Standing on the bright teaching building in the city, the rural campus is getting farther and farther away from me. Sometimes, from a distance, I only touch a wisp of exquisite bells and a dark and silent red wall.
It has been almost ten years since I left that middle school, and I thought I had become a brick in this city. That morning, the wind from the south knocked on my window. This sound is familiar to me. Standing outside the single dormitory is the old headmaster. The campus still remembers me. I still remember the bird flying in the city when Qiu Lai practiced its wings in the countryside in winter. I haven't been back for a long time to see the responsible field that once belonged to me.
That middle school is spacious on one side and green on three sides. Seen from a distance, it is a huge and ruddy fruit with many crops on its head. I know its weight, and I can count the sunshine in it. In just a few rows of bungalows, the potential of the land has been brought into full play. The brothers planted saplings, devoted their efforts and left. Not far away, many farm tools are calling them! What they did was the biggest thing left for me.
There is also a collection of poems, and the old headmaster introduced me to various crops. Wheat bowed to me and sorghum blushed. I remembered their names one by one and the numbers that touched my heart. Sweet potato who likes to sleep late, millet who is praised for being modest, and cotton covered with cloth and white cleaning, I talk to them in rich sign language. The campus in front of us is an open collection of local poetry, and purple morning glory is embroidered with exquisite illustrations. What a big page! Rows of poplars stand upright on a yellow background. At this time, a bird song is the most beautiful reading. At that moment, my collection of poems fell to the ground.
The old clock hanging between two poplars makes the campus magnetic, absorbs sunlight, flowers and frogs, and becomes the sound of reading. So I went deep into the crops to see their growth. Sweet potato is distracted again. It's not good to grow into a long melon vine, which will affect the quality of life. I caressed his eyes to remind him to focus on the following. There are a lot of organic fertilizers in the following books, which will ensure his legs and feet are strong. On rainy days, corn sometimes tilts. I tugged at her green skirt, straightened her sitting posture, and told her to grow up all the time, stay close to the sunshine, and grow into a slim girl, so as to reap a golden harvest. That old clock records the ancient years with deep vigor, and my crops sing brilliant life with green and gold. I like this quaint campus. I lead my crops into autumn.
My classroom and my brothers' fields are so interdependent, as if I live on a heated kang, I am on the kang, and my brothers are caring for me. So I can't find a rule to separate their crops from my students. I contracted the responsibility field of rural campus. At night, the machine was singing folk songs not far away, and when my father and brother's crops were drinking nectar, a bean candle lit up my lesson plan. Chinese characters flashed orange and turned into small fireflies. I saw the dream color of my crops. The dream of soybean is soaring, the dream of sorghum is red and purple, and cotton. She dreamed of white clouds!
They are all harvested on the same land. My little achievements and progress in crops have made my brothers and sisters so happy and excited. Throughout the year, distant relatives and neighbors sit around a table, and the family drinks an extra pot of hot soju, just because the granddaughter wears small red flowers, and the bronze joy jumps on the face full of gullies; Several dishes in that family are surrounded by a braised carp. As soon as I entered the room, my son's certificate was hung in the most conspicuous place on the east wall, showing off the harvest of a year in red, and the whole room lit up. Without the sweat of my fathers and brothers, the fields I am responsible for will not be harvested; My harvest reserves more strength for their high yield.
I left this land after all. I still remember that I started by ringing that old clock. My right hand trembled. My left arm hangs straight and my eyes are high. I'm ringing the bell. It's beautiful and lyrical. This is the rhythm of the earth. At that time, there was only one feeling in my heart: the sky above my head was so high and the ground under my feet was so thick. At that moment, through a meaningful hemp rope, Lao Zhong taught me ten years of internal strength.
sound
Several blue brick houses are located in a small valley, surrounded by some 10 years old trees. As soon as the book rang, it was like an ancient poem: there was an oriole singing in the tree.
With a squeak, the classroom door rang. It is my teacher. We like to listen to her read aloud the text: "In spring, fruit trees blossom. Pears and apples are in full bloom. Our village has become a garden. " Her voice was soft, fragrant and warm. All the young trees pricked up their ears, and the frogs in the pond outside the school gate rang.
The campus is not big, and the square wall holds up a corner of the blue sky. Nature is a forever road in the middle, a playground in the east and a flower bed in the west. The teacher brought roses from home and buried the flowerpot in the soil. The teacher said it would become a flower bed rose when it grew up. How to change it? Cut off its branches, plug them in, and you will live. This is the new rose. It's a playground, but it's actually a small clearing. Girls kick shuttlecock, and most of us boys play a game of "jumping long": jumping in place and jumping three feet high. A little dangerous. Later, we made an invention. Two people took off at low altitude hand in hand with rhythm. A group of people lined up, put their hands on the shoulders of the students in front, and danced briskly together, which looked like popular aerobics or group dance. The roses in the west are also dancing in the breeze, and the leaves jump into a group of bright birds in the sun. -What a wonderful time.
When we went to physical education class, our teacher led us to climb the mountain. A little tired, the teacher asked us to sit on the stone and listen to her story. Stories often end with "Let's go back to class". She is talking about the classroom. We all regard the whole mountain as a campus. One day, her voice was a little hoarse, just like a painter's dry pen. According to adults, when the village head went to school to see dangerous houses, he took a fancy to our teacher and threatened her to be the village head's daughter-in-law. As long as she agrees, she will work in the city, otherwise, she will not be paid. During that time, we often stared at her back and lost in thought. Her two braids, swinging from side to side, will fly away like swallows? The students who were late also came early, and the disruptive children were more obedient than anyone else. We cleaned the campus thoroughly. The teacher finally chose us. But many unknown difficulties, such as messy hair, were woven into braided hair by her.
