An old house that doesn't fall
Text: Zhu Haikuo.
Once upon a time there was a mountain, and there was a temple in the mountain.
There is an old monk in the temple telling a story.
What are you talking about, once upon a time there was a mountain ......
Not true!Not true!
Once upon a time there was a mountain, and there was a village in the mountain.
There was an old man in the village who was commenting on the story.
What do you say, once upon a time there was a mountain ......
That's right!That's right!
A lonely and cosy courtyard.
An old house that has been around for countless years.
There lived one who listened to the story and two who made up the story.
There are also a few loyal listeners once in a while.
The old house shook gently with its eyes closed.
Slowly boil through the softness and love in those memories.
If you want to enter the village, you need to walk five miles of dirt road.
When I was a child, I often thought it was a five-mile road.
It's the length of the whole world.
At that time. I always like to sit on the top of the East Mountain.
Look into the distance.
In the eyes of that time.
Except that mountains are still mountains.
It's a pity that there is no river.
A river that could cross my entire childhood.
Sit down quietly and shake your feet gently.
That's the closest I'm to heaven.
It was then, and it is now.
I'm like a ****.
Greedily gazing at everything I could see.
Light white cooking smoke.
Flee down the chimney.
A few new yellow tiles occasionally slipped.
It's like a black clip on my grandmother's head.
The tiles and thatch were hot.
Grandma and firewood love deeply.
Grandpa didn't know what to do in the stable.
The navy blue shirt was covered with dirt stains.
He leaned against the hawthorn tree in the courtyard.
Take off one shoe and pound it the grinding plate.
He cursed and muttered in his mouth.
I can't hear clearly, but it's also about grandma.
Grandma's fate is not good.
I haven't seen my mother, and I was sold by my father.
At the age of thirteen, I followed my grandfather.
But he lived a fast life and was strong all his life.
Grandpa has a short temper.
Horizontal eyebrows, but proud and conceited.
Even if you die, you can say the same.
But he lived a heroic life and was respected.
Grandpa likes to eat sugar.
The wooden box in the East House was filled with rock candy.
If you are tired of storytelling, you must have a piece in your mouth.
A couple of girls brought back fruit candy from the city.
When I went to work, I had to carry two in my pocket.
Wake up early with a glass of egg water, decades.
I also told my grandmother to add two spoonfuls of sugar.
yes, he's ...... in this life
The peppers in the yard bore twenty-two.
When the kids come back, they will have enough to eat.
The little pickaxe that Xiao Kuo cries for every day.
He Uncle Zhang should have finished fighting.
There is not enough firewood for the winter.
Ming'er will go to the West Mountain to do some work.
yes, it's the ...... of her life
Grandpa has never left Sweet in his life.
Grandma has never left the bitterness in her life.
Just like these two people, they are obviously incompatible.
But he has spent more than 60 years in bitterness.
Time used to be so slow.
A second is as long as a minute.
The day had just torn open the night.
The earthly world began to be restless.
Before dawn, a small figure in the old yard.
It's already busy.
Vegetables into furrows, firewood into stacks.
Yesterday's leftovers were hot in the iron pot.
Yellow mud on the side of the stove.
A cup of freshly cooled egg water.
It's snorting hot.
In the room, there was an intermittent erhu sound.
On a long wooden chair that can't fit the whole ass.
An old man pulls the strings and closes his eyes and soaks himself in.
The bedding on the kang has not yet been folded.
Shan Tianfang's commentary has been started in the chatterbox.
On the cupboard, there are two bright red candy wrappers.
The sound of musical instruments, the sound of storytelling.
Chickens bark, dogs bark.
The sound of fireworks, the sound of bickering.
At this dawn, it was extraordinarily harmonious.
Grandpa's hand often touched the hawthorn tree in the courtyard.
Those big rough hands.
It has long been a pain that has ravaged time.
At this point, I was worried about whether the bark would be able to withstand his calluses.
His crutches were made of his own, shiny and straight.
