Prose of the old house

Old House Prose 1

Standing in front of the main hall of the old house, which was shaking in the wind and rain, and looking at the ruins of the wall under the "bald ridge", and looking at the "bald ridge" after the ruins of the wall, there is really a kind of inexplicable regret.

According to the genealogy, since the Qing Daoguang, the ancestor of the foundation so far about one hundred and eighty years, to our generation, is the sixth generation. When the old house became the memory of the look, I can not prove. But I remember, out of the old house, indeed very old, repair and repair, and indeed does not appear old; a dozen families, a hundred or so people, calmly guarding the old house. In the old house, young and old, people follow the ancestral training, "filial piety and fraternal duty to the importance of human relationships; Dudu clan to show the harmony of Yong; to promote the correct learning of heresy; Ziangliang to end the habits of the Shi; emphasis on agriculture and mulberry in order to feed and clothe the people; still thrifty and frugal in order to cherish the wealth and use of the money; clear etiquette and concessions in order to thicken the customs; to put an end to the false accusations of the whole goodness," in the middle of the rules and regulations of the old house into the culture of the peculiar. Old house of the mountain, memory, she is not only the world of birds, but also the paradise of the children, we a set of children in the mountain play play, the mountain brings the children happy, but also practiced the children's upward ...... Here is particularly worth mentioning, in the past 30 years, the old house of the square and solemn and the mountain of the verdant green and upright, the cultivation of the old house has created a new culture of the old house. The old house has been nurtured by a group of upwardly mobile students. Because of these students, the old house with the Chinese Academy of Sciences, Tsinghua University, National Defense University, North University of Posts and Telecommunications, Kunming University, Changsha University of Science and Technology and so on, there is a love affair; because of the creation of these institutions of learning, the old house will be someone into the temple of scientific research, there will be someone into the institutions of schools and hospitals, there will be someone to become a physician to become a teacher to become an accountant to become a ...... really, the old house is not less than twenty people took the examination. Over the years, no less than 20 people to get up to the university out of the old house, ten miles of the border, people know the old house, said the old house, and even some people called the old house "showman village". The old house was once full of vitality, although simple, but only virtue is cozy, only talent is cozy.

Said the old house, said the old house of the mountains, said the old house of the scenery, although I do not dare to use the "Zhongling Yuxiu Jie Di Ling" and so on to exaggerate, but I thought that, although away from the Nanyue Dongting far away from the mountain here, but connected to Hengyue and water even the dongtings, perhaps "dip Hengshan aura Maundyun dongtings manna "I think that although it is far away from Nanyue Dongting, this place is connected to Hengyue and Dongting. However, regardless of feng shui, man and nature should be unified, is harmonious, is dependent. Alas, who expected the old house collapsed after the mountain bald, I think, the wreckage of the old house on the foundation of the house even if the new house, however, if the "new house" did not have a beautiful backdrop of the mountains, can say that it is not a pity?

With the growth of age, I feel more and more nostalgic complex, feeling nostalgic mood inadvertently came into being, more and more intense, and the old family love of the old house, a few times back to my soul, with a few times in my dreams to see your silhouette, so clear, so deep, can not help but let me think of the birth of my old family love of the old house.

Remember, the year before last, something back home, after lunch, and my brother had nothing to do, want to go and see has been more than thirty years of dreams haunting can not be cut off from the old house, it is hard to find the original base of the farm, see is broken walls, overgrown, sporadic mother and we left, planted a few paulownia tree, has been grown to the sky, branches and leaves, a person can not be held together; There are also a few old family uncles planted a few persimmon trees, trees full of ripe persimmons, fruitful, bending branches; weeds, there are a few goats in the not too slow to eat weeds, see all of this, can not help but let my heart sour, tears filled with eyes.

Back then, in the early eighties, the old house, although simple, but in our village is still one of the best houses, although it is a brick and tile adobe structure, but carrying the parents' heart and soul and the friendship of the townspeople, which makes me lifelong unforgettable. At that time, my father was working outside, home, no labor, our sisters four young, only by mother a person hard labor, earn cent, day after day, only to have belonged to our love nest and old house, and the old house was built, all rely on the mother's family, the mother's sisters, pulling the soil, tamping base, pulling the bricks and adding tiles, all the townspeople and mother's family a few uncles together to help, and only then there was a red-hot scene of building a house.

I remember that day, the beam, according to the hometown tradition, relatives and friends, all neighbors have come to congratulate, we shoulder rope pull, with great difficulty, the main beam of the house on the roof of the stable, the uncle's family brought a red cloth, so-called "hitching red," but also counted on the figure of a good luck it. The grandfather is also full of smiles, bought a pig's head, firecrackers, a lot of fun, parents with the old family unique way, bashful noodles to entertain the folks who came to help, our children, but also saw the tired parents of the long lost smile.

