Chengliang went back out, fetched two small bowls, drew some water from the well, and placed them against the wall. The hen seemed to catch the scent immediately, followed him over, and drank happily. He decided to break off a small piece of the mixed-flour steamed bun he had bought at the factory canteen, crumbled it up, and put it in the other bowl.

Watching the little chicken eat and drink with such contentment, Duan Chengliang felt happy too. It seemed the poultry-raising venture was promising. Later, he would go get some millet and corn grits; he couldn't mistreat his hopeful little hen.

For now, he needed to ponder how to dig a fishpond, build a chicken coop, and till the soil for vegetables and crops. Building a coop in this courtyard shouldn't be troublesome, as there was no need to shield against wind or rain, nor to keep it warm. He just needed some straw for the chickens to roost on and a place to lay eggs.

After circling the yard, he decided to see if he could insert a few wooden sticks into the wall at about chest height to support some boards. By laying straw on top, he could provide a simple, cozy home for the hen. He went back out of the space, scurried to the front courtyard, and found a few suitable sticks. He then grabbed a hammer of appropriate weight from the blacksmith’s shop, intending to use a steel rod to chisel holes in the wall.

However, as he was simply measuring the position and pushed a stick against the wall, it slid right in without any need for the hammer. Was this really a brick wall? It clearly wasn't anymore; it looked like one, but it had long since become something miraculous. He tested the stability and found it quite sturdy—it could even support his weight for pull-ups. Indeed, this space was his own, and to an extent, he could do as he pleased.

So, he went ahead. He inserted six sticks and found some discarded wooden boards in the yard to lay across them. Unfortunately, there was no clean, warm straw. But when the hen, full and satisfied, stepped onto the sticks he had left for it and flapped its wings to fly up onto the boards, Duan Chengliang was stunned.

He felt as if the hen understood his intentions perfectly—that it knew the boards were for it, and that it should stay there quietly and not run around.

Very well. This was even better. It was practically modernized, intelligent poultry farming, which saved him from having to deal with squawking chickens and a messy courtyard every day.

Duan Chengliang was delighted. He moved the hen's two bowls up to the board, crumbled another bit of the steamed bun for it, and brought up a small bowl of water. The hen was being well-treated; its standard of living matched his own, and it was certainly the master's most intimate pet.

He planned to dig the fishpond next to the well. Once dug, he could use a small trench to lead water directly from the well into the pond, which would also make it convenient to replenish the water later. He wasn't sure if the water would evaporate, but he would prepare according to common sense.

On a film set, the props department is a jack-of-all-trades. If you can imagine it, they can build it. Digging pits for sets or constructing artificial hills were common tasks for prop masters. In all this work, skill accounted for only a small fraction; most of it was manual labor.

Therefore, when Duan Chengliang swung the shovel to dig the pond, his movements were quite proficient and his technique solid. Coupled with his now much-improved physical strength—far more robust than when he was a prop master—his efficiency was quite high.

He dug out a two-meter square area and stopped at a depth of about forty centimeters. Firstly, he wanted to see if the location was suitable and check the effect, and secondly, he needed to go out and cook; he was hungry.

Back outside, in his east wing room, Duan Chengliang steamed his mixed-flour bun while muttering to himself. "I'm a workhorse now; from morning until night, I never seem to be idle except when I'm sleeping."

Between working at the factory and working in the space, plus having to do his own laundry and cooking, his quality of life was clearly quite low. It seemed a happy life was still far off, and he would have to work harder and seize every moment.