A North Jiangsu Christmas Story

The Snowy December of 1929

Winter descended with sudden and uncanny timing that December of 1929. By December 21, a solstice outbreak of polar cold had much of northern Jiangsu Province firmly in its grip. Even in Shanghai, well to the south, the temperature dipped into the upper teens and low twenties, with winds gusting to 20 miles per hour. It was a fitting complement to the stock market crash of late October, which was sending its chill winds across the globe.

In north Jiangsu the snow fell hard and thick. The Grand Canal stiffened, then stretched its enameled shield of ice from shore to shore. Boats were frozen in place. Travel and commerce on the waters between Yancheng and Qingjiangpu lay hard at rest. From city to village to farmhouse, fires were stoked, coals were banked, and families huddled on their kang.¹ With over a foot of wind-driven snow on the ground, men and women sipped tea and quietly submitted to heaven’s mandate of rest.

Those few hapless souls who did venture out might have seen a sturdy figure, muffled in scarf and hat, traveling bag in hand, trudging through the snow with the determination of a football linebacker. He was clearly a Westerner, though he offered a genial greeting in the regional accent. And then he passed on, heading along the old canal towing path, cutting a course along the spur from Yancheng to the main canal route north. Across the whitened fields, farming hamlets lay snugly clustered, their bent columns of smoke brushing the leaden sky.

By midday the traveler had entered a village and found a small restaurant. Tentatively open, it was happy for any business that fell its way. And between slurps of steaming noodles and broth, the traveler kept a flowing and banter with the proprietor and his curious children. Then he was off again, now trekking through the wind-sculpted snow, now dropping down onto the scoured ice of the canal. From his earliest youth he had traveled the canal by boat more times than he could count. Every hillock, temple, and gateway arch along this route was indelibly etched in his memory.

In the waning light of day, he appeared as a frosty apparition at the entrance to a village inn. A room was secured. Dumplings, noodles, pork, and tea were ordered and gratefully consumed. Then, on the hard, fire-warmed kang, his weariness melted into sleep. And when December’s sun rose again to scud across the southern horizon, he was on his way.

Four days. Three nights. Bag in hand. Face ruddied by the cold. He had covered nearly one hundred miles on foot by the time he stamped his feet and walked through the front door in Qingjiangpu. The young Graham children burst with delight. Their daddy, Jim Graham, was home. And just in time.

It was Christmas Eve.

Merry Christmas!

Jim Graham was the son of Presbyterian missionaries Jimmy and Sophie Graham (who we have followed in this Substack), and my maternal grandfather. He briefly relates this story in a letter dated January 28, 1930. The cold weather hit as he was returning home from a trip that took him through Yancheng. The meteorological data recorded at the Zikawei Jesuit observatory near Shanghai corroborates the story. I recalled the story this morning, and I’ve told it as it may have happened.

1. A kang was a platform, often made of brick, with a fire vault beneath and flues that distributed heat beneath the surface. It served as a family bed at night and a warm gathering place on cold winter days.