My hands close to, touching the old house of the broken walls, affectionately brushing off the dust of the years, quietly realize the relentlessness of the years and the vicissitudes of life, the old house, although dilapidated, but left behind the precipitation of the years, with infinite nostalgia, reminding me of the old eaves of the house on a rainy day droplets left on the green tiles and the rain and the joy of the happy years of playfulness.

And now, see this scene, think of the past, I watch over this old house full of scars, the heart is only left full of memories, give me childhood memories of the warmth of the old house, can not let me full of tears? The old family love the old house, there are my childhood memories and the sorrows of parents, it has my growth process and childhood longing, it carries the hope of parents, inherited the ancestral lineage, there is a continuation of the family style, it is a beautiful memory I can never erase.

The old house ah, you are my eternal yearning, although you have been submerged in the river of years, but I, I will come back to see you, because where there are parents of the hardships, expectations, and understand the parents often nagging strong feelings of nostalgia, the old house of the reluctant to part with the complex.

Some people put the old home and the old house and so on the same thing, this is not true, the old home is the hometown, the old house is the ancestral home.

Opposite the old house of the old family, there are two holes cave, known as the old man hole, plus the surrounding shrubs and bamboos, very much like a tiger's head, from time to time to my old house eyeing the tiger. According to the old-timers said, the ancestors of the old (dead) people, are to be put into the hole, on the one hand, watching over the home is difficult to part with, on the one hand, looking forward to the future generations of children and grandchildren to honor their ancestors. To be precise, the old man hole is the history of the rock burial, the old man hole is the old ancestor of the old house.

Every time I go back home, I have to reverently salute the old man's hole, and then only under the watchful eyes of that special pair of eyes, mincing through the long cobblestone paths, swaying awkwardly stepping on a cut of the soft ridge, and then very elegantly stepped over the fence full of vines, through the dirt paved dam, up a flight of steps, and is considered to be a real into the old house. At that time, the two-story, four-room earth-walled house was not as tall and imposing as the four-room patio left behind by the big landowners. The front covered with comb teeth like mud tiles, the back covered with light gray slate, just like the next door two ugly just shaved scalp, leaving an angular bun, simple and childish, childish can be seen.

Zhuang base is grandfather carefully selected to build, through the turquoise rice paddies to look out, a beautiful river is hidden, the opposite bank of the moon child dam, more vivid than the crescent springs of the Mingsha Mountain, sunlight flooded with emerald-like vivid light. Behind the house umbilical cord like weir, is the lifeblood of hundreds of acres of rice. Can hard rock wall support of the Lotus Terrace, live three families, keep five acres of thin field. There is a moon in front and a lotus flower behind. The moon shines on the lotus flower, and the water surrounds the old house to listen to the tile wind. My father said that although this place is good, it should not be a city surrounded by water, dampness, food is easy to mold. Grandpa said that life is to serve the soil and water, pulling the air. It seems that, as a southern immigrant grandfather is right, open sun, Fawang, by the mountains and water, warm in winter and cool in summer.

In my spare time, I like to wander around in front of the house, smell the fragrance of the grains, see the fruits and fruits overflowing with color, the booklet-like tiles, like a classical beauty rolled hair, starting from the wall stacks, layers and layers of diagonally depending on the ridge drift, seems to flow, but also in the quiet guard. Strong light, tile color deep, as if splashed with blue and black ink, and then look at the dome of the sky, tile sky a color, each other, I now realize why poets love to say the sky is tile blue tile blue. Dusk, smoke from the tile gap in the diffuse blotting out, sometimes gathered into a braid, sometimes scattered into a net, the wind breath, it became a wisp of elusive emotions, hidden in the genealogy of the wise. Rain, the roof reveals the carp back, want to swim not yet swim, seem to move not move, mud tiles have become fish scales, in the lightning emitted a ghostly purple light. Snow, the old house wrapped in fur coat, famous atmosphere, gorgeous and graceful. Eaves hanging crystal ice, such as columns, such as vertebrae, such as practice, such as teeth, such as diamonds, such as swords, such as curtains, such as candles, I think of the crystal shoes, think of fairy tale cottage, think of Snow White, think of the white long dress love to write lyrical text of the talented woman. I don't know who said this sentence, still fresh in my mind: a village without a falling snow, like a person without a gray-haired mother. There are also pleasing moss and corrugated grass, who are not willing to move it, depending on it as the best treasure of the house.

The small window in the attic, is the old house wise eyes, every rainy season, I have to lean on the window to watch, the rain strings hit the tiles, stirring up the cotton-fleece like mist, rhythm is soothing, the rhythm is clear, there is a Jiangnan guzheng and Shaanan sis children's song of the flavor of the North-South convergence of the East and the West. In this solemn listening and watching, realize the face full of vicissitudes of the tile and passionate rain, are not vulgar things. Watermark woodcut, ink painting, no? It is the vitality of life, the sub-scroll of village history, and the continuation of genealogy.

