Chapter 79: Matters of Eating and Dressing Come First

When Weidong returned to Jiangzhou, sure enough, he saw that the Sunshine Daily had published the special correspondent's series of articles on reform!

The first article contrasted Shangzhou’s suppression of private economy with Jiangzhou’s push for an industrial goods trade center and the attempt to open up a free wholesale market model. It even bluntly criticized the provincial investigation group for only skimming the surface during their visits to grassroots levels, failing to truly connect with relevant personnel or solve real issues!

This guy really dared to speak out!

Normally, Yu Songhai appeared mild-mannered, only interested in culinary delights. Although he was officially part of the Daily, his entire family and life resided in the provincial capital. He truly seemed unconcerned with personal gains and losses.

The next article sharply contrasted two attitudes within military-industrial enterprises. The earlier single-lens camera company was now only briefly mentioned—it had chosen to deeply study international advanced technology, seeking to reach new heights in optical equipment, which was reasonable enough. But the optical instrument factory that embraced the market had taken an actively reformist path, now rolling out over forty thousand units of the domestic “People’s Camera,” priced under thirty yuan to ensure everyone could afford it and record life’s moments. This, he said, was the true meaning of reform and opening up!

Yu Songhai took the "economic arteries and capillaries" phrase that Weidong had used at Peking University’s student forum and rephrased it: "Pursuing the happiness and well-being of all people has always been our great goal for which generations strive."

The previous ideological debates about ownership and economic forms were sidestepped. The focus was on Yu and Old Feng’s firsthand experience negotiating with military factories—witnessing how many units, indeed most, resisted change and displayed mediocrity. The article highlighted the behavior of two electronics factories.

Without naming names, he alluded to a state-owned military enterprise in the north of Rongdu, embodying the “wait for the state to cover everything, communal meals” mentality. This mindset was widespread among such enterprises—they had devolved from backbone builders into stumbling blocks for reform. Their two or three decades of service now served as credentials for laziness.

Meanwhile, the street factories, small collectives, large collectives, and school-run factories sprouting like mushrooms after rain demonstrated vitality and a drive for change. Yu Songhai was indirect—he didn’t outright say that private enterprises and the individual economy were the most dynamic, but instead praised collectively owned units as a middle ground.

The Postal and Telecommunications School Equipment Factory in Sichuan became the model example in the series—its name stood out as the most advanced, even though the actual recorder hadn’t yet been produced.

Even Xishan Factory didn’t become the highlight; the careful reasoning behind this left Weidong puzzled. He guessed Dong Xueqing might benefit from the postal school’s attention, which would be good enough.

But back in Jiangzhou, sitting quietly in a corner of the Red Light Factory’s storefront, secretly flipping through the Sunshine Daily, he couldn’t help but feel anxious.

Yu Songhai’s series spanned three articles analyzing practical situations from the grassroots to provincial levels. After listing two contrasting enterprises, his pen suddenly shifted, and a week later the topic expanded to the panda rescue incident that had touched the nation’s heart last year.

In modern terms, this was riding a hot topic.

Few cared about reforms at specific factories—most people had no interest in some distant place or enterprise. Only those keeping an eye on upper-level movements would read closely. But this major national news story was so hot that even pop singers wrote songs about it, making it a household hit.

This was breaking out of the usual circle—anyone seeing such news or commentary would pay extra attention.

Yu Songhai chose a unique angle: “The Warning Brought by Bamboo Blossoming,” a catchy headline, though not quite shocking.

The widespread blooming of arrow bamboo in spring led to large-scale withering and death by autumn and winter, a natural warning for panda survival. Coincidentally, shortly after the bloom, an international amendment restricted panda aid and exchange, instantly causing financial strain at panda reserves and research centers.

What lesson did this bring?

Before and after eight years of resistance, from the Yangtze River disaster in 1931, the massive flood of the Yellow River in 1933, the Yangtze flood in 1935, the Huayuankou levee breach in 1938—these natural disasters ravaged the nation at its weakest, right as foreign invaders struck. Was this mere coincidence, or was there an underlying connection?

The turmoil of internal and external threats stemmed from poverty and hardship—a lack of strength to carry out large-scale disaster relief and infrastructure, allowing imperial powers to seize the opportunity and strike ruthlessly.

Are we still going to cling to poverty and let such calamities repeat?

Relying on overseas aid and international help can't solve our own problems. Only self-reliance and vigorous progress can bring national prosperity.

