Text/Gao Chuanbo
I went back to my hometown in winter vacation and was intoxicated by the smoke from the kitchen on the roof of my hometown. What a nice cigarette! I haven't seen you for years. As misty as a cloud, as hazy as a dream. At this moment, I feel back to my childhood and hometown. ...
Xinglong Baotun, Quan Min Village, Xianfeng Township, yushu city, Jilin Province is my birthplace and my lovely hometown. I remember when I was a child, it was just dawn, and the smoke from a chimney rose with the breeze. At this time, my mother will put on an apron and light a fire. In an instant, the smoke in my chimney will rise. In front of the stove pit, the fire burned my mother's face. She added some firewood to the fireplace and boiled the water in the pot. Soon, I had a hot meal.
Morning smoke in my hometown is the most beautiful. Pale blue smoke permeates the roofs and green trees of adobe farmhouses, reminiscent of the mist floating in the Woods in Shan Ye in the morning. When the morning breeze blows, the village will take off its veiled pajamas, revealing the freshness and beauty of the village when it first wakes up. At this time, the cock flapping its wings, the lazy old cow, the lazy fat big black pig, rhubarb dog sleeping in the yard nest, the old hen sleeping in the henhouse, the lively children, the old man carrying a basket to collect manure ... constitute a peaceful and happy wheat field picture.
People here work at sunrise and rest at sunset. Hard-working people thrive on this black land. People who go to work during busy farming hours have to get up early, and the smoke in the kitchen gets up early before dawn. The air still smells of wet animal droppings. After breakfast, everyone who went to work in the fields left.
At this time, the rest of the idle people will gather under the elm tree in twos and threes to chat. There are also dogs kneeling beside their owners and enjoying this happiness. Old people are telling stories of the past, pride, vicissitudes and pride. When it comes to happiness, the gullies on my face are spread out, which makes me feel so kind. Some of them tell future generations about the development history of the village. The sun rises lazily, but it is a happy look.
The land in my hometown is full of crops: corn, millet, soybean, sorghum, millet and wheat, which are the food for the villagers to survive and solve their food and clothing. After the autumn harvest, such as corn straw, bean straw, sorghum straw, wheat straw and so on. The villagers' homes and houses are full of firewood to cook three meals a day for the farmers' family.
Later, I went to the town to attend high school. Sometimes I only go home once a month. Every time I come back, I can see the smoke from the Woods around the distant village. I can't help speeding up the pace of going home. Because I know: there is a smell of firewood in the kitchen smoke, mixed with the faint smell of chopped green onion, rice, corn porridge made by my mother, small rice, sorghum rice, jiaozi stuffed with sauerkraut, and potato sauce. ...
In the twilight, the smoke from the kitchen rises, and the rugged little room rises in the afterglow of the sunset, which looks simple, quiet and beautiful. With the rise of kitchen smoke, people working in the fields are called by kitchen smoke to drive back along the village road with old cows, old horses, plowshares and hoes. Suddenly, the neighing of horses, the Cleisthenes of cows, the bleating of sheep, the rumbling of individual iron cows, the barking of dogs and the crowing of chickens have merged into an ocean of happiness for farmers.
With the growth of age, the feeling of homesickness is gradually strong, and the smoke from the kitchen in the wilderness is always lingering in homesickness. The smoke from home is so kind, natural and familiar, which always makes people feel sweet when they get home and comforted when they are tired. I really want to smell the smoke in my hometown again. I really want to smell the sweet taste of millet porridge, corn porridge, sorghum rice, yellow rice and cornmeal cake cooked by my mother beside the pot. The sweet fragrance still remains in my memory. The smell of potato sauce and ketchup made by my mother is engraved in my memory. I beg for yellow melon pulp and sauerkraut around my mother. That memory is engraved in my heart, and I will never forget the sticky bean curd at home and the millet soup that my mother was busy drinking after fishing for millet. ...
