The pond in the middle of the village is full of rain, and the water toad is desperately fighting for summer in the Liu Yin beside the pond. Village lanes, courtyards, stone roads and well platforms are all crowded with the cries of water toads.
Once I asked my grandfather, "When we arrived at Xiaoman, the water toad filled the pond like a lotus leaf. Where were they before Xiaoman? "
Grandfather said, "According to the festival, they crouch underground before stinging people. After the sting, they emerged from the soil and gave birth to many little toads. According to the old village proverb, mud gives birth to toads. The rain has fallen and the dust is mud. Mud gives birth to a toad, and it has been called in the mud pond for a summer. "
Mud toad is probably the creation of weak animals. As the village myth says, Nu Wa crushes people with mud. In Genesis of the East, more people believe that everything is created by soil. People are like this, not to mention toads!
After last autumn, the streams outside the village were not all streams. After a little rain, the streams were full. Many small fish with red wings are swimming in the stream. The stream overflowed the bank, and so did the red-winged fish, waving their red wings and tails in the willow grass.
There weren't so many small fish when the stream was shallow. I asked my grandfather, "Where did so many red-winged fish come from?"
Grandfather said, "It's grass seeds. As soon as the stream is full, the grass seeds on both sides fall into the stream and become small fish. Mud frogs give birth to fish, and the village has said it for hundreds of years and thousands of years. "
I said, "Grass seeds can't be turned into fish."
Grandfather said, "Yes. There is little rain in autumn and winter, and the spring pit on the top of the mountain dries up, and so do the small fish inside. When there is a lot of rain in spring and summer, the spring pit on the top of the mountain is full, and the small fish will return to the spring pit on the top of the mountain. Where did these fish come from? The grass seeds beside the spring pit fall into the spring and become small fish. "
It's a long time, but it's every year that mud frogs give birth to fish. So the vicissitudes of the village are mud frogs and fish. The time in the village is very short, as short as the life of a frog and a fish.
When Xiaoman rains in the morning, the light yellow wheat field is dyed deep yellow by the rain at night. Grandpa and I can walk out of the grass nest of quail by stepping on the ridge of wheat field. You can find five or six quail eggs by touching them in the grass nest. Grandfather said, "When the wheat is ripe, quails will come out of the nest. Put quail eggs in the nest. Are those six quails? "
I put quail eggs in the grass nest. Grandfather said, "After eating quail eggs, quails can't fly any more. The flightless quail is the poorest quail on earth. "
The earth is dark yellow, and grandpa said, "When the silkworm is old, the wheat will be ripe in one day. A light rain has aged silkworms and matured wheat. Light rain urges old mulberry to silkworm and wheat in the field. They are getting older and more familiar year by year. It also makes people grow old and mature. People are like silkworms and people are like wheat. People are not as good as silkworms as wheat. Silk can weave silk, wheat can steam steamed bread, and what can people do for silkworms? What can humans do for wheat? "
Stepping on the ridge, after the rain, there are old women, cactus and white grass everywhere. The south wind blew down the raindrops on the wheat ears, and the wheat awn was inadvertently burnt. The ears of wheat ripen inadvertently. Grandpa pulled the ridge with both hands and sat down. The sound of his body and bones moving, very heavy and dull, slowly crossed the ridge and disappeared into the wheat field.
Grandfather is not only a person at this time, but also a part of a wheat field, a part of the field and a part of the land. Grandpa pulled down an ear of wheat, rubbed it gently, spread out his palm and blew it. The wheat awn and the wheat husk flew away, and the bulging wheat grains were spread out on his palm.
Grandpa cherishes the appearance of wheat grains, which is simply cherishing a palm of golden beans. A farmer's homesickness permeates the wheat in grandpa's palm.
Grandpa rubbed the wheat again to blow away the dust, squeezed a few grains of wheat into his mouth, and rubbed two rows of teeth, making the grains mellow. Grandfather said, "Chew new wheat, and a person will live one more year.". Chewing new wheat, chewing the taste of summer. "
Grandpa put the rest of the wheat in my hand and said, "Chew, a grain of wheat is the world. When you grow up, you will know that everything in the world itself is a complete world. A leaf like this, a drop of rain like this, a flower like this, a fruit like this. "
I am chewing fresh wheat, and the fragrance of the earth is flying in my mouth.
Taste wheat, that is, taste summer, that is, taste full.
Every year, after the wheat wave meets the ridge, grandpa will say: no one knows who eats more new wheat than who. No one knows who will live longer than who.
