In the midst of the mountains is the huge city of Beijing.
In a flash, our party realized that I was living in the middle of a valley. I never thought I would live in the mountains. I was more used to and missed the vast plains of southeast Henan.
I once joked with a friend that I might not be able to run into a mountain in my hometown even if I drove for a day. In fact, standing in every corner of the land, looking out, are vast. Trees are already considered to be tall, the village is covered by trees, like many black dots on a landscape painting, not to mention that it will not hurt the line of sight in the slightest. Especially in this season, corn has just been harvested, wheat has not yet been planted, the field is even more empty, probably in addition to the bun-shaped graves, and then nothing else can block the eyes and thoughts.
Those graves, although not the scenery, is far away from the attachment, is the root of the hometown. I have thought about why the graves will be made into the appearance of steamed buns. Now that I think about it, it's probably the buns that are most nurturing. They were born here, buried here, all their lives to guard this land can grow steamed bread. Compared to them, I am more like a traitor to the village - bent on escaping the place where I was raised.
The canal seems to have been nurtured by the mountains. At the end of the line of sight, at the edge of the canopy, the river tumbled and flowed from the mountains to the earth. The scene was like the heads of people rushing along the country lanes at the New Year festival. They converge on the marketplace from villages in all directions and from the crisscrossing paths, eventually forming a vast ocean of joy. At the fair, "Liu Zhonghe" has mounted the stage, a voice "I am the king of the golden temple, watch carefully", is a burst of thunderous applause, is the tears that come out of the socket. At that time the joy is worth 50 cents, a pack of "Beijing brand" instant noodles money. It's just strange, when I really came to this place called Beijing, but I can no longer taste that kind of flavor. The first thing I'd like to say is that I don't know what to say, but I'd like to say that I don't know what to say, and I'd like to say that I don't know what to say.
Although some fortune tellers said that I would have to go to Beijing sooner or later to beg for food, I never thought I could really live in this city. Instead of facing such a big river, I preferred to guard the small river gorge outside the gate of my hometown.
At this time, the carp in the small river gorge should be able to grow to the size of a palm or even a shoe. The first thing you need to do is cut a thin bamboo pole from the forest, pinch off the head, and then cut off the bamboo branch, which is a handy fishing rod. If you begged your parents for a penny or two, you could buy a couple of hooks from the kiosk. As for the fishing line, there is no need to be picky, the cotton thread used by my mother for sewing and mending will do. All of this is packed up, pick up a spade, casually in the water well on a few planes, is the inexhaustible earthworms. Earthworms in a kind of black and yellow, small thumb thick, looks like a small snake, very oozing. This kind of earthworm has a unique fishy odor, carp certainly do not eat, but is the fire head (note: blackfish) and catfish love things.
But for those who have their heart set on carp fishing, earthworms can't be used, but rather mashed sweet potatoes, somewhat like the mix-and-match baits used by anglers today. In the village of the latest discovery of this kind of secret old Yu, not only secret, but also used for children's money. Alas, I have probably been on the wrong side of this. But fortunately he is "fish head" (Note: contracted fish ponds), I secretly caught fish from his fish pond, early offset the "exclusive secret recipe" account. Now I can only be silent to the river. I'm not sure if I'm going to be able to get a good deal on a new one, but I'm sure I'm going to be able to get a good deal on a new one, and I'm sure I'm going to be able to get a good deal on a new one, and I'm going to be able to get a good deal on a new one.
Today, the water in the canal seems to be particularly clear, and the waves and whirlpools on the surface are clearly visible. The forests on both banks, lush and green, are also reflected in the water, like two forests growing in two directions. Their roots intersected in the water, and both of them were also rooted to the bottom of the river. I don't know why, noticing this, my heart was a little sour, and even my eyes suddenly lost the power to imprison tears.
Yesterday, I talked to my parents on the phone, and my father said that this year's crops were flooded, and there were not many left, and the money for fertilizer was not enough. The original village is willing to plant less people, so, it is even less. My father said he was afraid that when they grow old, the land will be deserted. My father is a tree on the bank, and I am his shadow in the river. Our roots are in the village. But to the village, I have become an illusion. My situation, the news of the village, existed only in my father's narrative. Its joys, its sorrows, were related to me and not related to me, so much so that now, I could only watch it gradually wither away.
