The wind climbed up my window last night, and it sounded like a dry branch scraping the window. Later, the wind left the window and danced under it. At that time, the passionate and sometimes dull voice was really scary. I subconsciously pulled up my head covered by the horn and thought, that's it, Nidu Shaman put on his clothes and beat the drums, trying to find out whose soul he was tirelessly spinning and jumping.
I'm more worried about the hawthorn tree. Hawthorn fruit should have been harvested long ago. It has been agreed that the first frost will go back, and the first frost will come in two days. I don't want to blow this wind for no reason.
Whistling all night, the wind is tired. In the morning, it put away its sleeves and left with a sigh.
Sweeping the village street all night, like a pale and cold face of a woman at a loss, she gave you a cool look, didn't cater to you, and ignored anyone. Some people have finished the autumn harvest, some people are still sorting it out, some people put corn next to their own street doors, and most of them are in the village square.
Turning the stage, I saw a white plaster wall around the hawthorn tree, and branches and vines were outside the wall. The younger brother said that the hawthorn was almost finished. I also clearly see that there are still a few clusters of fruits hanging on the branches of several hawthorn trees pointing to the sky, and the leaves are changing from green to yellow and from yellow to red. The dense branches and leaves of a tree are obviously sparse.
The neighbor's corn is planted in the open space in front of and behind the house. The street is so clean that you can hardly see a blade of grass, bean stalks and corn husks, and of course you can't see hawthorn leaves and hawthorn fruits. After a few more steps, suddenly, my eyes were in chaos and my heart shrank. Shrinking hawthorn fruits, one by one, stuck to the street, and suddenly looked like countless drops of blood.
This is a low-lying area on the street. In the rainy season, there is a rain pool here. On rainy days, some children put on straw hats or carry a piece of plastic cloth on their backs, and come to the corner to play the game of embankment and flood discharge. They divided the low-lying land into small pieces and built their own dikes. When building the embankment, they were silent, sometimes they couldn't hear the sound for a long time, wondering if they had left, and suddenly there was a cry. Sometimes I hear a child suddenly cry very sadly. I walked to the gate with an umbrella and saw a child wiping his tears. His little hands were covered with mud. While crying, he repaired his own dam, and his other little hand was very busy. First, the other children stood by and watched him cry, and then they all squatted down and held rocks and mud. Too many chefs helped him plug the gap.
After the snow, the melted snow water gathered together again and slowly accumulated into a large piece of ice. My brother and nephew skated on the ice with their friends when they were young. Although they had a good time, the scene was quite lively. A girl my age walked hand in hand with me in the street. When she saw the ice, she hit it hard, turned and jumped on the ice, and "wooshing" slipped past. I won't, dare not, and have never tried. Now that I think about it, I still have envy. It turns out that there are some things that you will never get in your life. That girl got married when I was a student. Occasionally, her silvery laughter can turn from street to lane. One day, she left her family and children and was never heard from again. Even the death of her parents failed to sober her up. Some people say that she is pursuing love.
A few years ago, the streets were renovated and all the old and new streets were hardened with cement. Here, the street trend is still low. I crouched down, and the broken hawthorn fruit had lost its moisture, and the cracked part was dark red, almost close to the skin. I know, they mature at the moment they fall. When did you drop it? On the eve of the Millennium Festival, after the autumn wind, or the day of cold dew? Did they fall over each other? Or leave a few tonight and a few tomorrow morning, and we'll get together after a long time? They are dry but not withered, except for a layer of dust on the surface, which is slightly covered with some chaff. Just like the hawthorn fruit on the tree, it is still so bright red and fresh.
No one wants to deliberately crush this fresh life. Must be in the dim night or foggy morning, hurried cultivators inadvertently stepped on it, or agricultural vehicles braving light blue smoke unconsciously ran over crops. When I realized that something was wrong, I wondered whether I had crushed the hawthorn or not. While complaining about his carelessness, he also went in a hurry.
I can almost imagine the first ripe hawthorn fruit gradually falling-the second boy cleared his throat, came out of his alley, stood around the alley, and walked west with his hands in his pockets. Two hawthorn fruits stood in front of him, and the second boy bent down and pinched them, blew the dust on them and took a bite. He turned to look at the iron lock hanging on my mother's street door. Probably, at that moment, the old lady who stood at the gate and called him to eat shook her head twice. He turned and chewed hawthorn and went west.
Xiaosan's mother is wearing an apron, her hands are rolled in it, and she is on the stage. She has gone to take care of her single brothers, and the stove at home has not been burned out.
Where are the bowls and chopsticks? Far away, she saw some hawthorn fruits jumping on the wall of my mother's house and then jumping in the street. She approached and picked them up, put them in an apron and looked up at the hawthorn tree: it's time for the children to come back and clean up the hawthorn. The plane leaves in her yard have fallen off another layer. The third one sweeps the plane leaves in the yard. There are red hawthorn leaves on the plane leaves. He looked west with a broom. In front of him is his Westinghouse, and there is a pear tree in front of it. He can't see the hawthorn tree in my mother's yard. Third mistress pushed open the door and came in. He said that all the hawthorn leaves in the west yard were scraped in our yard.
