My father's poems and distant essays, my father is a great man in this world, so there are many articles describing my father on the Internet. Every father had his own dreams when he was young, as well as poems and distant essays. Let's share his poems and distant essays.
My father's poems and distant essays 1 I went back to my hometown in recent weeks, emptied my nephew's exercise books and books in junior and senior high schools and sold them one after another. Dad stopped in distress: books can't be sold.
My father is over seventy years old, and he is an out-and-out farmer. He went to primary school as a child and dropped out of school later in the first year. It is said that you study in the morning and work in the afternoon. Nevertheless, the father who likes reading is "knowledgeable" in the production team, especially playing abacus well.
The neighbor bought a new type of pesticide, so please read the instructions before using it. The pig at home is sick, so I want to come and ask my father for an idea. There are many calculations at home, and I always ask my father to type them again. Dad is not feeling well, so teach his mother to shave him. My brother and I have a fever, and my mother will give us moxibustion eggs.
I didn't know where these methods came from before, but I didn't know until I started reading some Chinese medicine books recently. When I was a teenager, I saw some strange books, such as Calendar, which I also read. They have some such knowledge. I thought it was all made up. Now I know that these are actually folk remedies and earthwork in Chinese medicine, and they are the methods accumulated and passed down by working people in past dynasties.
As children, the greatest advantage of my brother and I is that we had the opportunity to listen to my father's story from time to time in the 1980s. At that time, my brother had already gone to school, and I was still alone in my eyes.
On rainy days in slack seasons, my father likes to lie on the sofa and read books and newspapers. The newspaper is an old newspaper taken by the brigade, and the book is bought by ourselves. In that poor age, I was complained by my mother every time.
What I remember clearly is Shan Hai Jing. I will sit on my father's stomach and pester him to tell the story inside. Perhaps for this reason, my brother and I like reading very much. Story Club is the one that was read the most earlier. Later, my brother's "Middle School Students' World" was released. I want to read every book, just as I am looking forward to following the drama today.
However, my father never thought that it was because of his influence. He once said: books can't be sold, otherwise books can't be read. So my brother and I still have books from elementary school to junior high school every year, and the papers turn yellow. They should be in the mezzanine of the old building now.
I once believed this statement when I was still studying, but I didn't go into the source of my father's statement. When I was older, I thought it was because my father wanted us to study hard.
Until more than two years ago, I read an article in The Reader (I can't remember the specific topic), which said that the ancient people looked down on books, so they respected the literati, and then they were in awe of the written paper, as if there was a rule that they could not burn the written paper at will. It suddenly dawned on me that my father's statement was well-founded. In the final analysis, it was a manifestation of reverence for words and knowledge. Dad can't say such profound things, but he is the god of truth.
Because of this teaching, we all like to buy books at home and have no habit of throwing them away. There are many old newspapers and books at home. Every time I clean the house before Chinese New Year, my mother often complains. After graduating from high school, my nephew brought home several big bags of books and exercise books and piled them in the corner of the room.
Since last year, the government has vigorously promoted garbage sorting, and every community has cars to recycle garbage regularly. I asked my children to sort out the books that graduated from junior high school, leaving a few valuable and memorable ones, and cleaning up the rest.
Without him, because the apartment is not big enough, there are not enough cabinets, textbooks will be adapted every few years, and online reading is so developed, so there are so many exercise books that there is no need and value to keep them.
When I got home, I saw a pile of old books and papers in my nephew's room, so I cleaned them up one by one, and most of them were cleaned up. Seeing my father's performance, I feel that I should either move back the readers I have accumulated at home for several years to him.
Thinking that I was no longer at leisure when I was young, I worked in a factory in a town not far away every day. When he comes back from work, he catches aquatic plants to feed ducks and chickens, and he also cooks dinner for his later working mother. He is very busy. Considering his age, the farmer's father has no time and vision to read books and newspapers.
I once heard my mother say that my father loves to watch the program "Home Far away" and often explains it to my mother while watching it. So in dad's mind, life is really not just the present, but also poetry and distance.
Father's Poetry and Distant Prose 2 Father's Distant Prose
Father, 69 years old, is nearly old. He continued the traditional life of generations who worked at sunrise and rested at sunset. He has been working hard in the land where he was born and raised, and has never left.
My parents died when my father was very young. Without parents, my father and his six brothers and sisters had to come to live with my uncle and aunt, and my father's primary school had to be interrupted for less than two years.
Later, my father's youngest brother was adopted by his relatives who worked as a worker in a mine more than 0/00 miles away from home. That day, my father watched his relatives leave the village step by step, holding his younger brother's hand and slowly walking away. Father's eyes were also pulled far away.
The closest my father was to a distant place in my life was when he was young. At that time, it was the most glorious time to be a soldier. The troops came to inspect the area. My father, just in his early twenties, secretly applied for a job without telling his uncle and aunt, and even got in.
On the day of the notice, I looked at my uncle's girls, big and small, and then looked at the endless farmland outside the house. Father silently shouldered his hoe and went to the field. When a hoe goes down, it makes a deep hole. Father was very helpless, and buried his dream with his longing for the distance.
At that time, a rural labor force could earn a lot of work points and support several people.
The father who stayed behind helped my uncle grow crops with his brothers. This kind is over 60 years old.
Father's crops are famous in the village. When he is free, his father will go to the fields to take care of his crops carefully. Tidying up fields, fertilizing plows, sowing and harvesting, year after year, crop after crop, my father planted dreams on this land with a hoe, harvested hope with a sickle, and also harvested life.
