An article about an old house

There was a prose reading on yesterday's test paper, and I think he is writing a complex of mine, which is recorded below. In a few days, there must be. In this life, no matter where you live, subconsciously, only returning to the old house in the country is called going home. My old house is an ordinary farmhouse built on the mountain, with blue tiles and Chinese fir doors and windows. Several rooms near the western end are still covered with straw, and the mountain wind is blowing, with a faint smell of grass clippings. The wear and tear of years is ruthless. Nowadays, the scale tiles in the old house are covered with moss, the dust on the yellow mud wall falls off, and the two slightly heavy doors are mottled with paint, bursting with deep and shallow cracks, like wrinkles all over the old man's forehead. Only the square columns made of blue bricks on the steps are still firmly resisting the beams under the eaves, tenaciously supporting its fragile whole body. I approached the old house silently. The old house is the home of the soul. When I finally lifted my foot into the threshold, a long-lost feeling came to my mind: I really got home. This old house is my father's masterpiece. When I was a child, I often heard from my father that he and his family were hoeing and breaking ground under the scorching sun, and the stars were driving firewood, bricks and sand all over the sky until the north wind roared in the severe winter, and after many twists and turns, they built their own nest like swallowing mud in spring. At that time, whenever relatives and friends came to the door, my father would happily pat the doors and windows, or point to the rafters and beams on the house and praise his house for its durability. On an autumn day in the 1970s, a photographer came to the village. His father, who usually doesn't like taking pictures, suddenly changed into his only Shilin blue tunic suit and took photos with his family in front of the old house. He said that a nest of gold and silver is not as good as his own kennel. I grew up in my own little nest and then left my hometown. Decades have passed, and things have changed in a blink of an eye. Grandma and dad went to another world, and my mother came to live with me in the city. The house has been entrusted to a distant relative. Late at night, relatives have fallen asleep. I sat alone in my room, with a solitary lamp and a shadow. The room was empty. At this moment, my loneliness is like a poem: half on the wall and half in my heart. There was silence outside the house except for a few dog barks in the distance. I stood up and looked out of the window, first quarter moon, thin. Maybe I have been separated from it for too long, and we are strangers to each other. It just showed half its face and hid in the thin clouds in the blink of an eye. It suddenly occurred to me that the moon at home didn't seem like this when I was a child. At that time, it followed me wherever I went. One summer night, grandma put me on the bed while I was enjoying the cool outside. The moon quietly followed me through the window and stroked my face. How long it has been with you is beyond telling. Grandma has been sitting by the bed fanning me, humming nursery rhymes: moonlight, night light, accompanying my darling Lang … I fell asleep in a daze. And that night, I couldn't sleep for a long time. The next morning, the sun just appeared, and the warm sunshine was projected on the roof of the old house, dyed into a familiar golden yellow. Under the eaves, several birds are shuttling. Suddenly, this group of deja vu creatures landed on the citrus tree in front of the house with a loud cry, chirping as if they were vying to tell me about the vicissitudes of the old house. Maybe I missed it so much at night that I put on my coat. It's like visiting an ancient building for the first time. I will walk around the house and have a look. I stopped in the East Wing for a long time. This used to be a cowshed with a yellow fish egg. At that time, cows were the treasure of cultivators. One year in the twelfth lunar month, the mountain was closed by heavy snow, and the yellow deer was sick with cold, so it was sleepy and didn't eat. It happened that there were several low thunders in the sky for no reason this winter. As a rural peasant proverb says, "When thunder strikes winter, the cowshed is empty." Father was anxious to stay by the cowshed all day, feeding medicine and grass. In the evening, he built a floor under the eaves outside the cowshed and waited on Huang Gui for the night. A few days later, the cow got well, but dad got sick. Later, the cowshed was changed into this wing, with plows, hoes, shovels, hemp fibers and hats. I reached out and touched a wooden plow that was still hanging on the wall. The bent handle of the plow has changed from orange to dark brown, and the shiny plowshares and plowshares are covered with ochre rust. In his father's mind, a yellow roe, a plow and three points per acre are the most sacred capital in his life. I wander around the old house, and every step is like bending down to pick up a childhood memory. The Old House is a great book full of affection and love. Open any page and you will find the warmth of the root of life.