Chapter 7 Part 1 hometown

I often have to fill in my hometown on various forms. Sometimes I write Beijing, and sometimes I write Zhuozhou, Hebei, completely impromptu.I write about Beijing, because I was born in Beijing and grew up in Beijing, so I probably won’t die anywhere else.I wrote about Zhuozhou because I was told that it was my hometown since I was a child, and my parents and ancestors lived there for several generations.Check the dictionary, the definition of native place is: ancestral home or personal birthplace. — My improvisation happens to be pretty good. But this place called my hometown, I didn't see it for the first time until the spring when I was 46 years old.Previously just heard it constantly.From grandma's sigh, from parents' yearning and fear for it, from occasional news from grandma and some relatives, and from the imagination of a fantastic river - Juma River - I heard it .But never saw it, not even a picture.Grandma said that there were a few photos in my hometown, but unfortunately they were all destroyed before I was sensible.

In the spring when I was 46 years old, I went to confirm his existence with my own eyes; together with my father, uncle and uncle, I drove to my hometown for several hours.Zhuozhou - I am a little afraid to call it that.Zhuozhou is too specific, too practical, and therefore too unfamiliar.But my hometown has always been illusory in my impression. It is more of an emotion, a sound, or even a light or a breath, which is too far away from an actual place.I think I might as well call it State Z. A non-geographic location is more suitable for connecting a legend that has lasted for 46 years. However, it is really a real place, with broken city walls, a pair of ancient pagodas that are close to collapse, and a pile of wormwood-grown loess in the city center, which is said to be the site of the Bell and Drum Tower. , commercial buildings, crowds of people in the street, the sun, dust and hawking in the street.The layout of the urban area is similar to that of the old Beijing city, only smaller and simpler.At the intersection of Zhongxin Street stands an antique archway (maybe it is indeed a historic site, but it has been renovated due to tourism), and there are five big characters on the plaque: the first state in the world.There are quite a few number ones in China, but this time I don't know what is the order.

We walked almost all the streets and alleys in the city.Father, uncle and uncle pointing along the way are full of emotions: what is here, what is there, what was this business like in the past, what kind of family was that house once belonged to, how did a certain temple flourish in those days, temple fairs, etc. It sells kites, rabbits, lotus pods, sugar figurines, noodle tea, old tofu... the small street behind the temple used to be so quiet, rumors of ghosts and ghosts haunted it, and no one dared to walk in the dark... What about the big stone bridge in the north of the city?Oh, it's still there, but it's still the same. When they were young, they used to cross the bridge every day when they went to and from school. The weeping willows beside the bridge and the gurgling water under the bridge were a famous landscape in Z state back then... Our elementary school Woolen cloth?Where?that building?Hey, it's really not what it used to be...

I heard that my hometown is slowly expanding, going deeper into the dusty memory, and constantly pushing the new and bringing forth the old.In the past, like a drowsy old man slowly waking up, he gradually became full of vitality between sighs and sighs.History is thus suspect.Following different sentiments, history turns out to be uncertain. Along the way, I thought, so what is the truth that literature seeks?History is unavoidably an imperial classic, and literature must make up for it, so what matters is those silent souls.History is used to ordering time, outlining the reality in space, and art is not satisfied with such simplification, so we look at the complexity in the depths of this human drama, and inquire about the unique flow of mind in places that are generally missed.Then I thought of Nishikawa's poem: I open a book, / A soul wakes /... / I read a family prophecy / I see no more pain than pain / History only records the great achievements of a few / Others speech converges into silence

That's how it was in my hometown. State Z has always been silent.But in the depths of the silence, there are joys and sorrows, which are extremely vivid.That's because what is silent is not the universal, but the unique flow is just reduced to silence by a universal reader. The car drove slowly, and when it approached the former residence of the Shi family, the father, uncle and uncle were silent, but stared out the window with wide eyes.Historians' old houses are scattered here and there, almost covering a street, but they are all dilapidated and dilapidated. "This is the Sixth Uncle's house." "This is the Second Aunt's house." "This is Seventh Grandpa and Seventh Grandma." "Where is there? Oh, Fifth Uncle used to live there."... Short whispers, so light It seemed that they were afraid of disturbing something, so that the courtyards seemed lifeless and completely silent.

