Text: Chuxi Qingliu
Picture: Source Network
Returning to my hometown for the holidays, I accidentally walked into the old house where I once lived. Although the scene in front of me is a bit dilapidated and messy, the familiar bricks and tiles, windows and lattice, columns and citrons instantly bring me back to nostalgic memories. The past mental journey, the past brotherhood, the watchfulness of the fathers, the dreams of the wanderers, the emotions and struggles, the gatherings and separations, paint a beautiful and sad touching picture of the bitter era.
The old house in my hometown is located on the other side of the river. It is a south-facing bungalow with red bricks and blue tiles. The layout of four main rooms and one wing room is an extravagance of the dreamlike architectural ideas of our fathers. The old house does not have the majesty of urban architecture, nor the elegance of garden architecture. It is just a very ordinary rural house. Although there is only one floor, it is very ordinary and even a bit rustic. However, she is confidently embedded in the land of her hometown, like a sleeping old man, enjoying the precious time in her life.
The old house is surrounded by trees. Paulownia, neem trees, and willows are scattered and graceful. The two pear trees hugging each other are even more graceful and eye-catching. In the spring of March, the breeze blows gently, and the branches are covered with white pear blossoms, exuding fragrance. The lush trees are full of vitality among the dancing pear blossoms, with swaying branches and shadows. In the early morning, the old house was awakened by birds singing spring on the branches. She opened the ancient wooden door, welcomed the bright spring light, and cultivated green hope.
Occasionally, a pattering of spring rain drifted across the sky, disturbing the greenery and making a rustling sound. The graceful pear blossoms fluttered in the wind and fell into mud. The rain beats on the brick walls of the old house, floats on the roof, and pours water columns along the eaves. Year after year, a long puddle drips out of the ground, but the old house remains calm and calm, and does not bend when the wind blows. Rain without being corroded. She used her majestic body to protect me from the wind and rain, weathered the wind and rain without any regrets, and endured the weight of ice and snow without trembling. Whenever summer nights come, the old house under the moonlight opens every door and window, casting a ray of light into the dull mood; whenever autumn comes and winter comes, the old house in the evening breeze is like a gentle elder, Open your arms and warm your family members who are traveling together.
The old house is my father’s responsibility and a monument built by my father’s hard work. In the years when hunger and fanaticism intertwined, my father traveled through the streets and alleys of his hometown and the markets in Zhuangtai. A pair of peddler's shoulders and a drum drum carry all the hopes of our family's survival. My father often carried me on one end and goods such as maltose, needles, threads, and brains on the other. He would get up early and work hard at night, rain or shine, hawking all the way. If your shoulder is frayed, put a towel on it; if your foot is frayed, tie it with a piece of gauze. However, how difficult is the pursuit of survival! Even a salesman cannot escape the fate of having his tail cut off, and his dream of living in a foreign country is shattered in an instant. At that moment, my father, who had left his hometown, returned to his hometown in the biting cold wind. The grievances of being a stranger in a foreign land, the desolation of being in a foreign land, and the despair of survival hit his heart. When he looked back and said goodbye, his face was filled with tears.
However, the strong father did not succumb to the difficulties of life, and building a settlement in his hometown became his obsession. For this obsession, he devoted all his prime years. At that time, my father did all kinds of manual work. He is proficient in everything from plowing roots to planting trees, sawing wood to length, soaking wood to shape, hanging wires to build walls, and laying tiles to lay down ridges. Every straight beam and column in the old house is a masterpiece made by my father's sweat; every solid brick and tile is a masterpiece carefully conceived by my father. The brick walls were stone walls built by my father's hard work.
It took my father more than two months to build the old house. Occasionally, there were a few small workers who helped, which were also the labor of my father's replacement. Decades have passed, and Laowu has appreciated his father's ingenuity and wisdom as time passes. Although the beams and columns have lost some of their color over the years, they have not been corroded at all. Although the brick walls have been exposed to wind and rain and have grown a little moss, they are still straight and straight without any gaps. In the wind and rain, he is like a father who has experienced the vicissitudes of the world. Although his hair has turned into snow, he is still as upright as before. Although he is old, he is still generous and kind.
