The father, who has lived with the land all his life, cherishes the land the most. Whenever the father holds up the soil he has sweated on, he always repeats the words, "The land is the lifeblood of the farmers." My father was determined to give his life to the land. Father's lifelong dream was always related to the land. My father said to us in a serious manner, "The land has a soul, you must not coax it, must not desert it, must not abandon it, and must not destroy it."
With the change of seasons, my father planted all kinds of crops on this black land. In the season of crop plucking and blossoming, the father touched the crops over and over again, as if touching his own children, affectionate and crop conversation, the language only spiritual wind can understand. People hard work is not lazy, green crops in the wind of the years gradually ripened, the father sharpened the scythe, bowed, harvesting his year's hope. The sickle is flying, the rice handle is flying, the grain is dancing, the happy smile written on the father's face.
The father's love for the land is like a child's attachment to his mother. Father gave his life to the land, to the crops, they can not leave anyone, with so tacit understanding. In the summer, the father's bare back, in the hot sun, in the field weeding, fertilizer. Father's back and arms, all by the hot sun sprinkled up a big blister. Then, the blisters rupture, that a thin layer of skin like a chunk of large pieces of ` flute membrane, when I was a child, I helped my father to tear off a piece of a piece, tearing my heart a burst of pain.
Father in this piece of land, year after year, turning the ground, sowing, gripping, fertilizer, harvest. He was finely tuned to the dirt, and worked hard to serve the crops. I often see my father sitting in the corner of the field for a long time, he lit a bag of cigarettes, light smoke in front of his eyes slowly rose, and slowly drifted away, drifting into a lost dream.
There is no wind, flush crops in the fields standing still, like a guard of honor to accept the parade of the head of state, a solemn. From my father's gaze, I can read what he was thinking. Is it relief? Is it satisfaction? Is it intoxicated? Is it a reverie? I can't say, I can't come up with an answer. I can only understand the meaning of land from the dictionary. This understanding is superficial, can really read the meaning of the land, is like my father in the land of the farmers who have been working all their lives. My father saw those family members to go to work abroad and abandoned the deserted land, sigh: this large piece of fertile land no one planted, really a pity ah!
Nowadays, although my father is nearly eighty years old, his arm is still strong, and the arm with the sleeves rolled up still radiates the luster of muscles. From the age of 15 to more than 70 years old, on the basis of gradually mature shoulders, straighten the solid spine in the crop field trips to and fro, plus a tough persistent, plain and natural heart natural survival, without distractions, will live from hunger to subsistence, from subsistence to wealth ...... year after year to plant, year after year to harvest rice, harvest the years into a head of white hair, a picture of the bent bow of the back.
Father's health is not bad, all year round, even colds and other minor illnesses are rarely had. I think he was able to have such a healthy and strong body and his hard work is related. I've advised him several times to come to the city, let him live with me, a good rest, he always declined, "in the city noise, people are not familiar with, I'm not accustomed to living." In fact, I know in my heart, this is not the reason, he is unable to leave his land.
My three brothers and sister-in-law are out of the work, the end of the year seldom come home, housework and nephews to study things he has to labor, he is still sunrise, sunset and rest, the field combed clean. He planted rice in the fields and vegetables, peanuts, buns and soybeans on the ground without wasting every inch of land, and the hard work of planting and harvesting was self-evident. However, my father never complained to us about the word "bitter" and never asked us to come home to help, as if this was what he should do. Every time our family returned home to return to the city, my father always put the fresh vegetables, white rice to the big bags of small bags, let us bring to the city to eat, but also kept saying: "you buy vegetables in the city to buy rice and expensive and not fresh, you see, we planted their own how good ah!
My father is like this, he loves the land as much as he loves his own children, and he loves it so persistently, so y, so passionately.