The car finally stopped and stopped at the gate of "our house". But they didn't get out of the car, just sat in the car and looked at the mottled courtyard gate, the stone piers on both sides of the gate, the dry grass shaking on the eaves, and the treetops exposed on the ridge of the roof...Uncle first declared that he didn't want to go in: "Look this way, I'll do it." My father agreed: "I said yes, let's go." I said: "I came all the way just to see the eaves. Is the grass on the grass?" Uncle said: "Do you know who lives here now?" "Who cares about him!" "You know what people will think? If people ask us why we are here, what shall we say?" "Hu Hansan Come back!" I said.They smiled, still cautiously.My uncle and my father insisted on staying in the car, and my uncle pushed me into the courtyard gate.There was no one in the yard, and the doors of the house were locked. The two jujube trees hadn't sprouted yet, and their lumpy branches collided with the eaves, making a soft noise.Uncle pointed to the two side rooms and said to me: "Your father and your mother were married in these two rooms." "Did you see it?" "Of course I saw it. People from the Shijia went to pick up your mother that day." , I followed. I was thirteen or fourteen years old at that time, your mother sat in the sedan chair, and I ran behind all the way, straight home..." I looked at the two old houses carefully, thinking, maybe, I entered the world from here.

When I came out of the yard, I saw my father and uncle walking back and forth on the street, looking into the gates of each courtyard, feeling nervous and looking forward to it.There was no one in the street, and everything was eerily quiet. "Let's go?" "Let's go." Even though they said so, they still looked around. "Why don't you take a break?" "No, let's go." At this time, a person appeared on the other side of the street, walking slowly towards this side.They all leaned against the side of the road, watching the man, seeing him approaching step by step, watching him walk by, and watching him step by step away.do not know.They don't know this person.This person is too young for them to know, maybe they know this person's father or grandpa.The wind is blowing, and the wind blows the weeds on the eaves and the three white hairs under the eaves.The person who had gone away was still looking back, he must be thinking: What are these old people standing there waiting for?

Leaving Z state city, as if leaving a place where souls are dying, both father and uncle seemed to let out a sigh of relief: I want to see her, but I am afraid to see her, hey, Z state!Home, just for such longing and such fear? The car walked intermittently along the Juma River, and the atmosphere became more relaxed.Father said: "Follow this river, and you will arrive at your mother's house." Uncle said: "This river also leads to your grandma's house." Uncle said: "Hey, your grandma has been envious of others all her life. To be able to go to school and study. It wasn’t for your grandma’s insistence, how many of us would be able to go to college?” Several people nodded, but were silent.It seems that this hometown will always be silent for her.I wrote in "Grandma's Star" that when I was a child, my grandma read a literacy textbook every night under the lamp, and always mispronounced the "roar" in the lesson "National Anthem" as "the sound of the hole".I remember that my grandma always envied my mother, saying that she caught up with the new era, went to school again, and was able to work outside...

Juma River glistens in the sun.They say the river used to be much wider, deeper and more swell than now.They said that in the past, almost all of this plain was adjacent to this river.They said that at that time, you could touch a big carp at any time in the shallow water of the river bend.They said that at that time, the river was full of fish, shrimp, crabs, lotus root, and rice with chicken heads. My mother's home is in Zhang Village outside Z State City.That village is really big, and the car drove for about a quarter of an hour from the east of the village to the west of the village.The Juma River flows past the village, and we stopped near a stone bridge.This scene reminds me of a lesson I read when I was a child: Juma River, leaning on the hillside, twists and turns around the village...

Father said: This is the bridge.We walked onto the bridge, and my father said: "Look, that's the house where your mother used to live." On the high soil slope, there is a row of old tile-roofed houses surrounded by a simple loess low wall, especially in the setting sun, it looks lonely, desolate, even decadent.The low wall, my father said it didn’t exist before, but it wasn’t like this before, it used to be a green brick wall, and there used to be a beautiful gatehouse, and there were two old pagoda trees in front of the gate, under which my mother often sat and read... This time we walked into the yard together.There are piles of firewood, wood, and sand in the yard. It seems that this old house wants to change its appearance.The owner is not at home, only a flock of chickens crowing.

