He cooked ( in charge of fire) for Japanese invaders who dominating the village and demanding labors. when I, the 3rd son of his, was young and asked during my summer vacation about his impression on Japanese invader, he only told me Japanese number pronunciation, in cherished tone. but my mother told me he was respected or liked by Japanese foreigners, likely my dad trusted her his teenage memories then. later he worked as a worker in nearby town's cement factory, but in an accidence his foot hurt by an explosion of his mission aiming to tear apart stone. so he returned to the village where he grew up. when he worked for the village forest station under PRC peace times, that period is my most cherished memory about him, my grand dad. I forever thank those silences in the bushes and trees, those cold and sweet stream, those songs of birds and bees, in rare occasions he brought me to his work place and teamwork. I know that's my heaven, where he governs.