A 1957 Chevrolet speeds across the plains of Iowa at seventy miles an hour.In late autumn at 42 degrees north latitude, the midday sun rolls a copper ring in the blue sky in the south at an oblique angle of more than 40 degrees, while golden waves of light overflow into the glass window, caressing my newly shaved face.I drink deeply the grass-scented air, and let the mature autumn in North America fill my lungs with many oriental memories.Yes, this is late autumn, also known as "Indian Summer" by the Yankees, the most memorable good weather in the second half of the year.Soon the cold current will sweep across the plains of Canada from the North Pole to the south, and that is the day to wear fur hats, fur coats, and boots to struggle in the snow.At this moment, the sun is gazing at the corns dreaming of golden dreams on the plain; miraculously, flocks of swallows are whispering and chasing in the clear sky, and eagles are rising from the horizon, circling in the distant sky, coveting the white fences of others chicks, or, as Professor Angell told me, voles in the grass.It was the day after Halloween, and the porches of every house were decorated with empty pumpkin skins painted with human faces.At the end of the empty fields lined with Hedun, there are stretches of slowly undulating yellow sunshine. I really want to ask Professor Angell to park the car on the side of the road and let me go there to run wildly, yell, and roll a few times , and finally lie on his back to bask in the sun and take a fairytale nap.Really, for ten years, I have always wanted to sleep in the big cradle of the prairie.I have always envied Serra's famous painting "Island of the Big Bowl on Sunday Afternoon" the French gentleman leaning lazily on the grass and fantasizing about it, and the little girl in red jumping up and down on it with the rhythm of lyric poems.I am even more envious of the expanse, the soft and luxurious sense of security that Borodin showed in his music.However, orientals are orientals after all, so I naturally did not tell Professor Angell this idea.

Orientals are indeed Orientals.Well, let’s take Mr. Angle, who is sitting on my left, already in his fifties this year, has published a novel and six collections of poetry, has been a professor at Harvard University, and is the father of two daughters; He was wearing a cap with a gray grid and white bottom, a pullover sweater, blue work pants that were worn white, and sneakers (only middle school students in China wear them).Compared to him, I am much more of a "gentleman". Glasses, tie, fur coat, stiff suit trousers and shiny black leather shoes make me not feel like his student.From the mirror, I caught glimpses of Mrs. Angle, Sarah, and Chrissy in the backseat from time to time.It seemed that Mrs. Angle was also in her fifties.Sarah is Angel's youngest daughter. She is about fifteen years old. She looks exactly like her father—the pale golden hair hangs down freely on the back of her neck. On the face, the freckles that American little girls often have are unavoidable.The back row is always female, and the little flower dog Chris is no exception.She probably seldom saw Orientals, she jumped to the front seat to squeeze in with me several times, looked at me with her head tilted, and touched the back of my neck with the cold tip of her nose.

Professor Angell called me last night and asked me to go to the "outskirts" at noon today.At that time, I didn't know where his so-called "outskirts" meant, so I naturally agreed.And now, we have been driving on the flat and straight road for more than an hour, and they still have no intention of stopping.Of course, if the teacher invites you to travel, it is not easy to refuse.While I was "favored", I still couldn't help but harbor ghosts in my heart, and I felt that I was more "surprised" than "favored".Their so-called treats are often just "snacks" that are not enough to eat.Just like the last time I experienced in their house - two slices of bread, a piece of butter, a plate of tomato soup, a few biscuits.When I returned to the dormitory "Sifang City" that night, it was already half past eleven. It was too late to eat the buffet, so I only drank a glass of iced milk and was hungry all night.

"Paul," Mrs. Angle finally said, "let's go to Anamosa for lunch. I haven't seen Mary in a long time." "Oh, we'd better go directly to Shicheng." "Stone City"?This place name is so familiar!I must have heard or seen the name somewhere.Only now it has leaked out of the web of my memory. "Oh, Paul, it's not far away, so why not make a bend?" Mrs. Angle insisted. "O please, Daddy!" Sarah was missing her good friend Linda. Professor Angor said OK, and turned the car to the gravel road on the right.His beloved daughter is famous.He once wrote a hundred sonnets for his two daughters and published a separate book, American Child.Sarah loves horses, and he bought a pony for one hundred and fifty yuan.Sarah wanted to ride a horse to participate in the "Alumni Homecoming Parade" at the University of Iowa, and her father went to Olin, twenty miles away, to borrow a trailer, loaded the little white horse on the trailer, and transported it to the square where the parade took place , because horseback riding is not allowed on the road.But when the parents get old, the daughter must be separated.In front of the gate of the nursing home, you can often see old people sitting on armchairs basking in the sun boredly.This scene is unimaginable in China.I once saw a seventy-five-year-old (some say eighty-year-old) shambling old craftsman living alone in a large empty house, so I learned about Robert Frost's "Winter Nights of the Old Man" The bleak mood of the poem.

