The willow trees around the village block out the sunshine, the mottled walls around the old house, the stone mill with heavy vicissitudes under the eaves, the simple and honest folks who have lived on the yellow land for generations, the schools that are as cold as icehouse in winter, the pits where flocks of geese and ducks dance and scream, the threshing floor that plays hide-and-seek with friends, and the river that goes swimming and fishing in summer, just like yellow photos, are still preserved in my dusty memory.
"Huma depends on the north wind and crosses the south branch of the Bird's Nest", and everyone has deep attachment and persistent love for his birthplace. A person drinking water from his hometown, eating food from his hometown, and growing up a little under the eyes of the villagers; I got to know the first word in the primary school in my hometown, read the first book, and gradually got to know and enter this mysterious and vast world from the muddy path in my hometown. Love for hometown naturally grows in the depths of the soul in this process, and has a deep foundation that no emotion can match.
I have lived in my hometown for 18 years, and I am familiar with every road in the village and the customs of every family.
Nostalgia is always inseparable from the memory of teenagers, and what I saw and heard at that time left the deepest imprint on my mind. I remember that summer is the happiest time for children. During the summer vacation, we bathe in the river almost every day at noon.
Enough fun, let's go fishing in the river. A few friends walked slowly in the water with a cat tied to their waist, squeezed the fish into a place where there were weeds by the river, surrounded them, and when they felt the weeds moving, they could catch one or two crucian carp with their hands folded. Sometimes one can touch eight or nine at noon. After taking it home, my mother fried the fish brown in a pan, which tasted particularly delicious. When I was in middle school, although the tuition was not high, many children still couldn't afford to go to school. As the saying goes, the children of poor families are in charge early. I am very sensible and can understand my parents' hardships. Listen carefully at school during the day and regard knowledge as a crop that should be harvested carefully. After school and holidays, I help adults to work, pull soil and accumulate fertilizer, hold firewood, watch writing homework under kerosene lamps at night, preview homework, turn sweet potato seedlings in the fields in summer vacation, pick up wheat ears in the fields during wheat breaks, and experience the vast fields all year round.
On a cold winter day, I left my hometown. The brigade secretary and militia battalion commander took the villagers, put on big red flowers for me, and beat gongs and drums to see me off-I'm going to the army. My eyes blurred when my relatives urged me to leave the village. My heart is full of nostalgia for the countryside, villagers, especially my parents, and full of expectations for the army and the future. From then on, I really understood the importance of the countryside to my life and found that homesickness was so hard to give up.
In the army, I turned my yearning for my hometown into a kind of motivation. I work hard and study hard. I grew up from a farm boy to an army cadre. The first time I went to my home was one summer after four years. On the day I went home, I wore a neat green military uniform and carried a green satchel, walking on a country road. When we got home, from a distance, the villagers were harvesting rape in the field when someone shouted, "Who do you think that is?" That night, the villagers came to see me in small groups with eggs and peanuts in their pockets. There are three tables of banquets at home, which are as lively as a holiday. After my parents ran happily, the room was crowded with people. I offer cigarettes and wine to adults and sugar and shells to children. The villagers asked questions one after another. They are very envious of me, a soldier who came back from the front line of the self-defense counterattack against Vietnam. I deeply realized the simple and sincere feelings of the villagers.
I went to work and live in the city after I transferred from the army. For more than 30 years, I have spent more time in the city than in my hometown. My wife and children have long been "assimilated" by the city and lost their true colors in the countryside. But the years of 18 really float in my heart. Every time I go back to my hometown, I will still be moved when I see the village from afar.
There are simple homesickness, intoxicating local accent, faint homesickness and earthy fragrance, spring buds, summer buds, autumn dew, winter frost, my shy first love and secret love that I have always treasured in my heart.
Nowadays, the small village has changed its face and is very lively. People come and go, grinding, welding and selling rice. The roads in the village are paved with cement. In villagers' homes, motorcycles and cars have replaced the original bicycles and shelf cars. Modern household appliances such as mobile phones, washing machines, televisions and computers have become daily necessities, and every household uses tap water. The brick arch bridge that has written all the vicissitudes of life is dead. A reinforced concrete bridge stands on the river, and the township road passes through the village. The villagers' dreams extend to the outside world along the straight road, working in factories, opening stores in cities, transporting by car, taking money back to the village and marrying girls outside.
Years brew the wine of memory, and time precipitates nostalgia. If you always taste one product, the simple and sincere nostalgia and civilian complex will remain unchanged.