Uncle said: "This is the room. Your father married your mother from here." "real?" "Ask him." My father avoided my gaze, didn't speak, blushed, turned and walked away.I dare not say anything more.I know it's not because of anything else, but because of the pain that can't be forgotten.On the Ching Ming Festival ten years after my mother passed away, my younger sister and I went to visit my mother’s grave with my father, but my mother’s tomb has disappeared. At that time, my father had such an expression, his face was flushed, and he said nothing. He hurried away, looking for a red maple tree all over the mountains and plains, and his mother was buried next to that tree.I once wrote: Mother left too suddenly, and she was only 49 years old. At that time, the three of us were frightened by the sudden bad luck. Dare to think about her, even put away her photos and dare not look at it... Until ten years later, on the Ching Ming Festival, we all said that it was time to visit my mother's grave; did not forget... Looking at the hut where my mother lived before she got married, I couldn't help asking: where was I then?At that time, was it destined that her son would come to visit this hut more than 40 years later, and come here to imagine the scene of his mother getting married back then? In 1948, my mother was 19 years old, and the future had already been written. Standing where I was 46 years old, my mother's life had been written word by word in that festive suona sound, and could not be changed.The suona sound, along the time, along the sunshine and seasons, all the way through wind, dust, rain and snow, has been passed down until today to hear its sadness and desolation.But what did the 19-year-old mother hear? What kind of dream does a 19-year-old bride have? What does history have to do with a 19-year-old girl when she walks out of this yard?She held up the skirt of her wedding dress and walked out of the house. Did she look at the courtyard again?She walked out of this hut cautiously or eagerly, walked through this corridor, turned this corner, stepped over this threshold, and then stopped and looked up. What did she see?Ah, Juma River!The green willows on the Juma River are like smoke, the mist is floating, and the future is hidden in that vast expanse... I followed the way my mother got married, walked out of the yard, and walked to the river bank. The same as many years ago, flipping the waves, rushing forward steadily and mightily... I sat by the river, thinking that my mother used to play here and grew up here, maybe she climbed that tree, maybe she played in that piece of water, maybe she just lay in this grass and imagined the future , Then, she left here, walked into the noisy Beijing city, and walked into an inexplicable history.I turned my wheelchair and walked slowly by the river, thinking: From the girl sitting under the old pagoda tree reading, to her son finally visiting this dilapidated house, how many things happened in between.I looked at the endless river and thought: The sedan chair walked along the river bank, the sound of gongs and drums gradually faded away, and the sound of locks might accompany my mother all the way. How did she feel during that long period of time?A person who leaves his homeland, childhood and youth dreams is roughly the same—just like when I went to connect and jump in the queue, I don’t care about anything else, but I am only attracted by the mystery of the future, and I describe it in that mystery. Happiness and Romance... Now I often wonder about my mother's emotional experience.My father is so simple and honest that he lacks romance at all, but my mother is naturally passionate and dreamy. Has she ever had other ideas?Is the first man walking from the bank of the river where the willows are like smoke, the father?Was the last man who refused to go on the misty river bank his father?Even, in the long sound of locks, is there a man standing on the river bank watching his mother's bridal sedan go away?Also, was she satisfied with her love in the ensuing years?The only testimony I can give is: my mother often couldn't laugh or cry, even sighed, about her father's lack of romance, but this man's honesty and kindness made her trust her all her life. When my mother died, I was sitting in a wheelchair and hadn't even found a way to make a living. My sister was only thirteen years old, and my father took care of the family alone.Twenty years, my mother must have seen everything in the kingdom of heaven.Twenty years later, everything was fine. That winter, my father left us overnight.It seemed as if he had finally fulfilled his mother's entrustment, finally survived the pain, fatigue and loneliness he had to endure, and then hurried to find his mother—since she didn't even leave a grave in this world. My hometown, Z state, Zhang village, Juma River... This piece of legend or this piece of dream often makes me think: if the first man on the bank of the river came, or the last man on the bank of the river who refused to go, Neither is my father. If the man standing on the bank of the river and watching my mother's sedan chair fade away becomes my father, will I still be me?Of course, I can only be me, but it is another me.In this way, is my origin too accidental?Is anyone's origin too accidental?It's all by chance, what else is there to say by chance?I must be this one.Everyone must be this one.All people are the same, take a point, a clue, from the long history of their hometown as a starting point.This beginning, just like the continuous suona, will inevitably lead to the ups and downs and sufferings of the mother, but it must reach the suffering and responsibility of the father. This is the "missing and fear" that fate wants you to accept.