Cooking smoke is a landscape in my hometown, three liters a day, elegant and lingering; Cooking smoke is a strand of homesickness, rooted in this hot land of hometown, which makes people wander in a foreign land dream. Accompanied by the rising sun, wisps of kitchen smoke swept over the roof and floated in the wind like fog. The smoke in the kitchen always makes people feel warm, and the smell of fireworks and rice fragrance makes people feel at ease. A long time ago, my father said to me, "People are alive like smoke in the kitchen, and they have to go high and far." From then on, I remembered my father's distant vision, the direction of cooking smoke, and the pure blue sky overhead. I always thought that when I left the kitchen, I must be full of hope. I believe even the silent kitchen smoke will be proud of me! Cooking smoke in my hometown is more cordial and warm because of homesickness. The smoke from the kitchen reflects the three treasures of hometown: the lingering, sustenance and dependence between villagers, hometown and crops.
Later, I went on a trip as I wished. From my hometown to the town high school, from the town to the provincial capital, I worked in the county after graduation from the provincial capital ... I live in the county where I dream of cooking cigarettes, and I wander in a foreign land and struggle in the city. However, when I push a cup for a change, I always miss my hometown and the village where the smoke is curling up. Away from the village smoke, my life seems to be a cut-off river and a deserted field. Only cooking smoke and the rural scenery standing with cooking smoke can make my life beautiful, happy and rich for a long time.
Thirteen years ago in winter, I went back to my hometown to visit my mother, just in time for the potatoes to ripen. My mother said happily to me, "Third, you liked baked potatoes best when you were a child. I'll bake you two! "
That day, my mother baked potatoes in the earthen stove, carefully and slowly, for fear that they would burn black accidentally. When the potatoes were ripe, my mother sighed, "Alas! People are old and their hands and feet are not sharp, but they are still burned. " Mother's attitude is like a child who has made a mistake. I was eating my mother's baked potato, and tears were rolling in my eyes. When I was a child, my mother often baked potatoes, baked bean buns, baked corn, baked wheat and fried corn for our brothers and sisters in the brazier ... I know that this baked potato is clearly a maternal heart!
In today's hometown, cattle and horses have retired, and the mechanized operation of seeder, mower, harvester and thresher has brought benefits to farmers, liberated the labor force, and a well-off village with socialist spiritual civilization has mushroomed. Urban-rural integration is advancing by leaps and bounds. If there is no distinction between urban and rural areas, farmers will be rich and the country and people will be safe. The smoke from my hometown is carefree, floating in the air and laughing in circles.
The smell of cooking smoke is the taste of home, and the cooking smoke in my hometown is my long-term yearning for my hometown. There is a deep homesickness in the kitchen smoke in my hometown. Nostalgia is inseparable from memories of the old days. From the smoke rising from the old house and the crops in my hometown, I know and walk into this mysterious world. In this process, my love for my hometown is growing day by day and takes root in our hearts. Now, times have changed and things have changed. The old elm trees and dilapidated old houses in my hometown can only stay in memories and dreams. ...
How many years, that faint enchanting smoke, in my memory, has always been faint and ethereal. It is like a colorful picture scroll that never fades, fixed in my heart, wrapped around my heart and pulling my homesickness. Whether you are going back to your hometown or going to a foreign land, you will feel rare warmth as long as you see the rising smoke and smell the smell of burning firewood in the air.
65438+20201at home on October 2nd.
About the author:
Gao Chuanbo, male, born in 1963, a retired soldier in yushu city, Jilin Province, is a senior Chinese teacher in Yushu No.2 Experimental Middle School. He is a member of Jilin Writers Association, Changchun Writers Association, yushu city Writers Association and director of yushu city Poetry Society. His works are scattered in Jilin Daily, Labor News, Shenyang Daily, Changchun Daily, Jilin Workers Daily, Jilin Farmers Daily, Ginseng Flower, Spring Breeze Literature and Art, etc.