My mother used to watch the hawthorn fruit turn red and call us back to harvest the hawthorn. She couldn't bear to watch a hawthorn fall to the ground. The early-unloaded hawthorn took a bite and the pulp was sour. When I reached the first frost, there were still some fragments left on the empty branches. I reached out and took them off. Fruit is the same color from the inside out, and it becomes sweet and smooth when put into your mouth. Then, I always blame my mother: What's the hurry? Only after the first frost does it mature.
No one rushed to collect the hawthorn, so I thought about waiting for the first frost to go back and collect it.
It was too windy last night. In the morning, it blows my brother and sister back from every corner.
Open the courtyard door, yellow, yellow, green and green trees and leaves overlap and cover the slate courtyard, and hawthorn fruit lies on the fallen leaves. In recent years, my mother has cleaned the yard and streets. As soon as we entered the door, she spread the sacks that had been prepared in the yard and on the street to see if they were enough, and then took out the sheets and curtains for fear that she would hurt and break the hawthorn fruit.
At present, they are all masterpieces of the wind, and the layout is orderly. It first shouted down the leaves, spread them tightly, and then shook the branches to let the fruit fall on the leaves. This is not the crazy roar I heard last night. Yao Ming is a profound elder, who silently arranged everything that should be done.
There is no shelter on the street. Where did the leaves and hawthorn go to avoid the cold? Branches sticking out of the wall beat the strong wind. Naughty wind is like a group of children with long poles, messing up branches, hurriedly putting away trophies and running away.
My brother stood on tiptoe and approached the hawthorn tree. As soon as his hand was placed on the tree, the fruit left on the branch fell off. Someone outside the courtyard wall said that hawthorn fruit blocked their way. My brother inadvertently made a move, and the streets were full of fruits. Two people are standing in the corner of the neighbor's house across the street. A man squatted down and picked up a hawthorn, blew it, rubbed it twice with his palm, and took a bite and said, it's not sour and delicious. The other party also picked up a few. When they saw me, they said they were afraid to walk over and step on hawthorn. There are cars on the stage, but there are no cars. The voice came first. The two men hurried around and stopped the oncoming vehicles together. When I took out my broom, an agricultural vehicle stopped in the corner. I put hawthorn fruit on the wall to make way for them.
Another fruit fell, and the passing cat stepped on it and stuck to the wall. Its tail was blown thick and its ears were pressed on its head, like two withered poplar leaves. I stopped the broom and tried not to make any noise. The cat had a rest and got into a narrow lane.
My brother inadvertently held a trunk like that, and most of the fruits on the branches fell off, so my mother's sacks, sheets and curtains were never used before. My brother moved a high stool, stepped on it, grabbed the branches that could be touched and moved a few times. There isn't much fruit left on the tree.
At the east end of the village, someone called his brother and sister's names several times, and then came over here: it's back, and the hawthorn has fallen. The talker walked to the front, one holding a grandson. They often come to my mother's door and call them sisters-in-law when they meet. They prepared food bags and came here to get some hawthorn fruits. They talked about my mother and said that every year when the hawthorn came down, my mother went door to door to break them up.
A sister-in-law sat on the stone bar at the entrance of my mother's street, holding two children, and another sister-in-law picked up hawthorn. Filled with several food bags, the sister-in-law sitting at the door shouted: enough, enough, just eat less. You don't need to give me yours. I bought some in advance. Tell me later. I got up early and passed by. I saw hawthorn rolling everywhere, but unfortunately it was not cleaned up, so I picked it up and went home. She invented a set of eating method of hawthorn fruit: after the fruit is cleaned, there is no need to wash the seeds, white sugar, brown sugar and water are mixed, cooked in a slow fire, sealed in a jar, and a few are taken out when you want to eat, which is very refreshing. At first, the two children sitting on her lap were strangers, quietly looking at what was in front of them. Slowly, they became restless and began to cry. They said hello to each other and left, holding grandchildren and hawthorn fruit in their hands.
Crataegus pinnatifida is hidden in the crevice of the slate at the top of the coal bunker and under the idle tiles on the chicken nest. Hawthorn trees grow between the coal bunker and the chicken coop. When the tree grows up, the whole tree leans towards the courtyard and leans against a big stone at the root. One end of the big stone rests on the chicken coop and the other end rests on the coal bunker. The roots are surrounded by cracks, and the cracks are filled with fallen leaves and hawthorn fruits. I grabbed the tree and hung my head. A few brainless mother-in-law bugs are running around in my hand, and there is a long-legged spider. I think I've scratched a leg and I'm trying to find a way out with my fingers. As soon as I raised my hand, the hawthorn fruit scattered far away, and then I looked at my hand. My mother-in-law worm huddled in my palm, but the remaining stovepipe spider disappeared. I slowly took off my gloves and threw them out. Then I went over and turned my gloves over with my toes. Mother-in-law bug disappeared, I don't know where to hide. They don't know. I almost jumped with fear when they were busy hiding. There are many fruits in the gap. I've explored it several times, and I dare not catch it again.
