Chapter Seventy-Six: Catching Crickets

This type of bamboo stroller would probably be impossible to find in later generations. Inside the carriage were three panels that could be arranged in different combinations, transforming the cart into several forms. When all three panels were laid flat on the middle level, it became a baby crib; at both ends of the cart, small doors could be opened to extend the length of the bed. Placing the middle panel on the upper level turned the stroller into a pushcart where two children could sit facing each other, with a small table between them—perfect for pushing a pair of kids down the street, letting them play or do schoolwork without interfering with each other.

If all three panels were removed, the bamboo stroller became a small cargo cart, easily able to carry back 200 pounds of cabbage, or even a few hundred blocks of coal briquettes in a pinch. Hongtao had no idea who designed this cart, but it was simply brilliant—perfectly suited to the living conditions of that era: cheap, multifunctional, and even after the children outgrew it, still useful for the adults at home.

Now Hongtao was acting as the adult of the family, pushing Jin Yue and Zhang Dajiang along Dongsi North Avenue. He planned to stop by the commission store again to see if there were any more good finds. Once at the store entrance, Hongtao bought each of the children a big ice cream, letting them sit in the bamboo cart and continue their homework, while he headed inside on his own.

“Hey, kid! Come here, come here! Weren’t you looking for cricket jars? We just got a new batch in—come take a look!” As soon as Hongtao entered, the male shop assistant behind the counter greeted him with the enthusiasm reserved for a god of wealth. Hongtao was a familiar face, often browsing the commission shops in the area, and his unusual status made him well known among the shopkeepers.

“These are a set with the cricket jar I bought last time, right? Did the same person sell them?” Hongtao eyed the four cricket jars on the counter—they looked awfully familiar, even the marks under the lids matched. If the bases hadn’t still been intact, he might have suspected someone had stolen his own jars from home and resold them here.

“I can’t tell you that. You’ve been here before; you know the rules. Want them or not?” The shop assistant didn’t reveal the seller’s identity—that was the commission store’s policy. If buyers and sellers met, the shop would lose its handling fee.

“Of course! Please find something to wrap them in, so they don’t get damaged.” Hongtao understood the rules and didn’t press further.

“Oh, and there’s these as well. The seller said they’re part of the set.” The assistant reached behind the shelf for a few more items and tossed them on the counter.

“What are these? ...Didn’t he say what they’re for?” Hongtao picked one up. It seemed to be made of bone, about an inch wide, three inches long, and a few millimeters thick, completely unadorned.

“How should I know? He said they go with the jars, one per jar—there are four here, plus four extras. No idea what that’s about; you figure it out.” The shop assistant found a wooden box lined with straw—originally for something else, but just right for holding the jars.

“Thank you! Wait for me a moment, I’ll be right back...” Instead of taking the box, Hongtao called out, then dashed outside.

“Uncle, here’s a little something from me. If you get more items like this, please save them for me. I’ll come by every few days and will definitely buy them, so you don’t need to worry about being stuck with the goods. How about it?” After a few minutes, Hongtao jogged back in, sidled up to the counter, glanced around to make sure no one was watching, and slipped the assistant a pack of Peony cigarettes.

“Now that’s thoughtful! You’re way better than those other peddlers—those guys just talk sweet and never mean it. Don’t worry, if I get more, I’ll hold them for you. I won’t sell them to those guys!” The assistant grinned, revealing his back molars. A pack of Peony cigarettes cost eighty-five cents, a good brand.

“Alright, thanks so much!” Hongtao had originally wanted to buy a pack of Zhonghua cigarettes for one yuan and thirty-one cents, but the nearby kiosk didn’t sell them. Peony cigarettes turned out to be just fine—and saved him the price of several ice creams.

“Oh, by the way, have you seen Second Master around?” Hongtao suddenly remembered the old man he’d met last time. He hadn’t seen him since and still had a lot of questions.

“No... Why are you looking for him?” The assistant’s expression turned a bit odd.

“Oh, it’s nothing urgent. I just wanted him to tell me more about these jars. Anyway, I’ll let you get back to work.” Hongtao didn’t notice the shopkeeper’s odd look—he didn’t even look back.

“Let’s go, time to head home! Be careful you two, don’t step on my things!” Hongtao returned to the bamboo stroller, placed the box under the panel where Jin Yue was sitting, gave the two kids a reminder, then pushed the stroller onward, heading toward Dongdan where there was another commission store.