Perhaps one day it will disappear from the earth with a bang, leaving only a stack of abandoned brick walls and a barren field. If only memories remain, if only memories can be sought, how sad is life? Just like this river, if there is only river water, no fish, no flowers and trees on the bank, how lonely it should be? A person's road can only be called wandering. A swallow just flew past my eyes. His eyes gliding across the sky are melancholy and confused. It should be the same situation in the village at this moment. The water in some of the fields has not yet receded completely, and the puddles of water have turned the fields into swamps and made it a problem to plant wheat or not. In a few days, there will be frost and snow drifts. How should it withstand the cold? I looked at the direction of the swallow disappeared, put just put down the heart, hung up again.
The canal is long, with dragon boats returning and going away. Such an atmosphere of life is very dear to people. I'm also used to enjoying such intimacy in a foreign land. My mother stubbornly thought that this is our Zhang family members of the old generations of accumulated Yin virtues, but also her whole day devoutly kowtow and pray for the blessing.
Mother is quite a superstitious person, not only her, every woman in the village is very much believe in these false things. Perhaps for them, this can not be called "delusion", but should be called "hope". So, on the first and fifteenth of each month, my mother always brought offerings to the village small temple to burn incense and kowtow, and then followed the others to the kiln in the neighboring village to offer incense. The small temple in the village is very close to my home, and I have been there. The temple is actually a narrow red-brick house with a clay statue of the Land Master; on both sides of the statue, other gods and goddesses such as the Goddess of Mercy and the Goddess of Wealth are enshrined. They are both big and small, solemn and very different. Surrounded by gods and goddesses, in the center of the temple house, a ceramic incense burner is placed, and the incense burns continuously all year round. Between the incense, it is the village's sorrow and joy, as well as the village's life and death. Neighboring village of the kiln, it is said that the gods and goddesses enshrined inside is very spiritual, so much so that people from all over the countryside and even in the county come in droves, not for any other reason, just to kowtow on a head, on a burn incense, make a wish, pray for a complete. That is just an abandoned brick kiln factory, but became the village of the "Yonghe Palace". They are the spiritual support for people to live. I do not think that the "Yonghe Palace" is necessarily much more noble than the "broken kiln factory", just as I do not think that people dancing in Beijing square dance is necessarily much more noble than people chatting in front of the small temple. They are all alive in this world, and they are all destined to die. They all have a place where their bodies are stored and a place where their souls can rest.
The river also has a special meaning for the people of the village, because it is the place where the clothes of the deceased are stored. In the countryside, if you see discarded clothes in a dry gully, it is a sure sign that someone from a nearby village has just passed away. Perhaps because the word "death" is too blunt and lacks respect for the deceased, the village often replaces the word "old" with "someone old". The village often uses the word "old" instead of "old", which means "someone is old" or "someone is dead". For those who have grown old, everything related to them has come to an abrupt end in this world. Clean to come, clean to go, so not only they have to be buried in the earth, their clothes should also be thrown away, thrown into the river ditch, waiting for a little bit of time erosion and digestion, as if the loved ones of the sadness, all need time to gradually fade, until forgotten.
It has been said that the real death of a person is that there is no one in the world to mention anymore. When the village completely forgotten, he will really from the village "old". When I was a child, I didn't dare to go to the river gorge outside the village, for fear that I would see those discarded and unclean clothes, and even more afraid that they would follow the darkness into my dreams. In fact, I was very skeptical about such a practice. If they are unclean things, why throw them into the river ditch? Wouldn't it be cleaner to burn it? Throwing it into the river ditch, then melting it into the ground, and then pumping it out of the well to continue to make thin rice under the noodles ...... Such a horrible association, I have not mentioned it to anyone, even my parents. I was afraid that once I said it, I would invite a fat beating.