The earth stove lying in the kitchen, like the old yellow ox returning from the field, chewing on the nourishing farm life. Four iron pots, cut into geometric patterns, add firewood to the mother-in-law, very much like the old retired teacher, the blow torch as a whip, stove as a podium, for us to inherit the mud to make a living, virtue and family school motto. The stone mill behind the stove, serious indigestion, eat into the hard grains, spit out the trivial accumulation of life, but also love stuffed teeth, bamboo brush was mom as a toothpick, picking not clean, pour a scoop of water, anyway, than my toothbrush clean, when you can not smell bad breath. Mom pushed the mill into a kind of art, step up, step back, hands up around the arc, much like the beginning of the national standard dance. The mill wheel that Mom held was seen by me as an old-fashioned key that unlocked many childhood hearts. Later I took it as a phonograph on the needle, do not look at the stone mill is an old record, but the sound is low and thick, rich in magnetism, a listen to the spirit of the spirit, so that people are exhilarated, on a hungry and cold heart soothing and comfortable. East window of the bowl of the kitchen, by the bees, and peace of mind for themselves, calling and buzzing, the door of the city. I used to open the door and peek in to see how they stood guard, made honey, and carried two clusters of pollen toward the grid eye to fill it. When I think about it now, the bees' behavior was very much like the way we climbed the grid on the manuscript paper, dotting and skimming, writing sweet and lyrical words, vivid, lively and passionate, the best audio books of those days. Although there is a lot of honey overflow every year, and did not want to go to a spoon drink, bee abundance homophonic, we see it as a family business prosperity of some kind of symbol of the abundance of grains.

Parsonage fire on the hanging pot, black skin pumpkin in the air like a leisurely bright belly, guests, sitting around the stove, enjoy the stars like courtesy, don't look at its appearance, the connotation is rich, you can scoop out a chic farm recipes. Different styles of agricultural tools hang in the corners of the walls, such as the eighteen weapons on the ancient battlefield, lending the doorway brightness glinting with cold light.

One day, to the deep courtyard of the partner's house, the compartment is a brilliant, glass tiles no less than a night pearl in the light, although the dust, and leaves, but spilled down the flickering light spot, is so bright, so eye-catching, in the young mind to leave a bright memory. Although I later enjoyed a lot of light, but also got some glory, always feel too much broad, too much luxury, just as the world has a lot of difficult to measure the splendor of the world, I can not get too much, a light such as beans enough! Come back to buy father, said the plaything fragile, not as good as open two air windows, although there is no glass tile bright and elegant, but to satisfy the thirst of a child's heart.

The old house is indeed old, old, a little mottled, a little thin, a little short, covered once, to discard some broken memories, and as if there is a giant hand of time, the heavy and flavorful chapter, from my mind page by page forward, with the wind, snoring, rubble, murmuring sound in order to make up for the lack of father in the center of the location of the cover on the slate, very much like the patches on his pants. This is also like our mountain man, hands with calluses, face with scars, it proves that after the storm, have seen the world, there are vicissitudes, with manly flavor.

Nowadays, the slate mud houses are becoming increasingly rare, the memory of the old house, and my childhood, teenagers, youth, as far away, more and more difficult to give up. Standing in the memory of the long tunnel looking back, which is full of nostalgic color and local flavor of the civilian housing, as some of the years of certain people and things, always warm in the old album, homely, authentic, simple, plain, rich, heavy, deep, gracious from time to time let me remember, their own roots in the countryside, their own name in the hearts of the townspeople, they are a bitter child from the countryside.

The walls of the old house are built of clay, the tiles are burnt with clay, and every step taken by the old folks is solidly on the clay. Therefore, the longing for the old home is called nostalgia, the old house is called nostalgia, the nostalgia for the place of birth is called native soil. Countryside is the mother of all human feelings, countryside belongs to their own and their own belong to the countryside, has long been a kind of milk and flesh and blood relationship, such as a pot of tea, a pot of old wine, can not afford to drink a mouthful of it, lest it is difficult to do so again. Countryside is a kind of fertile, countryside is a kind of rich, countryside is a kind of heartache can not be discharged. The pain is also heart-wrenching, love is also heart-wrenching, I have to often in the small town under the long moon, recalling that the dirt to fall out of the feeling.

What is the old house? The old house is the old man's house, is far from the native people can not solve the knot, from the base of the wall buds to run to the neighboring life of a section of the bamboo whip, is into the pile of old paper and was excavated and sorted out of the vernacular teaching materials.

Every time you leave, look back at this once sheltered place, the heart for no reason to spring up a kind of inexplicable light but thick sweet or sadness. The tired birds think of the nest, the leaves return to the roots, the bustling world boundless, I just need a quiet place, it seems, I should go back to the old house of the old family to take care of the old age.