Old House Essay 1
Standing in front of the main hall of the crumbling old house in the wind and rain, looking at the ruins under the "bald ridge" and the "bald ridge" behind the ruined walls, Really, there is an inexplicable regret.
According to the genealogy, it has been about 180 years since the founding of our ancestors in Daoguangzhong of the Qing Dynasty. Our generation is the sixth generation. I cannot verify when the old house became what it is in my memory. But I remember that the old house when I walked out was indeed very old. It had been repaired and repaired, but it did not look old. There were more than a dozen families and hundreds of people, calmly guarding the old house. In the old house, the elders and the younger ones are in order, and people follow the ancestral precepts, "Adhere to filial piety and brotherhood to emphasize human relations; uphold the clan to show harmony; depose heretics to uphold orthodoxy; uphold the order of the monasteries to educate scholars; emphasize agriculture and mulberry trees to ensure sufficient food and clothing; Be frugal and cherish your money; be courteous and uphold customs; stop false accusations and be kind." These rules and regulations have become the unique culture of the old house. The back hill of the old house, in my memory, is not only a world for birds, but also a paradise for little kids. Groups of our little kids played in the back hill, and the back hill brought happiness to the little kids. It also cultivated the hard work of little kids... What is particularly worth mentioning here is that in the past thirty years, the squareness and solemnity of the old house and the green and straight hills behind have influenced and created a group of hardworking people in the old house. Upward descendants. Because of these young people, Laowu has a relationship with the Chinese Academy of Sciences, Tsinghua University, National University of Defense Technology, Beijing Post University, Kunming University of Technology, Changsha University of Science and Technology, etc.; because of the achievements of these universities, some people in Laowu have entered the palace of scientific research. Only then will some people enter government schools and hospitals, and only then will some people become doctors, teachers, accountants, etc. Really, in recent years, no less than twenty people have entered the university and walked out of the old house. People within ten miles of the country know the old house and praise the old house because of this. Some people even call the old house "Xiucai Village". Once upon a time, the old house that was full of vitality, although simple and simple, was full of virtue and warmth.
Talking about the old house, the mountains behind the old house, and the scenery of the old house, although I dare not exaggerate it with "Zhong Ling Yu Xiu Xiu, outstanding people, and outstanding people", I think that although it is far away from Nanyue Dongting, here is The mountain is connected to Hengyue Mountain and the water is connected to Dongting. Perhaps it is "the aura of Hengshan and the nectar of Dongting"? However, regardless of the presence or absence of Feng Shui, man and nature should be unified, harmonious, and interdependent. Alas, who would have expected that the old house collapsed and the mountain behind would be bald. I think that even if a new house is built on the ruins of the old house, it would be a pity if the "new house" does not have the beautiful background of the mountain behind it. Essay on my old house in my hometown 2
As I grow older, I feel that I am more and more nostalgic. I feel that the nostalgia arises inadvertently and becomes more intense. The old house I love in my hometown is almost I have been haunted by dreams, and I have seen your silhouette in my dreams several times, so clearly and profoundly, that it reminds me of the beloved old house in my hometown where I was born and raised.
I remember that the year before last, I went back to my hometown for business. After lunch, my brother and I had nothing to do. We wanted to see the old house that had been lingering in our dreams for more than 30 years. I finally found the original village. At the base, what we saw were ruins, overgrown weeds, and a few scattered Paulownia trees. When my mother left with us, the few paulownia trees she planted were already so tall and leafy that even one person could not even close them. Hug; there are also a few persimmon trees planted by my uncle in my hometown. The trees are full of ripe persimmons, with abundant fruits and bent branches; among the weeds, there are a few goats eating the weeds leisurely. , seeing all this made me feel sad and filled my eyes with tears.
I think back then, in the early 1980s, although the old house was simple, it was still one of the best in our village. Although it was a brick and adobe structure, it carried the hard work of my parents and the friendship of the villagers. This is something I will never forget. At that time, my father was working outside and there was no labor at home. We, four young sisters, relied on our mother alone to work hard and earn cents. Over time, we built our love nest and old house. The construction of the old house was all thanks to our mother. There were many mothers and sisters in the family, who pulled soil, laid foundations, and pulled bricks and tiles. It was all the villagers and several uncles from my mother’s family who helped, and this was the reason why the house-building scene was booming at that time.
I remember that day, it was time to put up the beams. According to the tradition of my hometown, relatives, friends, and neighbors all came to congratulate me. Everyone carried ropes on their shoulders to pull, and finally, with great difficulty, the main beam of the house was firmly placed on the roof. The family brought a piece of red cloth. The so-called "matching the red cloth" was probably for good luck. Grandpa also had a smile on his face. He bought a pig head and set off firecrackers. It was so lively. My parents entertained the villagers who came to help in the unique way of their hometown. We, our children, also saw the long-lost smiles of our tired parents. .
I pressed my hands close to and touched the ruins of the old house, brushing away the dust of the years affectionately, and quietly comprehending the ruthlessness and vicissitudes of the years. Although the old house was dilapidated, it left behind The accumulation of years, with infinite nostalgia, reminds me of the dripping raindrops left on the green tiles of the old house on rainy days and the happy years of playing in the rain.