The sky seems to be darker, just now also light of the Grand Canal, out of the blue actually some gloomy, along with the forest on both sides of the river, also become deep. The mountains in the distance, began to blur, a blink of an eye, disappeared, replaced by gray clouds. After another moment, surprisingly, rain began to fall.
The thin rain, like a mother's hair, is soft and thick; the rain in the sky, like a father's wrinkles, is deep and lonely. I stood just outside the rain, as if I had always been under the shelter of my parents. When it rains, the village quiets down, at least in front of the small temple. In front of the temple, there was a blank field where crops were dried in the busy season and chess was played in the free season. Technically speaking, this is not a game of chess. Not only is there no chessboard, there are no pieces. This is known as the "six oblique" "chess", looking for sticks or bricks in the open space "six vertical and six horizontal" a drawing is the board; pick up some branches, folded into small sections, is the chess pieces; in order to distinguish between, you In order to differentiate, you use branches, I will use dirt and rubbish. Simple is a bit simple, but the same can be killed in the dark. The village life is so "simple", steamed bread in the morning, noodles at noon, steamed bread and rice at night, day after day, year after year, generations have come this way. Attitude towards the rain is also the same, under the rain of a day to play cards, under the rain of two days frowned, if even three days of rain, it should be cursed God. My mother and father were not accustomed to life in the city, but also because life in the city is too complicated. In my mother's words, "not only do you have to turn, but you also have to pay to drink a mouthful of water", whereas in the village she could pick the bonobos of the east family and pinch the sweet potatoes of the west family to cook the noodles of the north family and shoot the cucumbers of the south family. Everything is so free, just like the clouds in the sky, wherever you want to go, wherever you want to rain, without having to worry about whether it will be windy or rainy tomorrow.
The rain outside the window is getting heavier and heavier. Mother was most afraid of rain.
When there was a flood in 1975, she hid in a rice tank to save her life, but the root of the problem has been seared into her heart. When it rained heavily, especially at night, she didn't dare to close her eyes for fear that the torrential floods would come. At that time, the family's house was also broken, the roof also leaks, often outside the heavy rain, the family rain, the house also looks like at any time will fall down. I often wondered how that dilapidated house had withstood so many years of wind and rain. Now that I think about it, the old house is like a father, seemingly small, weak, but alive for us to carry a piece of heaven and earth. Mother didn't dare to go to sleep. She had to catch the rain in a basin with my father, and at the same time, she had to take care of us. The days were like the stitches left on my mother's clothes, mended and densely packed. Compared to my mother's fear of rain, I have a different kind of emotion towards rain. If you meet such a rain in the fall, it is even more joyful. I followed my father, picked up a fishing rod, put up an umbrella, cats under the tree, the wind and rain Xiao Xiao, is the fish. This kind of cozy life can not be experienced in normal times. Now I still like the rain. Falling leaves, drizzle, a person, an umbrella, walking in the rain between the rain, shuttling in the streets and alleys, with the "Tata" footsteps, as if back to childhood, back to that simple, carefree, the place where they were born.
The rain is getting heavier and heavier, with the wind smashing on the glass, making a "popping" sound. My vision was finally overwhelmed by the rain. The mountains in the distance, the canal under my eyes, were also drowned together. Only the woods on both sides of the river are left, still standing tall, fighting against the wash of the years. It was the years that gave them the great body, but also the years let them gradually withered. These are not covered by the phrase "sentient" or "unfeeling"? It is just like what I am to my village. I have not been back to the village for four years. I heard my father say that the power lines in the village have been re-erected, the road has been widened, the river ditch has been filled in, and the bamboo grove outside the fence has been cut down....... If you string all these intermittent news together and put them into your memory, it should be what the village looks like at this moment. Could this really be the village that I have been haunted by? I am not sure. I cast my eyes as far away as possible, in the direction of my hometown. At this moment, a black dot appeared in the heavy rain. The black dot ran toward me like an arrow. When the black dot got closer, I realized that it turned out to be a swallow. The swallow didn't even seem to notice my presence, but disappeared in a flash to the air conditioning unit. There is her home, the wind and rain, can not stop her courage and determination to go home.
I finally couldn't stop myself from crying. This rain swallow, really an arrow, has shot my heart through.