The panda rescue received nationwide support, listing remittance receipts from a few cents to a large total. Yet the real solution came from economic reform and commercial sales in Sichuan, which donated three hundred thousand!

You can’t cook without rice—facing natural disasters and hostile external forces, only being strong and prosperous gives the confidence to cope.

So the root cause of the panda crisis was poverty!

When things go well, international cooperation and aid abound, but when the bamboo blooms, everyone kicks us when we’re down.

That’s how they maximize their leverage over us.

From the panda’s plight, the conclusion is chilling!

Nearly a week of consecutive reports. By the time the panda incident coverage ended, it had sparked significant public reaction.

Each phase had its focus, but the core was to urge vigorous reform and opening up the economy.

The first two parts contrasted domestic cases; the panda section compared China and foreign countries.

But just mentioning “natural disasters” was enough to make anyone who had recently experienced them feel a surge of crisis.

Yu Songhai’s words were subtle, but for decades to come, generations would carry the hunger consciousness, the reluctance to waste any food—a mentality etched into their bones from these years.

Before reform, survival was about escaping chaos; once stability returned, it was about having enough to eat and wear.

Never let danger repeat.

Just reading this made Weidong’s stomach rumble.

Lao Rang, always bustling about, clicked his tongue and teased, “You think you’re a scholar just because you graduated high school? Sitting in a corner all day reading the newspaper—if you’re so capable, go to college, then read your books and papers!”

Rural folks never sit idle; even while chatting, they peel corn or pick pigweed.

Weidong had always been able to sit quietly in any corner, lacking the restless hands.

He laughed, stood up, and said, “Hey, I’m always running around outside. If you think I don’t stay home enough, I could come back and help you sell spicy soup. But if I really stayed home, you’d find me annoying anyway. Fine, fine, I’ll head out again.”

Lao Rang watched his son climb onto the truck and drive away, then lightly slapped his own mouth—why was he so bad at speaking?

In the past, he’d said similar things to his hardworking wife and earned a few slaps.

Confirming that the Postal Equipment Factory had begun “developing” reverse designs and would soon have results, Weidong left two young men to sleep in the Xishan Factory’s provincial office next door to the plastic factory warehouse, helping with sales in Rongdu.

He took Goudan and the others back to Jiangzhou.

He’d intended to spend more time with his parents before heading back to Shangzhou, but Dong Xueying said on the phone that everything was unchanged, and Old You seemed forgotten, so staying in Jiangzhou or the provincial capital to stir up more activity might be more useful—maybe he could find a way to save You.

Weidong felt helpless; his first action on returning was to visit the Jiangzhou industrial goods trade center.

But a single glance told him it was hopeless.

A typical official project—a brand new seven-story building with hastily painted cement walls, rushed into operation. Slogans everywhere, a sense of superficiality.

Good for news and newspaper coverage.

Each floor corresponded to a hall for general merchandise, knitwear, hardware, and so on—seven in total. The commerce bureau stationed staff at each category to receive manufacturers and department stores from across the country. Business negotiations were face-to-face, abandoning the old tiered distribution system.

It was indeed more advanced than planned economy.

But it was still a model imagined by people around a conference table.

The market had long moved beyond this stage.

Those who came were all rigid, lifeless state-owned enterprises, supply cooperatives, or department stores.

The truly agile self-produced-and-sold businesses, building wholesale and retail channels across provinces, had no interest in a model still under official control.

To put it plainly, reform now was about leaping out of official planned economy control. Who would want their business manipulated by government departments?

As for Weidong, he’d already moved on to a sales model that would be a hot trend thirty years into the future—he looked down on this entirely.

So, these days, he had idle country girls sorting thousands of telephone records by province.

He considered whether to travel nationwide, setting up university sales branches like those in Beijing and Sichuan.

Frankly, just this step put him ahead of all current big business tycoons.

At this point, thinking about a national market, recruiting a team of veteran salespeople to visit department stores and shops would already be impressive.

Appliance factories like Yanwu and Haier, clothing factories like Bushen and Meierya—those who took this path later reached the level of listed companies.

But Weidong, for some reason, chose to use precious college students to do this work.

This meant his sales system started at a high standard, never needing upgrades—it was the genetic makeup of a modern commercial company.

Old sales systems would inevitably need a blood transfusion every few years—one missed step, and they’d collapse.

Of course, the boss hadn’t thought that far, believing such big matters required someone like You Qili to handle.

His main headache was his rural brothers and sisters.