But now, seeing this scene and thinking about the past, I look at this old house full of scars, leaving only the warm old house full of memories in my heart, which gave me childhood memories. Can you not make me burst into tears? The old house I love in my hometown contains my childhood memories and the bitterness of my parents. It contains my growth process and childhood aspirations. It carries the hopes of my parents, inherits the blood of my ancestors, and continues the family tradition. It is Beautiful memories that I can never erase.
My old house in my hometown, you are my eternal concern. Although you have been submerged in the long river of time, I, I will come back to see you, because there are no parents’ hardships, expectations, and I understand the deep nostalgia and reluctance to leave the old house that my parents often nag. Hometown and Old House Essay 3
Some people equate hometown and old house with the same thing. This is wrong. Hometown is hometown and old house is ancestral home.
Opposite the old house in my hometown, there are two caves, known as the Old Man's Cave. Together with the surrounding bamboo bushes, they look like a tiger's head, and they often look covetously at my old house. According to the elders, when ancestors grow old (and die), they will be put into the cave. On the one hand, they will watch over the home that is difficult to leave, and on the other hand, they hope that future generations will honor their ancestors. To be precise, Lao Lao Cave is the rock burial mentioned in history books, and Lao Lao Cave is the old house of the ancestors.
Every time I go back to my hometown, I have to pay my respects to the old man's cave devoutly, and then, under the gaze of those special eyes, I walk along the long cobblestone path, swaying my clumsy body and stepping on it. After cutting through the soft ridges of the fields, you gracefully step over the ivy-covered fence, pass through the dirt-paved courtyard dam, and go up a flight of steps to truly enter the old house. At that time, although the two-story, four-bay house with earthen walls was not as good as the four-in-one patio left by the big landowner, it was still tall and impressive. The front is covered with comb-toothed mud tiles, and the back is covered with light gray slate, just like the newly shaved scalp of the second ugly man next door, with an angular bun, which is simple and childish, and can be seen as childlike.
The base of the village was carefully selected and built by my grandfather. Looking out through the green rice fields, a beautiful river is looming. The Yue'erba on the other side is more vivid than the Crescent Spring in Mingsha Mountain, and it glows under the sun. Shining like emerald light. The umbilical cord-like weir and canal behind the house is the lifeblood of hundreds of acres of rice. There are three families living on the lotus platform supported by the hard rock wall on the ridge, guarding five acres of thin farmland. There is the moon in front and a lotus behind. The moon shines on the lotus and I feel at ease, the water flows around the old house and I listen to the wind blowing from the tiles. My father said that although this place is good, it should not be surrounded by water. The humidity is high and the food is prone to mold. Grandpa said that life is about obeying the local conditions and the local atmosphere. It seems that my grandfather, who immigrated to the south, was right. It is sunny, prosperous, surrounded by mountains and rivers, warm in winter and cool in summer.
In my spare time, I like to wander around the house, smell the fragrance of grains, and see the colorful fruits. The album-like tiles are like the curled hair of classical beauties, starting from the wall stacks. Layers upon layers of water drift toward the ridge of the roof, seemingly flowing but still keeping quiet. Under the strong light, the color of the tiles was deep, as if blue and black ink had been poured on it. Looking at the sky again, the tiles and the sky were of the same color, taking care of each other. Only then did I understand why the poet loved to say that the sky was blue. At dusk, the smoke from the cooking pots diffuses from the tiles, sometimes gathering into braids, sometimes spreading into nets. When the wind breathes, it becomes a wisp of unpredictable emotions, hidden in the brain trust of the family tree. When it rains, the carp's back is exposed on the roof. It seems to be moving but not moving, and the mud tiles have turned into fish scales, giving off a faint purple light in the lightning. The snow is falling, and the old house is wrapped in fur coats, looking noble and elegant. Under the eaves hang crystal clear ice, like pillars, vertebrae, drills, teeth, diamonds, swords, curtains, and candles. I think of glass slippers, fairy tale cabins, Snow White, and the white lady. A talented woman in a long gauze skirt who loves to write lyrical texts. I don’t know who said this, but it is still fresh in my memory: A village without Luoxue is like a person without his white-haired mother. There are also moss and corrugated grass that are pleasing to the eye. No one wants to touch them and regard them as the best treasures for the house.
The small window in the attic is the wise eye of the old house. Every rainy season, I have to lean against the window and watch. The strings of rain hit the tiles, stirring up a light mist like velvet, and the rhythm It is soothing and the rhythm is clear and beautiful, with the flavor of Jiangnan guzheng and Shaannan sister's children's songs. It is the intersection of north and south and the combination of Chinese and Western. Under this solemn listening and watching, I realized that the weathered tiles on the face and the passionate rain are both extraordinary things. Watermark woodcut, ink painting, no? It is the vitality of life, the division of village history, and the continuation of family tree.