In my memory, my father always gets up early every day. After sorting out the farm tools to be used, my father will go outside and wait for the East to turn white in the twinkling of stars. At this time, my father's eyes always look into the distance, as if he saw something through the darkness before dawn. At this time, neither our mother nor we know what dad is looking at.
My father doesn't like staying indoors when he is not busy. He always walks on the ridge with a big shovel to patch up leaks and pull weeds. More often, he does nothing, just strolls around piece by piece, watching the crops grow slowly.
When I was a child, I especially liked watching my father grow rice buds. Before planting rice buds, my father smoothed the rice buds like a mirror with a shovel. After planting rice buds, rice buds and insect crawling traces in the rice bud field will form a beautiful abstract painting.
Before planting rice buds every year, my father will classify rice seeds one by one so that there are no impurities in the seeds. After selecting the seeds, my father will put the rice seeds in snakeskin bags, tie the bag mouth tightly with hemp rope and soak the bag directly in the ditch. One end of the rope is tied to the trunk. Soaked rice buds must be covered with straw to germinate. In those days, my father would often open the straw to see how the rice seeds germinated, feel the temperature of the rice seeds and see the length of the rice buds. Father takes good care of those rice buds like his own children.
Finally, the rice buds can go to the fields. After sowing the seeds, my father will plant twigs around the rice field, pull them around with a rope and tie unwanted pieces of cloth on the rope. As soon as a bird flies down, dad shakes the rope to drive it away!
Sometimes my father would tie the cloth to a long wooden stick and let me sit by the field after school, so as not to let the chickens at home come near, so as not to trample those seedlings. When my father is away, I will take off my shoes and step on the soft soil in the field, adding a touch to this abstract painting with my little feet. The water in the rice field is a little cold, but the soil exposed to the water is very warm by the sun. As soon as I step on it, soft mud will squeeze out from my feet to cover my feet, and the soles of my feet will itch to have a few rice buds. I still clearly remember that warm feeling.
Found my naughty, my father will change the former gentleness, frown and pull me up from the field, take my arm home, throw it in front of my mother, and then turn into the field without saying a word to smooth out the footprints I stepped on.
Mother watched her father bend down at the edge of the field and carefully flatten the footprints, saying, "It's a pity that your feet are small. You know, that footprint is just a bunch of seedlings and a bundle of rice. Don't underestimate those grains of rice. Not only the meal for the whole family, but also your tuition. "
When my sister reached school age and needed to register her scientific name, my mother looked at the swallow on the beam and said, "Just call it swallow, little swallow!" " "My father also glanced at Xiaoyan flying around the house and said," Call a goose! Goose! " After that, I pulled my sister out of the room and taught her to write a line of "goose" on the dusty ground.
Swallow knew the ambition of a swan, and when he grew up, he suddenly understood his father's monograph on seedlings and buds and his devotion to crops, which was almost totem worship.
In my father's heart, my sister and I hold on to his hope just like seedlings.
At that time, the countryside was very poor, and most of the children in the village dropped out of school after a few years of schooling. Boys help with farm work and bring home the bacon, while girls help with housework and wait to get married. My sister and I are both studying in the same village, and there are not many families.
Father doesn't like to talk much or scold us at ordinary times. Even if we did something wrong, he just raised his voice and told us how to behave. The only thing that can make my father angry is that we say we don't want to go to school. For whatever reason, the sky won't fall!
My father has a huqin, but I don't think I have seen him play it in my memory. Maybe he was too young to remember, and he didn't ask where it came from, but he clearly remembered the action of lighting rosin and carefully dropping rosin on the barrel, very carefully and seriously, just like holding a work of art in his hand. And most of the time, the piano just hangs on the east wall, and the wall is full of plows, rakes, shovels and many other farm tools. The Hu Qin on the wall looks so different. The string, bow and body are hung in a cross shape. It always feels like a bird, a bird that just wants to fly.
Father seldom expressed his regret that he could not continue to go to school as a soldier. Only once, when I failed in the first year of college entrance examination, I gritted my teeth and vowed not to repeat the same mistakes. At this time, my father was walking to the bus with vegetables, saying, "If your father had left early, he would not have been able to go to school and become a soldier. I wouldn't be like this. If I don't study, you will be sorry for the food! " After that, I pushed the car to the market to sell food.
So, holding the money to sell grain in his hand, he went to the county to re-read.
When I was in college, my sister was in high school, my brother was in junior high school and my brother was in primary school. At that time, people in neighboring villages chatted and mentioned that my family would use "Oh, you mean the man with four children at school" instead of my father's name.
At the same time, four children go to school. No matter how busy and hard my father is, the fields he grows are not enough to pay his tuition. So in his spare time, his father followed the construction team to the village to be a bricklayer. It is said that my father's bricklaying is as good as planting crops, and his father's wall is straight, strong and beautiful.
In this way, my father, whose legs were covered with mud, trained our brothers and sisters one by one with his hands calloused by bricks and sent them out of the village to distant places beyond his reach.
When I came home that day, my mother said, "Since your brother left, your uncle has spent more time watching the sky every morning." "Don't work in the construction group, and don't farm. Come with us! " I consult with my parents. "That how line! What to eat without farming? If you don't farm, what do you city people eat? " Father flatly refused.
This is the father, who has been giving all his life, but he is old and ashamed to take it.
Now, my father is still planting more than ten acres of land, and he goes out to work with a group of strong men from the construction team in his spare time. When my father is tired of building a wall, he will stand on the scaffold and look into the distance. It was once my father's dream. Now, it is he who cares about his children.
The father standing in his hometown is more like a crop, with his roots firmly rooted in the soil and his ears pointing away.