For many years, I have remembered my first trip to a distant place. In this distant place, there is no poetry, no grassland cattle and sheep, the sky is far away; the wild sand in the desert, the humps in the north; the autumn rain in the south of the Yangtze River, the fallen leaves and resentful women; the small bridges and flowing water, the charming people hiding their faces; the spring in the northern country, colorful...
< p> But I admit that it was indeed the first time in my life that I went to a distant place. It was the first time that I went out alone and went to the farthest place for the first time in my life.This place is actually not far away. It is only more than 80 miles away from my hometown of Pobei Village, Jianling Commune. No matter how hard I try, I can't reach the distance.
But I think that is the distance, because from birth to that trip, I had never been to such a far place alone. The farthest place in my impression was the county seat forty miles away from my home. , I have only been there once, during the Cultural Revolution. We, the Red Soldiers, imitated our school brothers and went to the county to watch a model play, and slept on the chairs in the county government office for a night, passing by the Sanghe River back and forth. At that time, I was still trying to catch a live small fish by the river that I had never seen before.
I graduated from high school in 1972, at the age of 17. My father, who was teaching abroad, originally found a master for me and asked me to learn carpentry and acquire a craft so that I could go to distant places and use chisels, axes and saws. I was lucky enough to write some practical poems that could support my family. The brigade unexpectedly hired me as a teacher in my village. I must not change the life plan my father arranged for me, and use a more gorgeous way to go far away, even using white of chalk to write a few poems on the wooden blackboard.
But before we can go far away in this way, another way to go far away comes. It is not late, but earlier.
I entered the school in October to give a podium (actually, the classroom renovated from the ancient temple did not have a podium). In November, the persimmons on the tall persimmon tree at home matured, and they had to be the same as others. , pick the persimmons from the tree, process them, transport them to a distant place near Xianyang, and sell them for money. Money was really in short supply for me and my family at that time. I remember that in autumn, I couldn’t even afford a pair of thick warm pants with fleece. It was too hot to wear cotton pants, and it was freezing to wear two pairs of single pants.
My mother picks the persimmons. When they are ripe and processed, my mother roughly calculates the date. She will ripen them on that Saturday, load the racks on the cart, and let me take them away overnight to sell them to distant places.
For my first trip to a distant place, my mother found me a companion, one of my cousins.
In order to get to the sales point on time, my father and son each pulled a 400-500 kilogram frame truck and hit the road shortly after dark that night.
After going down to Tangfang Slope, pass by Lu Chenjia in Gu County Village, climb the Sing River Slope, pass by Dongxu Huangpu Village, and then climb the Beimen Slope of Liquan County.
The slope was steep and long. After walking for more than four hours, I exerted a lot of strength, sweated a lot, and got hungry. My father and son took a big break at the bottom of the slope and ate a few. A piece of pot helmet, and the dish is a persimmon on a shelf cart.
It was late autumn in the second half of the night, and the weather was colder. My clothes soaked with sweat turned cold. A gust of autumn wind passed by, and I couldn't help but shiver a few times. Let's go uphill. We are still more than thirty miles away from our destination, which is not far away.
I put on the loop rope and tried my best to climb the North Gate Slope. My clothes, which had been cold for a while, were soaked with sweat again, and the sweat on my head also flowed down with the sound of breathing. The waist is arched, the feet are pushed back, and every step forward, the head is raised. The footsteps are accompanied by the sound of breathing and the ticking of sweat, which is particularly loud due to the stillness of the night. At this time, I thought of the sound of whips and shouts when my second father drove the cart, the sound of the bells on the necks of the mules and horses, and the snoring gasps...
I set foot on National Highway 312, I was really tired, so I gritted my teeth and counted the milestones along the road, determined to take a break every four days. At that time, we called that milestone a stake, and the goal every time we restarted after a break was to pass another four stakes. The moonlight is hazy, the stakes are hazy, people are a little sleepy, hazy, the fields, villages and trees beside the road are also hazy, everything is hazy, only the next rest target is not hazy each time. Even though I repeatedly told myself before every start that I would only pull the car forward and not look at the chain number, I still couldn't help but look at it because of my hope, especially after the third chain number passed and the fourth chain number passed. During this period, the strength is almost exhausted. I am afraid that the little bit left may not be able to support the fourth stake. The distance is so far! A bit out of reach.
The soles of my feet slowly started to feel burning and painful, and my legs felt as heavy as lead. I knew that my feet were soaked, but I hadn’t gone that far yet.