The earthen stove lying in the kitchen is like an old ox returning from the fields, chewing the delicious farm life. The four iron pots are cut into geometric patterns, and the woman adding firewood is like a retired old teacher. She uses the fire blower as a pointer and the stove as a podium, passing on to us the school motto of living in the soil and building a family by virtue. After the stone mill behind the stove, I suffered from severe indigestion. I ate hard grains and vomited out the trivial accumulation of life. I also liked to stuff my teeth. My mother used the bamboo brush as a toothpick. If I couldn't pick it clean, I would pour a ladle of water. Anyway, it was better than my toothbrush. Be clean and never smell bad breath. Mom turned grinding into an art form, stepping forward, stepping back, raising her hands in a circle, much like the starting movements of ballroom dancing. The crutch held by my mother is regarded by me as an old-fashioned key, which has opened many childhood heart locks. Later I used it as a stylus on a gramophone. Even though Shimo looked like an old record, the sound was deep and rich, full of magnetism. When I listened to it, I felt energetic and excited, and it soothed and subdued a hungry and cold heart. Submissive. The renovated bowl kitchen in the east window was spotted by the bees, who took it as their own with peace of mind. It buzzed and buzzed like a market. I often open the door and peek to see how they stand guard, make honey, and fill their eyes with two balls of pollen. Now that I think about it, the behavior of bees is very much like us crawling on a grid on the manuscript paper, tapping and stroking, and writing some sweet and lyrical words. They are fresh, vivid, and passionate. They were the best audiobooks of that era. Readings. Although a lot of honey overflows every year, we don’t want to drink a spoonful of it. Bee Feng is the same as honey, and we regard it as a symbol of a prosperous family and a good harvest.
The hanging pot on the fire pit in the main room, like a black pumpkin, is leisurely shining in the air. When guests come, they sit around the fire and enjoy the courtesy like stars holding the moon. Despite its appearance, the connotation is But rich enough to scoop up chic farmhouse recipes. Farm tools of different styles are hung in the corner, like eighteen kinds of weapons on ancient battlefields, shining coldly through the cracks in the door. On a sunny day, pillars of light shine out from the gaps in the tiles, like spotlights on a stage. All the people in the room, including chickens, ducks, cats and dogs, come to shine, forming a simple silhouette.
One day, I visited a friend's house in the courtyard. The wing was brilliant, and the glass tiles were no less than a night pearl shining brightly. Although there was dust and leaves, the shimmering light spots shed were So bright, so eye-catching, leaving a bright memory in the young mind. Although I later enjoyed a lot of light and received some glory, I always felt that it was too generous and too luxurious. Just as there are many unmeasurable brilliance in this world, I cannot get too much. One light is like a bean, which is enough! When I came back, I asked my father to buy it. He said that the thing was fragile and it was better to open two transom windows. Although it was not as bright and elegant as the glass tiles, it satisfied the desire of a childlike heart.
The old house is indeed old. It is a bit mottled, a bit thin, and a bit short. Every time you open the door, you have to throw away some broken memories, and it seems that there is a giant hand of time, which removes the dignity and flavor. Chapters flipped forward page by page in my mind, with the sounds of wind, snoring, rubble, and murmurs. To make up for the shortcomings, my father covered the center with a slate, much like the patched trousers on his body. This is also like us men in the mountains. The calluses on our hands and scars on our faces prove that we have experienced the wind and rain, have seen the world, have a sense of vicissitudes, and are masculine.
Nowadays, slate and mud-tile houses are becoming increasingly rare, and the memory of the old house, like my childhood, youth and youth, is getting farther and farther away and becomes increasingly difficult to let go. Standing at the entrance of the tunnel with long memories and looking back, this civilian residence full of nostalgia and rustic flavor, just like certain people and things in certain eras, will always remain warm in old photo albums. It is homely, authentic, simple, plain, and The richness, dignity, depth, and kindness often remind me that my roots are in the countryside, my nickname is in the hearts of the folks, and that I am a poor child from the countryside.
The walls of the old house are made of soil, and the tiles are made of clay. Every step the villagers take is solid on the soil. Therefore, missing one’s hometown is called nostalgia, caring for one’s old home is called nostalgia, and remembering one’s birthplace is called country. Countryside is the mother body of all human affections. Countryside belongs to oneself and belongs to oneself. Countryside has long been a relationship of flesh and blood, like a pot of strong tea or a jar of old wine. One is reluctant to drink it all in one gulp for fear of never returning. Countryside is a kind of fertility, countryside is a kind of richness, countryside is a kind of heartache that cannot be resolved. Pain is heart-wrenching, love is also heart-wrenching. I have to always reminisce about that earthy feeling under the bright moonlight of the small town.
What is an old house? The old house is the house of the elderly. It is a knot that cannot be solved by people who are far away from the country. It is a piece of bamboo whip that sprouted from the base of the wall and went to live next door. It is a local teaching material that has been excavated and sorted out after being unearthed from the pile of old papers. .
Every time I leave and look back at this place where I once lived, an inexplicable light but deep sweetness or sadness will surge up in my heart for no reason. Tired birds miss their nests, fallen leaves return to their roots, and the lively world is boundless. I just need a quiet place. It seems that I should go back to my old house in my hometown to live my life.