Recalling grandpa's language means recalling the philosophy of the countryside.
Grandpa and I sat on the ridge and counted with our fingers. The longest-lived person in the village is only 96 years old. Up to now, no one in the village has eaten new wheat for one hundred years. It has been thousands of years since Shennong taught people to grow wheat. Compared with the long agricultural civilization, a person is very short-lived. No sooner had I seen the dawn than it got dark. Just when I saw the stars, it was dawn.
From my grandfather's gluttony for chewing new wheat, we can see that my grandfather cherishes Xiaoman and wheat grains. I can also see that grandpa cherishes the new wheat, but also cherishes his every day, his life and the opportunity to eat the new wheat again.
Grandfather tore off another ear of wheat and rubbed it, blowing the awn and shell farther away. Grandfather counted 52 grains of wheat in his palm. He smiled foolishly, and his face reflected the joy of this season. Grandfather said, "Three thousand grains and sixty wheat are excellent years. Millet 2000, wheat 50, is a bumper harvest year. There are 52 grains on an ear of wheat, which is a blessing from God. The men in the village can do nothing but praise God. "
I said, "God doesn't eat wheat. Why does he count the grains on the ears of wheat? "
Grandfather said, "Everything on the earth counts in the eyes of God. A spike of grass in Wang Wanggou has small grains and many grains. We don't know how many, God knows. "
Farmers worship God all the time and everywhere. The worship of these villages is similar to an object, and I have always treasured it since my grandfather gave it to me. Many rural philosophies come from this object. You can disassemble these objects, but it is impossible to fully understand their profound mysteries.
Xiaoman is the fastest season when wheat grains are full. Standing on the ridge of the field at noon, you can hear the sound of wheat awns and wheat grains growing in wheat husks. Small as it is, it is beautiful. The sound of wheat growing together formed a huge choir. From the vapor permeation arched in the wet soil of the wheat field to the top of the wheat field. Reach out and touch those wisps of gas, and the Austrian heat will penetrate your whole body. It was noon at that time, and as soon as the sun exploded, you could hear the sound of a few premature wheat grains breaking out of their shells-this was the natural sound of farmers.
Grandfather said: "Since the morning of long summer, a wheat has died every day, and the leaves of the wheat turn yellow with the death of the root." On Xiaoman's day, two pieces of wheat died a day, and the wheat matured with the acceleration of root death. On Xiaoman's day, there were only 20 wheat roots that didn't die. Ten days later, all the wheat roots died and the harvest began. Everything on the earth is not new, it was made up by God a long time ago. How you sow and how you reap are all repeating the mold of God. Every day is an adobe, born from the mold of God. Everyone's fate is an adobe, which flows out of God's mold. Life is like this, life and death, death and life come to an abrupt end when you feel endless. "
When the sun rolled on my grandfather and me, our shadows were very small. Our steps are walking in our round shadow, and the ridge is long and far in an instant. Grandfather stepped on his own shadow and said to me, "your own shadow will grow if you don't let it grow;" If you make him short, he will be short. It is the sun that makes him grow, and the sun makes him short. Our shadows are bamboo poles in the morning and iron rings in the morning. The sun pushes us on the ridge, and we are just a toy of the sun. "
Grandpa always thinks that we are many times smaller than dust. When I was in grade one, the school had a microscope, and the teacher showed us the cells of wheat leaves. I went home and said to my grandfather, "Small is big. Under the microscope, the cells in wheat leaves are very large. "
Grandfather said, "The microscope is boastful. It magnifies the smallness. A person can't brag to himself. Self-explosion is to lie to yourself. "
I said, "Why did you lie to yourself?"
Grandpa said, "I am my biggest liar." Just like you are your own microscope, you always magnify yourself dozens, hundreds and thousands of times. If you expand yourself, you will become a big liar. "
At the end of the wheat field is a hill covered with mulberry trees. There are fish patterns on the stones in the mulberry forest. How many thousands of years ago, this was the ocean? How many thousands of years later, this is Sangtian? Others may not know, but silkworms who eat mulberry leaves may know.
Mulberry is soft, and mulberry leaf is a piece of paper. They emerged from the ocean and recorded the time a village experienced. Mulberry trees are indispensable in the village. There is an old man surnamed Yang in the village. When mulberry trees were very young, he pinched them into mulberry branches. When you grow up, cut down a mulberry tree and peel it off to be a mulberry fork. 10 On the day after the full harvest, wheat piles began to be piled on the wheat field, and on the day when wheat was ground with stone stalks, mulberry branches came in handy.
