According to the genealogy, it is about 180 years since the Qing Dynasty, and it is the sixth generation in our generation. When the old house became what I remember, I can't verify it. But I remember that the old house when I went out was really old and repaired, but it didn't look old; More than a dozen families, a hundred people, quietly guarded the old house. In the old house, the old and the young are orderly, and people follow the ancestral motto, "Filial piety is the key to human relations; Benedict's family is based on Zhao Yong; Distinguish heresy and worship orthodoxy; Long order to end the study of scholar; Pay attention to agriculture and mulberry, and have plenty of food and clothing; Be thrifty and cherish money; Ming comity with thick customs; It is a unique old house culture to falsely accuse others of all kindness. In my memory, the back hill of the old house is not only a world of birds, but also a paradise for children. Our children play in the back hill, which brings happiness to children and cultivates their progress ... It is particularly worth mentioning that in the past 30 years, the founder of the old house and the green and upright back hill have cultivated and created a group of young people who are motivated in the old house. Because of these young people, the old house has relationships with Chinese Academy of Sciences, Tsinghua, National University of Defense Science and Technology, Beijing University of Posts and Telecommunications, Kunming University of Science and Technology and Changsha University of Science and Technology. Due to the establishment of these institutions of higher learning, some people in the old house will enter the scientific research hall, some people will enter institutions, schools and hospitals, and some people will become doctors, teachers and accountants ... Really, in recent years, more than 20 people have entered the university and walked out of the old house. People know and praise the old house. Some people even call it "Scholar Village". Once upon a time, an old house full of vitality, though simple, was only virtuous and fragrant, just fragrant.
Speaking of the old house, the back hill of the old house and the scenery of the old house, although I dare not exaggerate with the words "Zhong Ling has outstanding people and outstanding places", I think that although it is far from Nanyue Dongting, it is connected with Dongting by mountains, perhaps it is "the dew of Dongting with Hengshan aura". However, with or without Feng Shui, man and nature should be unified, harmonious and interdependent. Alas, I didn't expect the old house to go bald after it collapsed. I think, even if a new house is built on the ruins of the old house, wouldn't it be a pity if the "new house" doesn't have the beautiful background of the back hill?
With the growth of age, I feel more and more nostalgic, and the nostalgic mood arises inadvertently and becomes stronger and stronger. However, the old house in my beloved hometown haunts my mind several times. With the outline of you in my dream, it is so clear and profound that I can't help thinking of the old house in my beloved hometown.
I remember going back to my hometown the year before last, having lunch, and having nothing to do with my brother. I want to see the old house that I can't give up in my dream for more than 30 years. Very not easy to find the original Zhuang base, only to see broken walls, overgrown with weeds. When my mother walked with us, I planted several paulownia trees, which were already towering and leafy, and I couldn't stop harvesting them. There are also several persimmon trees planted by my uncles in my hometown, which are full of ripe persimmons, full of fruits and bent branches; Among the weeds, several goats are nibbling at them unhurriedly. Seeing all this made my heart sour and tears filled my eyes.
At that time, in the early 1980s, although the old house was simple, it was still one of the best houses in our village. Although it is a brick adobe structure, it bears the hardships of parents and the friendship of villagers, which makes me unforgettable. At that time, my father was working outside and there was no labor at home. Our four sisters are all very young. We only have a love nest and an old house that belongs to us because of my mother's hard work and income. The construction of the old house depends entirely on the mother's family, and there are many mothers and sisters, pulling soil, tamping foundation and adding bricks and tiles. It was the help of the villagers and several uncles of my mother's family that made the building scene prosperous at that time.
I remember that day, it was time to put the beam on. According to the tradition of my hometown, my relatives, friends and neighbors came to congratulate me. Everyone pulled the rope on their shoulders. Finally, the main beam of the house was firmly placed on the roof, and my uncle brought a piece of red cloth. The so-called "red" is also an auspicious picture. My grandfather was all smiles, bought a pig's head and set off firecrackers. Very lively. My parents treated the villagers who came to help in their hometown's unique way, and our children also saw the long-lost smiles of their tired parents.
My hand gripped and stroked broken walls in the old house, brushed away the dust of the years with deep affection, and quietly experienced the ruthlessness and vicissitudes of the years. Although the old house is dilapidated, it has left behind the precipitation of years, with infinite nostalgia, which reminds me of the raindrops left on the blue tiles under the eaves of the old house and the happy years of frolicking in the rain.
