Leaves not only give us the colors of the four seasons, but also give us road signs of spring, summer, autumn and winter. Every time after the frost and dew, leaves dance and fall gracefully. It is this small fallen leaf that not only writes the four seasons for us, but also provides us with a place to keep warm from the cold. It can be seen that leaves have too many uses.
In spring, it brings us hope; Summer brings us a green shade; In autumn, golden leaves hang in the stars, blue sky and white clouds, bringing us maple leaf feelings and harvesting fruits; In winter, pick up a fallen leaf and cover it on my mother's vegetable cellar to look after some rare potatoes for us.
Winter is coming, we cover the vegetable cellar with leaves, so that people can trample on the leaves again and again, for fear that the cold will freeze our precious potatoes, which are our family's rations. In spring and winter festivals, the whole family lives on this potato.
Because every household needs leaves, when the production team was in place, the forest ranger had already separated everyone according to their population accounts, and each household had several rows of trees, so that everyone would not fight.
At that time, I was still young, holding leaves in the Woods about five or six miles away from home with my parents and sisters.
Every time the first frost is knotted, it is the late autumn with fallen leaves. We set out early in the morning, stayed in the Woods, cleaned up the fallen leaves on the ground, bent down and picked them up with a rake, piled them into hills and pressed them with shelves or sacks. In the autumn wind, until evening, piles of leaves piled up.
At night, the moonlight spreads all over the forest like a sieve, and we are going to carry the light leaves on our backs. Shuttling through a big, big forest, I always get lost accidentally. Follow my parents and sisters, hug a piece of Jin Yezi, chew some steamed buns when you are hungry, and drink a glass of spring water when you are thirsty. The rake for catching leaves is made of bamboo or red willow. Pick up the fallen leaves one by one with a hard rake, and gently gather them together. Pieces, piles, like ripe fruit.
But at night, the vast forest is also scary, except for the golden leaves in the forest, the broken moonlight and the inescapable jack-o'-lantern. Sparse leaves hang on the trees, on the moon, flapping branches with the wind, and shivering leaves keep telling in the autumn wind.
The hardest thing is to find a way to carry the leaves together home. The ingenious man made up a big basket to hold leaves. The tall basket is as tall as my thin self.
Leaves that look light are also heavy on your back. Adults who eat potatoes and eggs lead dolls like me to the door step by step in the moonlight. Holding leaves is to hold the leaves together with a rake and pile them into small "hills". Finally, put them into a basket made of locust trees or red willow branches with both hands, and step on the leaves with your feet while loading them, so that you can hold more. There are two back ropes woven with branches on the basket, much like the shoulders now. When carrying, people must kneel down and have a companion to help lift the basket before they can stand up.
When you get to the dug vegetable cellar, cover the leaves on the vegetable cellar where the potatoes are placed. Those expensive potatoes are not enough for a basket of leaves or a bag. In the moonlight, I ran to the Woods four or five miles away several times and carried it back again and again. People who don't have a frame weave baskets with sacks or local materials and treetops. Our younger children carry those little baskets on their backs. Stumbling step by step between the Woods and the vegetable cellar with leaves on his back.
However, in the vast forest, at night, the moonlight is cold. In the cold and paraquat season, in the forest behind the first frost, I walked back with a leaf on my back. A few stubborn leaves hung sparsely on the treetops, shivering in the cold wind, making a rustling sound, listening to the rhythm stepped under our feet, which scared me.
Because when I was a child, I once saw wolves. According to my mother, there is a little grandfather in our village who hung his one and a half-year-old grandfather in the cradle of a tree when his mother went to vegetable fields to pick beans. As a result, the wolf took him away on the way back from the bean.
Later, in the late 1960s, there was a stone field in the village, and there were frequent gun battles. The wolves in the ravine had nowhere to hide. Our sheepfold is often harassed by wolves. Once ran into our sheepfold in the middle of the night, the wolf bit a sheep and dragged it away. My dad got up in the middle of the night and beat it away Finally, I watched it through the glass window and watched it escape from the wall.
When I was a child, I was really afraid of wolves and jack-o'-lantern, but I often met jack-o'-lantern occasionally. I once saw a wolf on my way to school. He goes his way and I go mine. Although I am scared, I am safe. So at night, I'm afraid of wolves and jack-o'-lantern.
The Woods are surrounded by mountains and waters with leaves on their backs. What if there is a wolf running from the mountain in the Woods? So I put the leaves on my back and followed my father and sisters closely with a rake, never leaving. Every strange sound or fire can trigger my extremely sensitive nerves.
Once, my father walked with heavy leaves on his back. He was tired, so he found a stump to rest. When I helped my father carry the basket, I heard a strange cry, which scared me into a cold sweat. Later, my father told me that it was the cry of an owl, which sounded very worrying. Following my father, my tense heart eased, and then I followed my father step by step to go home.
After a hard day's work, the family was relieved and covered the leaves at the mouth and top of the pit one by one, with a thickness of nearly one meter. Looking up at the sky, the moon has shifted, and I can safely eat the boiled potato porridge that my mother has already prepared.
I remember that potato cellar. It was very big. In winter and the following spring, there are no edible vegetables except potatoes and sauerkraut. Potatoes are the most precious food in those years.
In spring, the weather is warm, and the leaves covered on the vegetable cellar are a little black and soft. Open it to dry. It's mom's favorite firewood for cooking in spring. It needs a spring to burn. Only in this way can we accomplish all the missions entrusted to us by the leaves, live up to the gifts of the leaves, keep the leaves from being wasted in the next life, and realize all the beliefs of the leaves throughout their lives.
I can't forget the days when I held leaves with my parents and sisters. Now I look at the broken moonlight under my feet, shining all kinds of leaves. I really want to pack up and go home. However, there are leaves on my back, and I don't know where to go in the moonlight.
Now, no one cleans the leaves, but it worries me. Maybe people won't need a few potatoes then.
Leaves bring me too many memories. Apart from a love letter to the years and a wonderful pen depicting the four seasons, leaves also contain the footprints of our childhood and keep our precious lives.
Holding leaves was something my father and I used to do when I was a child. Now, many of the businesses I did when I was a child are gone, and those who hold leaves and collect firewood are gone. That frosty memory became a familiar season and a familiar life when I was a child.
Leaves not only write the four seasons, but also write the annual rings, life, century and years. I often pass by the grove at the door and look at the familiar leaves, as if I were looking at my familiar relatives, as if I were looking at my parents' familiar back, as if I were looking at that unforgettable time.
About the author: Lu Youcheng, pen name: Hippophae rhamnoides, from Helinger County, Inner Mongolia,1born in February 1963, graduated from North China Electric Power University 1984, and is a senior engineer. He has written more than 30 academic papers and obtained many scientific and technological achievements and patented technologies. I like writing poems after my major. Member of the Western Prose Society, director of Young Writers. Articles appear on literary platforms and magazines. I hope to write a family history of childhood with prose and poetry, and make a little noise so that everyone can hear the distant local accent.
Focus on local literature and welcome readers to contribute. Email: 23885800@qq com.
2020 issue 1 1 (total issue 1 1)