The old man who pinched mulberry branches knew nothing about the passage of time. He thought that mulberry trees were planted by himself and mulberry branches were pinched by himself. The relationship between a mulberry tree and the sea mink hair, the sea has become a mulberry field, where do fishermen catch fish? The sea is covered with mulberry trees. Didn't mulberries change from fish?
Many times, my grandfather and I picked up stones with fish patterns near mulberry fields, and always told the old man who pinched mulberry branches that things had changed. The old man said, "If you can't read, you will become an idiot if you read too much. They always say that the sea has become a mulberry field. "
When Xiaoman came, mulberry trees were covered with mulberries, all black and shiny. Many birds with green wings gather in the mulberry forest and stand on the branches to eat mulberries. My grandfather and I are also seasonal birds. At the full moon every year, we go to the mulberry forest to pick mulberries. Birds think mulberries are theirs, not ours. They turned a blind eye when we walked into the mulberry forest. I picked up the stone and threw it at them, but they still ate as usual.
Grandpa said, "Give us a mulberry in season for the birds to eat." We eat ours and they eat theirs. God divided all the fruits into several parts. We can't catch the part that belongs to the bird, and the bird can't eat the part that belongs to us. This is dogma. Whoever breaks the dogma, God will condemn you. This is the so-called scourge. "
We picked mulberries, and mulberry trees held up a small umbrella for us. The old man who pinched mulberry branches saw my grandfather and me and said, "Are you here to eat fish seeds or mulberries?"
Grandpa said, "Eat mulberries."
The old man said, "That's fish roe."
Mulberry thick sweet juice dripped down our corners of the mouth, dyeing my grandfather and me as Darkmouth. Men in the village are easily satisfied, and the simple taste of food will make them easily forget the hardships in life. Grandfather was excited by the sweetness of mulberry, and suddenly began to recite Ouyang Xiu's poem about Xiaoman:
The south wind blows a hundred herbs, the vegetation is deep and the hut is small.
At the beginning of wheat ear, the seeds are charming and the mulberry leaves are fat.
Old people like to be ripe, and their wives know that the season is good.
Wild Li Tang is a nightingale, and sea pomegranate is a red mountain bird.
Tian Jia, who is happy to know? I know it's late to go home alone.
Begging to take care of me when I am strong.
Grandfather said: "Ouyang Xiu only knows the joys of the countryside, but he doesn't know the hardships of the countryside. It is the poet who only knows the joy of the countryside and leaves a light pen and ink. We farmers are the ones who only know the hardships in the countryside and stay to plow, rake and hoe mulberry. Wazi, a person born in the village, makes bits and pieces of mud to feed crops, feed silkworms, and in turn feed the people in the village. One more chimney, one more family; Without chimneys and families, there is no memory of the earth. Year after year, we become a piece of mud, left in the wheat fields and mulberry fields. This is also an earth-shaking change! "
In summer, the village easily becomes sleepy. At dusk, the old elm is sleepy, the old buffalo is sleepy, and even the kitchen smoke is sleepy, slowly pasting over the village, and there is a ray of light blue in the tile blue. Grandpa and I washed away the traces of mulberries in the river bend, but printed the traces of sunset. My grandfather picked up a burdock pagoda in the river and said to me, "It's raining upstream, the pond is full and the weir is full. Festivals are unexpected guests, and they will come as soon as they say so.
The village is really sleepy. In the twilight and smoke, only an outline is left.
Grandpa and I are two black spots in the twilight and smoke, just like two mature mulberries.
After many years, I have always regarded drowsiness as boredom.
I suddenly remembered Shuntaro Tanikawa, the best poet in Asia. His "I'm Tired" is very similar to my mood at this time:
I'm tired of
I'm tired of my body.
I'm tired of
Tea bowls, flags, sidewalks and pigeons
I'm tired of
Soft long hair
I'm tired of
Morning and night hallucinations
I'm tired of my heart.
I'm tired of
I'm tired of
Countless damaged bridges
I'm tired of
The delicacy of blue sky skin
I'm tired of
Gunshots, hooves and bad wine
I'm tired of
White shirts and dirty shirts
I'm tired of
Poor poems and wonderful poems.
I'm tired of
A fallen puppy
I'm tired of
Daily sun
I'm tired of
An upright red mailbox.
I'm tired of
The blackbeard of the intimidator.
I'm tired of
A field path in the shade of early summer
I'm tired of
The sun has changed, so have the stars.
I'm tired of
The thatched cottage in my hometown.
I'm tired of