Now, seeing this scene and thinking of the past, I am looking at this old house full of scars, leaving only the warm old house full of memories and giving me childhood memories in my heart. Can I stop crying? The old house I love in my hometown has memories of my childhood and the bitterness of my parents. It has my growing process and my childhood vision. It carries the hope of parents, inherits the blood of ancestors and has the continuation of family style. This is a beautiful memory that I will never erase.
The old house in my hometown, you are my eternal concern. Although you have been submerged in the long river of years, I, I will come back to see you, because where there are parents' hardships and expectations, I also understand the deep homesickness and the nostalgia for the old house that parents often nag about.
Hometown and Old House Prose 3 It is wrong for some people to regard hometown and old house as the same thing. Hometown is their hometown, and the old house is their ancestral home.
Opposite the old house in my hometown, there are two caves called Laoren Cave. The surrounding shrubs and bamboos, like the head of a tiger, often stare at my old house. According to the older generation, the old (dead) people should be put in caves, on the one hand, to protect their homes that are hard to give up, on the other hand, to look forward to the glory of future generations. Accurately speaking, the old man cave is the rock burial mentioned in the history books, and the old man cave is the old house of the old ancestors.
Every time I go back to my hometown, I will pay a pious visit to the old man's remains. Then, under the gaze of those special eyes, I strolled through the long cobblestone path, shaking my clumsy body, stepping on a soft ridge, then gracefully crossing the fence covered with green vines, passing through the mud-paved courtyard dam and climbing a step, which is the real entry into the old house. At that time, the two-story four-bedroom earth-walled house was still tall and noble, although it was not as good as the four-in-one courtyard left by the landlord. The front is covered with comb-shaped mud tiles, and the back is covered with light gray slate, just like the ugly freshly shaved scalp next door, with angular bun, which is simple and childlike.
The Zhuang base was carefully selected and built by Grandpa. Looking through the green rice fields, a beautiful river looms, and the moon dam on the other side is more vivid than the crescent spring in Mingsha Mountain. The sun shines like jade. The umbilical cord-like weir and canal behind the house is the lifeblood of hundreds of acres of straw. Lianhuatai, supported by a hard rock wall on the ridge, is inhabited by three families, guarding five acres of wasteland. The moon is in front and the lotus is behind. Moonlight shines on lotus flowers, and flowing water in old houses listens to tile wind. Father said that although this place is good, it is not suitable to be surrounded by water, the humidity is high, and the food is easy to get moldy. Grandpa said, life is to take water and soil, pull gas. It seems that Grandpa was right as a southern immigrant. He is sunny, prosperous, surrounded by mountains and waters, warm in winter and cool in summer.
In my spare time, I like to wander around the front and back of the house, smelling the fragrance of grains, looking at colorful tiles like picture books, like the curly hair of a classical beauty, starting from battlements and drifting obliquely to the roof. It seems to be flowing, but it is still. Under the strong light, the tiles are very dark, as if they had been splashed with blue and black ink. Then look at the sky, tiles and the sky are the same color, take care of each other. Only then can I understand why poets love to say that the sky is blue and the sky is blue. At dusk, the smoke from kitchen chimneys comes out leisurely, sometimes in braids, and sometimes in nets. The smell of the wind becomes an elusive emotion and is hidden in the think tank of genealogy. When it rains, the carp's back is exposed on the roof. Want to swim but don't swim, as if tiles turned into fish scales, emitting a faint purple light in lightning. The snow is falling, and the old house is covered with leather, which is precious and elegant. Glittering ice hangs under the eaves, such as posts, vertebrae, exercises, teeth, drills, swords, curtains and candles. I think of crystal shoes, fairy tale house, Snow White and the talented woman who loves to write lyric words in a long white tulle dress. I don't know who said this sentence, but it is still fresh in my memory: a village without snow is like a person without a white-haired mother. There are also pleasing mosses and corrugated grass, which no one wants to touch and regard as the best treasure of the town house.
The small window in the attic is the wisdom eye of the old house. Every rainy season, I will lean against the window to watch, and the rain strings hit the tiles, stirring up the light fog like cotton wool. The rhythm is slow and beautiful, with the flavor of Jiangnan guzheng and southern Shaanxi sister songs. North and South meet, East and West combine. Under this solemn listening and watching, I realized that vicissitudes of tiles and passionate rain are all good things. Watermark woodcut, ink painting and painting, no? It is the vitality of life, the division of village history and the continuation of genealogy.
