My mother died young, during a difficult childbirth.
The villagers were very superstitious about it and wouldn't allow her to be buried in the ancestral grounds.
So her grave was left all alone on the mountain. To me, my mother was just like the lonely, wandering spirits from the stories the old women used to tell.
Old Mr. Shaw was cornered, stammering, "Well, about that..."
"Even Great-Grandmother wasn't given a place in the ancestral hall, so what gives your mother the right? You're so uncultured! Besides, do you think just anyone can get into the ancestral hall? Even men can't get in without making some contribution, let alone a woman. Your mom only gave birth to you—is that supposed to be some great achievement? You say you walked mountain roads for white rice, but aren't there animals in the mountains? Wouldn't hunting and eating meat be more nutritious than plain rice?" Iris Yates retorted indignantly.