It was the 29th day of the sixth lunar month, August 5th on the Gregorian calendar—a Wednesday. That evening, Hongtao’s grandmother’s house was packed with family again. Grandfather had made a special trip to Niujie to buy eight pounds of sliced mutton, along with a pile of beef tripe and omasum, and set up the copper hotpot to have a mutton feast at home. Was there a special occasion? Not really—today was the beginning of autumn. According to Beijing tradition, this was the day to “stick on autumn fat.”

The idea was to replenish the nutrients lost during the exhausting summer by eating something rich and fatty, preparing to survive the coming winter. In past years, this meant a hearty meal of dumplings stuffed with pork cracklings and chives. But this year, the markets were noticeably better stocked—not only had rations for pork, eggs, sesame paste, and sesame oil increased, but even rarely seen beef and mutton had appeared. The Dongdan market even had frozen pork and cabbage dumplings for sale—no ration coupons required. The line stretched from inside the market to outside; Hongtao arrived late, saw the endless queue, and didn’t even bother joining.

As for the food, Hongtao actually preferred the Beginning of Autumn festival itself—because it meant he could catch crickets. He didn’t care how many shells the crickets had shed; those details were too complex. He’d figure it out while playing.

After the mutton feast, Hongtao took out four new size-one batteries, put them in his flashlight, changed into old clothes, grabbed his cricket cage and a small iron rod modified from a wire, and, dragging his reluctant little uncle along, headed into the depths of the alley by moonlight. The main reason for bringing his little uncle was for safety—Hongtao’s reputation in the area was notorious, and many of his classmates lived nearby. If he was caught alone, there was a real risk of getting beaten up, so it was safer to have a bodyguard.

Catching crickets in the alley was much easier than in the fields. With no weeds, all you had to do was follow the chirping. Usually, you’d end up inside a courtyard, where crickets hid either in cracks between bricks at the base of walls or in gaps among flowerpots, water jars, or other clutter. Once you pinpointed the cricket’s location, it had nowhere to hide. Those in wall cracks were easiest—just use a cricket probe to drive them out, then trap them under the cage. If they hid in piles of junk, then the little uncle had to do the heavy lifting—carefully moving things without startling the cricket.

The biggest challenge in catching crickets wasn’t the insects—it was people. Two strange kids suddenly sneaking around a courtyard at night with a flashlight were sure to be chased off, so it was best to wait until after nine, when most folks had gone to bed.

Another thing to watch out for were all the bugs hiding in wall cracks and under junk: scorpions, centipedes, and the like. Some were scary, some bit, some stung. Back then, elders would often scare kids to keep them from wandering: “Don’t poke around everywhere—if a centipede crawls into your behind, you’re done for!”

Because of this kind of scare tactic, countless centipedes met their unjust end under children’s feet—dying with a bad reputation and no one to clear their name, since they never actually crawled into children’s behinds.

As for mosquitoes and other small bugs, kids back then hardly remembered them. If you got bitten, so be it; once you started playing, who cared? If it itched, you just rubbed on some cooling balm at home. But Hongtao was particularly afraid of mosquitoes, so he bundled himself up tightly, preferring to sweat than be bitten.

“This one’s useless! Toss it!” The first cricket was quickly caught, but when Hongtao weighed it with his scale, it didn’t even reach four li—too small to keep.

Here, “li” was not a unit of length but of weight: ten li made one fen, ten fen made one qian, and ten qian made one liang, which was fifty grams. So one li was 0.05 grams. Generally, a cricket weighed about five li; anything over five li was considered large, anything less was too small for fighting, though it could be kept for singing.

“Li” as a weight was used mostly in the northern regions: Beijing, Tianjin, Hebei, Shandong—called “small li.” In the south, they used “zhen” in Shanghai, and “dian” in Suzhou and Hangzhou. How to convert between the three, Second Master never said, and Hongtao never thought to ask; he didn’t plan on collecting crickets in the south anyway.

“Hey, Xiaotao, let’s go home! I’m exhausted—it must be midnight by now!” Hongtao and his little uncle had followed Paoju Hutong all the way to Beixiao Street, catching plenty of crickets, but only four met Hongtao’s standards.

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