There is a white porcelain bowl next to the chicken nest, covered with dust and with several openings. There are five fruits at the bottom of the porcelain bowl, as if someone had fiddled with them specially. They are like dusty red berries. After several twists and turns, they finally found a stable place to live. I picked them up one by one and put them in my palm. A burst of music floated in from the partition wall, and the tune was melodious and sad. Listening attentively, I only heard a string of lyrics ending with "waiting for you". I stood up, but I still couldn't hear. The song goes east along the street. Suddenly, the singing stopped and the selling began. Hawking's cry hovered back and forth at the entrance of the village and returned to my mother's door, and the song resumed, sad. I stopped what I was doing and listened carefully, but I could only hear the words "waiting for you" behind a string of lyrics. I wonder what song it is. I've never heard of it. At first, I thought the song was recorded by a peddler with a horn. When he passed the gate and walked under the hawthorn tree outside the fence, his singing sank a few times and paused a few times. Did he bend his head and pick up some hawthorn outside the fence? Then, this affectionate and melancholy song came from the vendor himself. What song is it? Is it waiting for you under the hawthorn tree?
After I entered the village in the morning, the car turned into Wudao Temple. There is a long shelf in front of the office of the village Committee, and all kinds of goods are placed on the shelf. A man and a woman are squatting in the opposite square, face to face, with their sleeves basking in the sun. The sun is weak and lazy. I also think these two people are busy keeping warm by themselves, so why don't they put their shelves on the other side of Chaoyang.
I don't know where the vendors come from. At this time in previous years, Fu Suo came. He put the shelf in the Chaoyang district of the square and sat by himself. Many years later, a woman sat by the shelf of Fusuo, and Fusuo stood to greet customers. Occasionally, when I am too lucky to take care of it, there will be women to take care of it, but I rarely talk. Women who are abandoned by their in-laws seem to be very depressed, and often have some unreasonable behaviors and words. After living with Fuso, she gradually got better.
Fusuo started a small business when he was young. He walked around the village with a parcel on his back and was single all his life. There were more women around him, and when I saw him again, the shelves stood for a long time. Where does the temple sing? On the electric tricycle of Fusuo, there is a woman with goods.
Fusang died last winter. At first, it was said that something had happened to Fusuo, and I have never been able to connect Fusuo with the bloody scene. Not long ago, I saw Fusuo in a place where I did nothing. He walked far in the crowd. I want to know how I saw him while drilling, just like the close-up in the movie. In the bustling crowd of Zaixi, I noticed his sparse gray hair and slightly hunched back at a glance. At that moment, Fu Suo's back left me an inexplicable stumbling impression. I looked at his back for a long time and thought about it several times. Fusang is so old.
I don't know why such a fragile person is mixed up with a car accident, and I always feel unbearable in my heart.
A few days later, I heard that Fusuo's death had nothing to do with the car accident. He was walking on the edge of the village road, fell down and died. There happened to be a car passing by, which has nothing to do with it. As if I had expected this, I was relieved.
However, about the death of Fusuo, I struggled for some time. It is said that if no car passes by, the wind will not rise, the wind will not blow on Fusuo, and Fusuo will not fall down, so it will not die. This sentence reminds me of the swaying back of the crowd in front of Frelock, which may fall down at any time.
When Fusang died, I didn't know where Fusang's women would go. Women have children, but they have almost broken up. After Fusuo's accident, women and children came to inquire about Fusuo's accident. After that, this woman may live in a small house in Fusuo. In that case, in addition to women, there should be a pile of fake money in Fusuo's hut. Fake money is several years earlier than women. It was Fusuo who drove away the stall for thousands of years and exchanged it with dozens of imitation leather vests. It should still be neatly clipped in the wallet, pressed by the lock at the bottom of the bag, and collected in the innermost layer of the wardrobe.
When the hawthorn fruit is put away, the leaves are spread in the yard. The gate was locked and we left the yard.
Passing Wudao Temple, many people stood in front of a long shelf. When many people see my brother and sister, almost all of them are those two sentences: Did you come back to collect hawthorn? It's long overdue. Look what it has accomplished. ...
Your mother is gone, and you will never come back. It's noon. Let's leave now. Let's go home for dinner. ...
The peddler and his wife are busy taking care of him, and his horn is on the shelf.
After a while, when I meet people in the village, I always mention my mother's hawthorn. Some people met and asked anxiously, "Did you go back to pick up hawthorn?" . Some people left after greeting, as if suddenly thinking of something, turned around and asked, "Didn't you go back to pick hawthorn?" Others said, "I passed by your mother's house and saw no hawthorn on the tree. I thought I didn't know which child had come back to collect it, and I didn't see anyone."
After a while, wherever I go, I can hear this song "... waiting for you". I looked it up on purpose. I'll wait for you in Cocoto Sea, but there is no Song Like's "I'll wait for you under the hawthorn tree". )
Author's brief introduction: Zheng Yanfang, Shunren, Jinzhong, Shanxi, born in 1970s, member of Jinzhong Writers' Association and Western Prose Society, published a collection of essays "On Strangers by the Masses".