I am still young

2022-05-07 0 By

Old house affection long Yang Qiaoli memory of the old house, has gone for many years.The old house where we lived in childhood and the courtyard are now other people’s homes and have nothing to do with us any more.But, years of traces in the memory of the brand left, not so easy to erase.Childhood, the most pure and naive time, is a lifetime can not put down the lingering.The old house is a three-way courtyard in the traditional sense. We live in the south house of the front yard. In front of the courtyard, there is a narrow corridor leading to the main road of the village, symbolizing the glory and glory of the past.For as long as I can remember, the siheyuan model no longer exists. Later, the East House was also demolished, leaving only one south house in the vast courtyard.It was a tile-roofed house with five large rooms, divided into inner and outer rooms, two inner rooms, and a large kang at the east end. There were seven of us living there.The west end is smaller. It’s for grandma.For a family, such a house might seem shabby, but in a child’s eyes, it might be a gift from heaven.Because of the demolition, the whole yard is empty.In the east house demolition of the vacant lot, my sister and I whole a piece of flat ground, planted our favorite flowers and plants, there are henna, cockscomb, canna…These flowers and plants dress up the yard, even a few more elegant fairy gas.In fact, the larger space in the yard is used by the mother.Mother is a peasant woman, but also the head of the family.Her biggest ambition was to feed, clothe and make a better life for her family.My father is a private teacher. He always insists on teaching in the first line and has no time to care for his family.So the burden on the mother is much heavier than that on the average peasant woman.At that time, in addition to participating in the production of labor, and also engaged in family sideline, she set up a pig pen in the yard to raise pigs, in order to be able to sell pig money to supplement the family during the Spring Festival.When it comes to raising pigs, it’s hard to get around the topic of cutting hogweed.Cutting hogweed is a relatively pleasant job, so it is usually done by children.After school, the partners in a group of three, five a group, take sickle, on the basket, to the field to cut weeds.I remember that pigs at that time did not need to feed, grass is the main pig food, wheat bran, millet bran is the refined grain of pigs, in winter, but also for pigs to reserve hay.So after the autumn harvest, many children and adults went out to cut weeds in the fields.That fall, my mother took my brother and me to cut grass in the irrigated field below the slope.The village has no motor well, so the land is dry. The crops drink water and the weather permits the rain. Not only the grain yield is low, but the weeds grow too tall, the land looks stiff, you’d feel pain if you cut the grass.Irrigated land is different, after the harvest of crops, weeds did not compete for nutrients of the opponent, save enough strength crazy long, one long more than one person high, and water over the place, the soil is soft and soft, without sickle, with the hand can directly pull up the grass.When I was young and playful, mowing the lawn was just a matter of time.Of course, mother didn’t care how much WORK I could do.And afterwards, I mostly forgot about my mowing that day.But what I can remember is beautiful.The memory of a red sunset hanging in the horizon, the distant mother’s figure in the afterglow when the bend, full of tenacity and perseverance.Running water, figure, are so beautiful, so amazing.At that moment, I suspected that I had strayed into the fairy world, fantastic.Even now, there is a kind of intoxicating throb when I think about it.The cut grass is spread out in the yard to dry, and then piled up in the woodshed to feed the pigs all winter.To finish a job, mother is still busy at home and abroad.On Sundays, when my father came home from school, he cut pigweed, swept the yard, and pushed a flat cart to pick up pig manure.My father was clever and worked hard.He can mend car (bicycle) belt, can pan stove;He taught himself carpentry, made a small table, to solve the problem of no table for a large family to eat;He also made two simple lounge chairs.Although chaise longue is a little rough not delicate, but let our family advance a few years to enjoy the treatment of “sofa” (at that time the countryside does not have the concept of “sofa”), for many years, has been the valuable furniture of our home.His twist is fine, uniform in size and straight.Chinese New Year, every family home fried mahua custom, every time to this point, there will be someone asked him to help rub mahua.My father did not like to cook, but he would fire firewood or pull the bellows.One year, the family killed a pig, sold the meat, and left the pig’s head, ready to eat for the family, the tooth sacrifice.Mother cooked the pig’s head in a big iron pot while father gathered wood.Father made a very good wood fire and kept adding more and more to the stove hole, but he did not know how to check the heat or the time.It was not until his mother reminded him to see if the meat was rotten that his father remembered, hurriedly lifted the lid of the pot, and saw, ah, the meat had been boiled to pieces!Oh, this is a jaw-dropping funny movie!But when the New Year can eat meat is the biggest happiness, this year so happy!This south house is actually an ancestral home of our family for some time.I was too old to feel that kind of weight.But because it is the south room, lighting and temperature are affected.In the past, there were no Windows on the wall of kang, but my sister and I found a secret on the wall where we slept.There was a square area that looked like it had been painted over, and the wall was a different color and a little chipped.What could it be?Unable to guess, we told our parents about the discovery.They looked and thought it might be a window.Let’s open the window; it’s too dark in the room and get some air.My sister and I asked my parents.They thought about it and agreed.I’m sure they’d like to know what the world looks like out there.The result was a surprise — a small space, like a deep, boxy hole, that looked up and felt that little patch of sky was far away.Besides this wall of ours, judging by the height and the marks on the other three walls, that must be the house, too.This is a very secret place. Was there any valuable treasure hidden here in the past?There was a huge tree in a place the size of a hand;Then, the ground is some clumps of grass, not very dense, leisurely and carefree appearance.With the small window, the room brightened and gave my sister and me a surprise.We discussed whether to use the small patio wisely and plant some flowers.The growing number of things in the yard made the flower-space smaller and smaller;Besides, growing flowers in such a secret space adds a sense of mystery, doesn’t it?So we transplanted our favorite henna plant into the patio.Every day, my sister and I climbed through the window, looking at the delicate and blooming henna, and a strange beauty passed through my mind.When I was eleven or twelve years old, my family approved a piece of ground at the east end of the village and demolished the old house to build a new one. The ground of the old house belonged to my distant uncle’s family who lived in the inner courtyard. Since then, the old house has become a symbol of missing in my heart.Back home some time ago, with the old mother wandering in the village, unknowingly came to the land of the old house – the distant uncle.My aunt and uncle, like my mother, were old and tottering.I stood in the middle of the yard, looking around, everything new, not a trace of the old house.The three old yards have now been combined into one large courtyard.In addition to the large apartment house, the yard was filled with all kinds of trees, including two tall and straight ginkgo trees, which my aunt said had grown for more than ten years.This is, like, where my old house was.Time flies, love lasts long.I miss the old house, as the ginkgo tree, tough, eternal, long love!Yang Qiaoli, commonly used pen name LAN Ling, member of Shandong Writers association.She likes prose writing, and occasionally writes poems and other works. She has published several award-winning works, including a collection of essays “Blooming Lily of the Valley” and a collection of essays “Moonlight in the Grove”.One point book meaning literary heart