Old houses were born in an era of scarce resources. At that time, most rural areas were dominated by earthen houses, and it was rare to find a brick-burning kiln within a radius of dozens of kilometers. Building brick houses was a luxury for farmers. It was my sister who sacrificed her youth and worked hard to realize the dream of a tile-roofed house for the whole family. That year, my sister, who was less than 19 years old, got up early and stayed late at night, rushing between the kiln factory and her home more than ten miles away every day. Like the male workers in the factory, she pushed carts to carry bricks, carried water out of the kiln, piled soil and stacked piles, and she was never far behind in everything. The scorching sun has tanned my sister's face, the red bricks have worn out my sister's hands, and the strong physical strength has weakened my sister's originally not strong body, but my sister is still working so hard and persisting, as if she doesn't know fatigue, hunger, or hunger. Cherish your youth.
My sister exchanged her youth for the main building materials of the old house, and also made the family's dream of living in a tile-roofed house a reality. Nowadays, every turn and tile of the old house is still clear-cut and not lonely at all. They will always be engraved in my mind, just like my sister's thin body, haggard and dark face, and long, messy hair.
——That is the youth and youth that my sister dedicated in the era when she started to recover. It is the song of youth that my sister composed for the old house with her sweat.
In fact, the time I spent with my old house day and night was not very long. Although it was short-lived, it was the starting point of my life.
In the years of youth, I stayed in the old house, watching for the everlasting rural feelings, and watching for the young dream of walking out of the farm gate and heading towards the road. There is no six-stringed piano, no white shirts, and no romantic candlelight dinners. What accompanies youth is the sound of reading from the old house. A small square table is filled with my life ideals that I strive for; a kerosene lamp lights up my difficult and tortuous life path and leads me to a beautiful world full of sunshine.
Knowledge changes destiny, and also changes my relationship with the old house. Maybe fate has destined me to be a wanderer, and I can only be separated from my old house. The years of being together less and being apart more often make me miss the dependence under the roof even more, and I am even more unforgettable about the flesh-and-blood love in my life. I remember the year I took the exam to study abroad, my mother packed my luggage and kept telling me this and that. When she was leaving, she had tears in her eyes and was so affectionate that she couldn't leave her. After repeated consolations from me and my father who sent me off, she reluctantly said goodbye to us. As I walked on the path in my hometown, the cicadas screamed shrilly in the afternoon, and the fragrance of the earth hit my face. A feeling of loss and helplessness arose spontaneously. Looking back at the old house that is getting further away, it is lonely and desolate. My mother’s figure standing in front of the door is thin and blurry. Subconsciously, my mother and I kept waving and waving.
This is the first time for me to leave my old house and say goodbye to my relatives. When we see each other again, we always go in a hurry and get together briefly. However, the old house is home, a beacon for returning home, a destination for the soul and a place of peace of mind. My mother's thin and blurry figure is always fixed in my dreams, as if she is constantly calling to the wandering wanderer, calling me to return to my old house, calling me to come home for reunion. This call is like an urging drum horn, which keeps me awake at night and makes me want to return home.
Pack up your bags and return to your hometown, back to your mother’s busy old house. Every time, the first person I see is almost always my mother. She always prepares meals in advance, waits at the door, helps me unload my luggage, and keeps asking about my welfare. Her words are full of care and worry. Because of my mother, the home is full of warmth; because of my mother, the old house is full of affection; because of my mother, the road home is as fast as flying. Drink a bowl of water from your hometown, eat a bowl of egg noodles made by your mother, and feel your mother's affection. The spotless room and clean bed further reflected the mother's sincere feelings for her son to come home. But now things and people have changed, yin and yang are separated, and the vague and thin figure of my mother can only be seen in dreams; my mother's cordial greetings and affectionate complaints have become eternal in my memory.
Farewell mother! Goodbye old house!
The night is quiet and the moonlight is hazy. It’s been nearly forty years since I first met her and I said goodbye to my old house. Forty years of great changes, forty years of true love protection, the years have aged my father's face, and time has constantly refreshed long-standing memories. Years go by, but feelings remain the same. The mottled brick walls and faded wooden beams of the old house have witnessed the changes of the times, leading me to the dreamlike and poetic feelings of my hometown, leading me to the aesthetic realm of kindness, integrity, and benevolence.
Now, the old house has become a storage space. The messy debris and disrepaired paths indicate that the old house will soon complete its mission. Either become a ruin; or become a pile of abandoned soil. However, in my heart, the old house will always be a beautiful yet desolate rural story. Maybe I will never be able to integrate into the hustle and bustle of the city, but what I will never forget are the rich sincere emotions and profound feelings of life in the old house.
On the streets lined with high-rise buildings in the city, it is the old houses in my hometown that evoke my happy memories; in the howling autumn wind in a foreign land, it is the old houses in my hometown that bring me a touch of nostalgia!