Call it like a dragon, say it like a worm.
In short, it is just like the arrogance of his life.
He looked around the decades-old courtyard again.
Seven children!And pride arose in his heart.
He took a hoe with him and went to the ownerless land to clear the wasteland.
He took a pickaxe and forced water out of the ground.
He fed a large family with Allegro and Erhu.
He took me to the village to take the pestle for fear that the craft would be lost.
Westinghouse is a sacred place dedicated to the immortal throne.
Grandma often went there to bow down devoutly.
First salute a good incense, and then take a match.
Burn a few pieces of yellow paper and pray for the protection of the gods.
At that time, my grandmother would always wash her hands.
After that, tidy up your clothes.
Every movement is a fixed rule.
It turns out that people of faith also have their own piety.
I always thought that people who believed in the gods.
Originating from the greed of the heart and the boundlessness of selfish desires.
I found out later.
There is a thought worth guarding.
can make a broken life seem less lonely.
It turned out that they were not living dreams.
Because their dream has come true.
That's an acre and a third of an acre under their feet.
They live with a lot of energy.
A force that never admits defeat.
The change of times.
Make everything too fast.
It's so fast that you can't catch you off guard.
It's so fast that there's nowhere to put it.
The woman at the head of the village is old.
The old well at the door was dry.
The boundary markers in the ground have fallen.
More and more lights are going out.
The old house is empty.
I still come back occasionally.
Sit on the top of the East Mountain again.
The glow moves slowly.
I suddenly realized.
I don't know when. The old house in my hometown has become so small.
It's small enough to hold it with one hand.
The yard that I couldn't run out of when I was a child.
It was only a dozen steps from the door to the house.
The threshold that I had to jump to cross when I was a child.
Now I found that bending over and shrinking my neck can also knock on the door frame.
When I was a child, I thought it was a tall walnut tree.
Now I can pick a few pairs of walnuts as soon as I reach out.
When I was a child, my grandmother could only paste the newspaper when she climbed high.
Now I can lift off the top one as soon as I reach out.
When I was a kid, I was always worried.
Grandpa's rough hands would break everything around him.
I didn't understand until I grew up.
The hands are gilded, and they give life to all things.
It turned out that he was standing in the crowd, and his neighbors looked up.
Later, he lay in the crowd, and his neighbors looked down.
His big hands have never been so soft.
Slowly, slowly, slowly ......
The hawthorn tree died, the walnut tree died.
The earthen stove in the outhouse collapsed, and the glass in the Westinghouse shattered.
The walls of the room were full of newspapers that looked yellow like a baby's breasts.
The weeds in the yard didn't reach my knees.
There was only one and a half of wine jugs left on the table of the Eight Immortals.
The black and rusty chopsticks in the brazier are facing east and west.
Grandma's sewing kit lay lazily at the bottom of the cabinet.
Grandpa's sickle was so blunt that he couldn't even cut the grass.
The grinding disc at the door may have been stolen by someone**.
Only the whetstone still has traces of coming and going.
The wind rises, as you like.
The old guy who made you egg water.
I'm ninety-five years old.
You're going to be ninety-nine years old.
The last touch of sunset.
It landed right in the corner of the old house.
In the setting sun, it swayed.
I was afraid it would fall, but it didn't.
Day by night, year by year.
It's still there. Even if there is only one breath left...
About the Author: Zhu Haikuo, National Youth Broadcasting and Hosting High-level Group Trainer, Member of the Chinese Culture and Art Talent Pool, the 6th"China's Top 10 Young Recitation Artists"The winner of the title, he has participated in many national recitation competitions and won awards. He is currently the vice chairman of the Chengde Shuangluan District Writers Association and the vice president of the Chengde National Reading Association. Member of "Guo Xiaochuan Recitation Art Troupe".
He has written more than 1,000 poems, essays, etc., and his works have won many provincial and municipal awards, and he has published a personal poetry collection "Watch".
Editor: Editorial Department of Inexhaustible.com.