Our Story
My father's fifty years
1970s · A boy learns tea
As a teenager he learned from his elders: picking, withering, pan-firing, rolling — starting from scratch at each step. The burn scars on the back of his hands are still there.
Since then · Keeping the old gardens
He never left the mountains of Yunnan. Which slope buds early, which old tree tastes deepest, which trail washes out in the rain — he keeps it all in his head, like the temper of old friends.
Every year · Sun-dried, the old way
He still sun-dries and charcoal-fires his tea. He watches the sky: no sunshine, no work; not enough heat, no batch. People told him to cut corners. He just shook his head.
Now · His daughter carries it out of the mountains
I read — and I mail my father's tea out, one parcel at a time, each with a handwritten note: what water temperature, which book to pair it with.
