My Grandfather
My grandfather’s name was Gao Kaizu.
He was born in 1926, a man from Hailing District, Taizhou, Jiangsu Province.
He grew up in a family that was once well-off.
As a child, he lived the life of a young master, and those habits stayed with him for the rest of his life—careful, particular, dignified in small things.
He never made his own breakfast.
He never ate breakfast at home.
At dawn every morning, he went out and bought it from a breakfast shop.
Even when the family was at its poorest—when money was tight—he would rather pawn belongings than change this habit.
He loved shaobing most: flaky ones, radish-filled, scallion-oil, even the local “dragon-and-tiger” style.
In his later years, he developed a fondness for shepherd’s purse filling.
His second love was baozi—pork, red bean paste, radish. He disliked none of them.
Because the family moved often, there were many breakfast shops near our home.
He never fixed on just one. He rotated among them, quietly.
When the War of Resistance against Japan broke out in 1937, my grandfather was eleven years old—twelve by local reckoning.
His peaceful childhood was interrupted by history.
He was born at No. 3, Gulou East Alley, and lived there his entire life.
War, upheaval, rise and fall—he never left that old house.
It wasn’t until 1997, when the area was demolished, that he truly moved for the first time.
He relocated to Dongjin Residential Community in the eastern part of the city, and lived there until his death.
My grandfather loved me deeply.
When I was small, he would place me in a stroller and push me around the city—along Gulou Road, along Wuyi Road.
Near Zhongshan Tower by the municipal government, there was a square where lantern festivals were held every lunar New Year, from the thirteenth to the eighteenth day.
He would take me there, carrying a small lantern, or pulling a wheeled rabbit lamp through the crowd.
He wasn’t there to look at the lanterns.
He was there so that I could be seen.
He also used to squeeze fresh watermelon juice by hand and give it to me to drink.
Around the age of sixty, he began using a cane.
In 1995, after lifting a single brick, he suffered a herniated disc and a spinal fracture.
From that point on, his health never fully recovered.
My grandmother and grandfather were both kind people.
They never bullied others. They were gentle.
And because of that, they were often bullied themselves.
They lived their entire lives poor and constrained.
My grandmother passed away around 2010.
When she died, my grandfather did not know.
She was taken to the hospital, but the rescue failed.
The family kept it from him.
It was only on the day of her farewell at the crematorium that he was told.
That day, he could barely stand.
Yet he still tried to kneel and bow to her.
From that moment on, he grew distant—withdrawn in a way that never lifted.
My grandfather loved Chinese chess.
In the old neighborhood, nearby elderly men would come and play with him, and he would be happy.
Sometimes, if four people could be gathered, they would play a little mahjong.
But there was never much money.
The stakes were tiny.
Over time, people stopped coming.
After moving to Dongjin Community, the neighbors changed.
Few were compatible.
Sometimes, my father and I played chess with him.
More often, he watched Peking opera on television alone.
He was the only one in the family who listened to it.
Because his hearing was poor, the TV volume was always turned up loud.
My grandmother did not know how to cook.
She could not use the television, the microwave, or the rice cooker.
So before cooking each day, my grandfather would take out a scale and weigh the rice.
We all told him that a little more or less water didn’t matter.
He could never change this habit.
He used an old-fashioned balance scale—a long rod with a sliding weight—until around 2010, when it was finally replaced by an electronic scale.
Around 2021, during the nationwide pandemic, my grandfather fell at home and fractured a bone.
He was taken to the hospital and underwent surgery.
Not long after the operation, he passed away.
Later, he was buried together with my grandmother at Jisi Cemetery, in the western part of the city.
This is my grandfather.
《我的外公高开祖》
我外公叫高开祖，1926 年出生，男，江苏省泰州市海陵区人。
他从小家境不错，过的是少爷日子，生活习惯讲究，这些一直留在他身上。
外公一辈子从不自己做早饭，也不在家吃早饭。天一亮，他一定出门，到外面的早餐店买着吃。哪怕家里最困难的时候，钱不够了，他宁可典当东西，也要这样过早。
他最爱吃烧饼，擦酥的、萝卜丝的、葱油的、龙虎斗的都爱；到了晚年，又喜欢上了荠菜馅的。第二爱好是包子，肉包子、豆沙包子、萝卜丝包子，一个不嫌弃。
因为搬家多，家门口早餐店多，他从不固定一家，总是轮流去买。
1937 年抗日战争爆发时，外公只有 11 周岁，按本地说法是 12 岁的虚岁。
他原本安稳的童年，就这样被时代打断了。
外公出生在鼓楼东巷 3 号，从出生一直住在那里。战争、动荡、日子起落，他始终没有离开过这间老屋。
直到 1997 年拆迁，他才第一次真正搬家，去了城东的东进小区，并在那里住到去世。
外公非常疼我。
我小时候，他常把我放在婴儿车里，推着我到处转，走鼓楼路，走五一路。
五一路市政府中山塔门口有一片广场，农历正月十三到正月十八会闹花灯。外公会带着我，提着小灯笼，或者拉着一个有轮子的兔子灯，在人群里走一圈。他不是为了看灯，是为了让我被人看见。
他还会手榨西瓜汁给我喝。
外公六十岁左右就开始拄拐杖。
1995 年，他因为搬了一块砖头，导致腰椎间盘突出并骨折，从此身体一直不好。
外婆和外公都是好人，不欺负人，很善良。也正因为这样，一辈子总被人欺负，穷苦、拮据地过了一生。
外婆大约在 2010 年去世。
外婆去世的时候，外公并不知道。
外婆送医院抢救没有成功，家里人一直瞒着他。直到在火葬场举行送别仪式那天，才把事情告诉外公。
那天外公来送外婆，已经站不起来了，却还是想跪下，给她磕一个头。
从那以后，他整个人冷淡了。
外公喜欢下象棋。
以前住老房子时，附近有邻居老头来陪他下棋，他就很开心。有时候凑齐四个人，还能打一会儿麻将。只是家里没多少钱，彩头很小，久了别人也不太愿意来玩。
搬到东进小区后，邻居换了一批，能玩得来的不多了。有时候，是我爸和我陪他下棋。
更多的时候，是外公一个人看电视里唱京剧。
全家只有他一个人听京剧。
因为耳朵不好，电视声音总是开得很大。
外婆不会煮饭，也不会用电视、微波炉、电饭煲。
所以每天煮饭之前，外公一定会拿出秤来称米。
我们全家都说米水多一点少一点都差不多，他却改不掉。
他用的是一把老式的杆秤，一直用到 2010 年左右，才换成电子秤。
2021 年前后，全国疫情期间，外公在家中摔倒，骨折，送医院做了手术。术后不久，他去世了。
后来，他和外婆一起，安葬在城西的寄思园。