That summer, when it was windy, the windows of the classroom jingled. It rained and the Panshan Highway became a water snake. The venom soaked between the lips and teeth knocked down some delicate bodies at once. My teacher, still swinging her smart braid, took the film, bought nails, carried a hammer and nailed the window tightly.
Life in the mountains is like this. It rained, the pond on campus was full, and then frogs sang together-
"In autumn, the fruit is ripe. Pears are ripe, so are apples. Our village has become an orchard. "
If there were no towns,
1in the autumn of 987, my father took me to a normal school in a small town with a schoolbag on his back. The situation is very similar to the autumn harvest in the countryside. My father hung the big and full corn on the trees on both sides of the gate, and the rest were spread out in the yard. I am an only child, and my father works hard for my education.
I remember that the road in the town is very wide, the sky is very small, and there are trees on both sides of the road. Later, I learned that it was a French phoenix tree, because a poem-even the phoenix tree speaks elegant French. At that time, I was covered with scars, like cotton ravaged by cotton bollworm; Looking again, there is no corn on the tree, and there can be no corn. My body immediately hung on the whistle in the town.
I still remember that as soon as I entered school, the school emphasized that everyone should have special skills. I can't play, I can't play, I can't sing, I can't play Van Gogh Miller, I can only read and write. My composition was read by my class teacher in primary school. My father told me that the grass will still be grass in the next year, and the young trees may grow into big trees. When I was reading a book, I had an illusion. I thought I was walking barefoot on the soft ridge, and my father shouted by the river: Where is the water going? Here it is! Here, where I stand. I heard the sound of water inside the plants. I started crossing the zebra crossing in a small town as a countryman. I jumped lightly and met the poem.
I am the only countryman who writes poetry in a small town. My hometown is the nearest language to me. The wind in the town is very low. The town is only separated from the countryside by a fence. Often on weekends, I will take a book to the mountain east of the town for a date. In front of my eyes, it is a village surrounded by light smoke, like some cabbages in a vegetable garden, while a small town looks like a wild chrysanthemum. Then there was a girl who painted. She paints mountains and trees as well as I do, and I paint mountains and trees as well as she does. Such a scene, we call it "poetic", and our days are "poetic". She has a deck of the world famous paintings's poker. When the two of us play, we are often reluctant to play cards, and study them tightly in our hands, like past lives's happiness.
Perhaps what I want to say most is that love gives me a sense of freshness. Love is the wind, sunshine, the streets of the town, the latest issue of poetry magazine, fresh, clean, bright and crystal-like color. She sat on the back frame of her bicycle and let me walk poetically through the monotonous buildings in the town. There is a surge of passion in my body. In the midday sun, I habitually narrowed my eyes. The world is narrow, but my heart is wide. In the dark, her name shone brightly on my pillow like a bright moonlight. She told me that during the summer vacation, she watched TV all day, and the tone of the hero's voice was really like yours, as low as a breeze blowing across the lake.
1990, not only the love song 1990 was popular, but also many stories rippled in this small town. One of my male classmates met a girl and got a haircut in the board room opposite the school. I went, and that girl was really beautiful. Her long hair is fluttering and has an elegant beauty. The scary thing is that there is a guitar hanging on the wall. The problem is that after a few steps, the hairstyle she blew me was blown in a mess by the realistic wind, so I had to comb it back by hand. Is this a metaphor?
The town doesn't grow crops, and the streets of buildings are just plain or grayish yellow. Out of school, I often go to a newspaper retail department. Renmin Road is a straight tree. It's a persimmon on the tree, a persimmon on the high ground. The literary periodicals there are as fresh as if their hands were dirty. I bought Poetry Magazine, Star Poetry Magazine and Poetry God and Poetry Newspaper. At that time, I couldn't understand some articles, just like persimmons just picked in my hometown, which had to be covered with urns for several days. The shopkeeper is a country woman. You can read books without buying them. She washes her own clothes and chooses her own vegetables to make a fire. Before you buy books, you should pass by an optical shop. The female boss is from Shaanxi, and we communicate in Mandarin: glasses, bright and beautiful. Her signboard is "Meiliang Optical Shop". It seems like a ritual to "light up" your eyes and read a book, just like washing your hands before burning incense, just like years later, you put on your tie and shoes and go on a serious blind date.
I'm beginning to like small towns. I like to make street lamps with loud charm for long streets, and I like the shallow and deep shadows under the street lamps. The vocabulary of a small town is still the same every day: cars, tall buildings and prices. But I'm after love, eternal love. Only through these three words, I can infer that Shi Shi is a woman, intelligent and witty, inclined to the streets. I'm madly in love. So that when I lost a true love, I still cling to poetry and warmth, and still maintain the characteristics of love. I speak in a low voice, my eyes are soft when I stare, and my steps are light when I walk. "Even if there is a biting cold wind on my face,/it should be your advice from afar." When I think of this sentence written in the past, my heart is full of endless happiness.
Small town, only * * *. It kept my love, and it was different.
Many years later, I returned to work in a small town. The board house near the school has long been demolished. At night, the karaoke bars emit scarlet light, and the city begins to have excess energy. The optical shop moved to the busy road and became the "Meiliang Optical City". The pavement of the newspaper retail department is still the same, and it has returned to the past in a trance. I bought all the expired literary periodicals in one breath and moved back, which made a room full of colleagues laugh and scream.
Out-of-date, worthless, discounted, you bought it at the original price? hahaha.
Now almost all cities have new districts, and small cities are no exception. I'm from the old district, and I'm obviously an out-of-date gray-yellow plain periodical. No, it should be a porcelain. The longer the time, the greater the value. Bright as ever.