Lying on the earthen stove in the kitchen, like a bull returning from the field, chewing the delicious farm life. Four-mouth iron pot, cut into geometric patterns and added with firewood, is very similar to a retired old teacher. With the fire blower as the guide and the stove as the platform, it inherits the school motto of "making a living with soil, accumulating virtue and rejuvenating the country" for us. The stone mill behind the stove has serious indigestion, eats hard grains, spits out trivial life accumulation, and loves to plug teeth. My mother uses a bamboo brush as a toothpick. If it is not clean, she pours a spoonful of water. Anyway, they are cleaner than my toothbrush and I can't smell bad breath at any time. Mother turned grinding into an art, stepped on it, took a step back and raised her hand around an arc, much like the beginning of the national standard dance. The crutch in my mother's hand was regarded as an old-fashioned key by me, which opened many childhood hearts. Later I used it as a needle on the phonograph. Although the Stone Mill is an old record, its sound is deep, rich and magnetic. It makes people's blood boil and soothes a hungry and cold heart. The bowl kitchen transformed by the east window was occupied by bees, so I was comfortable. It's crowded with people here. I often open the door and peep to see how they stand guard, how to make honey, and how to carry two groups of pollen to fill the grid. Now that I think about it, the behavior of bees is very similar to that of us crawling on manuscript paper, skimming vertically, writing paragraph after paragraph, and writing some sweet lyrics, which are lively and full of passion, and are the best audio books of that era. Although a lot of honey overflows every year, we don't want to share a spoonful, and bees all have the same sound. We think this is a symbol of the prosperity of the family business and the bumper harvest of grain.
The hanging pot on the fireplace in the main room, with its belly lit leisurely in the air like a black pumpkin, came to the guests and sat around the stove, enjoying the courtesy of the stars holding the moon. Although ugly, it is rich in connotation and can dig out unique peasant recipes. There are different styles of farm tools hanging in the corner, such as eighteen weapons on the ancient battlefield, and the brightness of the door is shining with cold light. On a sunny day, the light beam shoots from the cracks in the tiles, like a spotlight on the stage. All the people in the room, including chickens, ducks, cats and dogs, make a bright appearance and freeze into a simple silhouette.
One day, I went to my partner's house in the deep courtyard to be a guest. The wing was bright and the glass brick was as bright as a night pearl. Although there are dust and leaves, the waves shed are so bright and dazzling, leaving a beautiful memory in a young mind. Although I enjoyed a lot of light and some glory later, I always felt that I was too rich and extravagant. Just like there are many incalculable glories in this world, I can't get too much. It's like a bean! Let dad buy it when he comes back, saying it's fragile. It is better to open two transoms. Although not as bright as glass bricks, it satisfies a child's desire.
The old house is really old, a little mottled, a little thin and a little short. Once I turn it over, I will discard some broken memories. It seems that there is a giant hand of time, turning the dignified and colorful chapters from page to page in my mind, with wind, snoring, gravel and whispers. In order to make up for the vacancy, my father covered the slate in the middle, much like his patch pants. It's just like our mountain people, with calluses on their hands and scars on their faces, which proves that they have seen the world through storms, have a sense of vicissitudes and have masculinity.
Nowadays, slate mud tile houses are becoming more and more scarce, and the memory of old houses, like my childhood, adolescence and youth, is getting farther and farther away and more and more difficult to give up. Looking back at the tunnel entrance with a long memory, this house full of nostalgia and local flavor, like some people and things in some years, will stay warmly in the old photo album forever. It is homely, authentic, simple, rich, dignified, profound and cordial, reminding me from time to time that my roots are in the countryside, my childhood name is in the hearts of the villagers, and I am a bitter child from the countryside.
The walls of the old house are made of mud and the tiles are burned with mud. Every step of the villagers is down to earth. Therefore, homesickness is called homesickness, nostalgia for the old house is called homesickness, and nostalgia for the birthplace is called homesickness. Homeland is the mother of all human feelings. The homeland belongs to oneself and also to the homeland. It has long been a relationship between milk and meat, such as a pot of strong tea and an altar of old wine. I can't bear to drink it all at once. I'm afraid it will be harder. Native land is a kind of fertility, native land is a kind of richness, and native land is an unavoidable distress. Pain is also heartache, so is love. I have to relive the feeling of the moon falling in the sky in a small town.
What is an old house? The old house is an old man, a knot that people far away from the countryside can't untie, a bamboo whip that shoots from the wall and runs to the next door, and a local textbook that is excavated and sorted out after walking into the pile of old paper.
Every time I leave, I look back at my former residence, and my heart is inexplicably vague but full of sweetness or sadness. Tired birds miss their nests, fallen leaves return to their roots, and the bustling world is endless. I just need a quiet place. It seems that I should go back to my old house for retirement.