When you lower your head to pull the cart, you have to look up at the sky, because you have to get to the far place called the store before getting up for the market! What's more, my cousin told me that people in the plains go to market early...
Finally arrived, I set up the cart and went to the store to cross the street. I really wanted to lie on my back and take a rest on the street. After a while, my cousin told me to clean up the persimmons quickly and sell the skins...
The gastrodia was bright, and the fish belly was white in the east, and underneath was the bright red irregular morning light, and there were already sparse people on the street. We gathered early to attract customers, and my cousin shouted one after another: "Persimmon, sweet and crispy persimmon!"
And reminded me, "You are shouting!"
.
But I could hardly do this simple shout. In order to reduce the laughter and embarrassment, I worked hard, made up my mind again and again, and even turned my head to the side: " "Persimmon", I thought my shouting voice would be very loud, but when I breathed out the second word, my voice dropped so much that I didn't even hear it!
Shy, shy, humble... Too complicated emotions, including embarrassment, humiliation, fear and cowardice... So helpless, so lost, so forced...
p>
After several attempts, several times what I thought was yelling (actually my cousin didn’t think so), for some reason, my eyes filled with tears...
The first time in my life The distance is too far, shouting and shouting are even further, it seems too far to reach.
"Persimmons! The persimmons are here!" Finally, I shouted, my voice louder, a bit like the first cry of a baby when it was born!
Later I kept thinking that this might be poetry, the so-called poetry. Although it is rough and monotonous, I think it is poetry. It is the most beautiful line of poetry I have written in my life!
Because my cousin was not in a hurry to rush back, he kept holding on to the price. As for me, I only had this day, and I had to rush back to school tomorrow morning to teach students on time, so I had to give up the price in advance.
Finally, amid the occasional shy, timid, humble shouts, a cart of more than 2,000 persimmons was sold so much that there was almost nothing left on the bottom of the carriage. At this time, my cousin said to me: "This is it. The market is about to end. You are in a hurry and take the rest to the Pig and Sheep Market. People who should buy there have bought it, and what should be sold has also been sold." , people take persimmons with them when they go home. ”
… As the saying goes, the end is not finished, and the persimmons are finally gone. I even left a few buns for me on the way home. One of them was forced to be bought by an uncle for his grandson. I quickly packed up the truck and prepared to return.
My cousin asked me to go to the cafeteria to have some food, but I said I didn’t dare. I was the only one and I had to hurry up. It was going to be dark soon. The cousin was worried and settled: "When you get to the county, try to find a companion to go home with; if you don't have one, just stay in a hotel. It's inconvenient for you in the dark of night and I don't worry about it either!"
"I got it!" Before I could even finish my words, I was already on my way home. I was driving so fast that the wooden box in the car rattled.
On the wide 312 asphalt road, I didn’t care about wiping sweat or taking in the scenery. I put my head in my head, took three steps and two steps at a time, and kept running back. It was like a trot.
But before we returned to Liquan County, it was completely dark. We are still more than 40 miles away from home, and the road is all uphill. Even though the frame truck is empty, pulling it uphill is more laborious than a heavy truck.
I walked around the northern part of the county, but couldn’t find any companions. I hesitated a little, and finally decided to return alone. Afraid of wolves or robbers appearing on the road, I carried the pad (short stick) supporting the carriage in my left hand, ready to use the "whistle stick" to deal with unexpected dangers and disasters like Wu Song in Water Margin.
At this time, although I was already a sleepy boy, I felt like a beast, and I even felt that my eyes were red. In order to relieve my fear, I would swing the pad from time to time to make some roaring noises, which would support me and protect me.
That night seemed very dark, everything was so solemn, so profound, so magical, so terrifying...
Maybe this is still poetry from afar, but I no longer have any poetic feeling at this time. I just want to get home as soon as possible so that I can get out of this creepy and devilish situation as soon as possible...
It has been more than 40 years since I visited this distant place. I always thought that this distant place was not a distant place. I also think that there is no poetry in this distant place, only living and living.
But these days, through repeated chewing and savoring, I think this is a real distant place in my life. This distant place not only contains bitterness, pain, tears and sadness, but also passionate and energetic poems!
At the age of seventeen, I set sail from this not-so-distant place and began to compose a poem of my life.
Poetry and the beauty of the distance make life more beautiful. Poetry comes from the distance, and there is poetry in the distance!