But that parade was very interesting.Iowa City, which usually has a population of only 28,000, was packed with more than 50,000 spectators that night—some came from Cedar Rapids, and some even came from 300 miles away. Chicago.Miles of parades, including campaign advertising vehicles, Sai Mei floats, old people's teams, tandems, unicycles, ancient painted boats on the Mississippi River, old trains used in the opening of the West, and old four-horse horse-drawn carriages, The most exciting thing is the classic team, all the cars in Iowa before 1920 were dispatched.For a while, trains screamed on the street, steamboats whistled, and ancient cars staggered along, giving people an illusion of time.A group of about a hundred members of the big band appeared at intervals of tens of feet. The leading girl, wearing shorts on a cold night in the forty degrees Fahrenheit, danced the baton vigorously and stepped forward.The most moving team is "The Scottish Highlanders" (The Scottish Highlanders), which not only has a strong lineup, gorgeous colors, but also the most melodious music.For a moment you can only see flower skirts and tassels fluttering, drums and bagpipes blare, and the resonant sound of the flute echoes and echoes in the air, reminding you of Scott's legend and Burns' folk songs.

The car stopped at the alley of a small town, and I woke up from the glorious dream of ancient times.Looking in the direction of the barking of a small flower dog, an elderly couple came out of a small bungalow to welcome the guests.After everyone sat down in the living room, Professor Angell introduced me to Mr. and Mrs. Bauer.Mr. Bauer's hair is already grey, and he looks to be in his fifties. There is an ancient melancholy in his wrinkled smile, which is different from the typical American who is full of color and has a lot of meat.When he heard Professor Angor say that I am from Taiwan, the light blue in his eyes immediately brightened.He said that he had been to China 20 years ago and had lived in Guangzhou for more than three years; then he spoke a few words of Cantonese that he could still recall, his eyes stopped in the void, apparently lost in the past.On the opposite side of the earth, in a foreign country in the late autumn afternoon, an old man with blue eyes actually talked to me about China. The nostalgia of the homeless is very heavy.I think back to a time in Hong Kong when my mother was still alive...

Sarah had already gone to the back to find her little friend Linda, and Professor Angell and his wife followed the hostess to the basement to get wine.The greetings between the host and the guest came to an end, and everything fell into silence.My eyes were drawn to a reprinted oil painting on the wall: the small river, the small bridge, the nearby village, the distant path, the round trees, all in a half-sleeping state, dreaming in a fairy-tale virgin green; a little thought , I recognized that it was the masterpiece "Stone City" (Stone City) by the late American painter Grant Wood (1892-1942).In China, Mi and I also have such a small copy. Both of them said that this painting is so beautiful, and it is surprisingly quiet, it should be out of fantasy.Reminiscent of the "Stone City" that Professor Angell mentioned in the car just now, I couldn't help being surprised and my heart beat.At this time, Professor Ingres had returned to the living room, noticed the puzzled look I cast on the wall, glanced at the painting, and said:

"This scenery is exactly our destination. We have a small summer house in Shicheng, which has not been guarded for a long time, so I will take a special look today." I was still pleasantly surprised. Mr. Ball explained to me that Wood was originally a friend of Professor Angle. He was born in Cedar Rapids, the state, and once taught at the Art Department of the University of Iowa. This "Stone City" is Wood A view of Shicheng Town from the corridor of Professor Angell's summer house. After a quick "snack" lunch, we said goodbye to the Bauer family and continued to drive towards Shicheng.As the tree shadows lengthened along the way, we gradually approached our destination.Finally, when we turned the third hill, we saw Stone City from a different angle than that in Wood's painting.Under the setting sun, the water of the river reflects a faint golden color, and the small bridge is still there, but it is old and peeling off, not as glorious as in the painting.Ah, the mill is still there, and the bushes are still there, but everything is like an ancient copper coin, worn much darker by time; and on the top of the round hill, there are only half-yellow grass and messy stumps, just like the golden age of ashes.I can't help but be disappointed.

"Ah, when spring comes, everything changes. The grass is fresher than it is in the painting!" Professor Angell explained. In a blink of an eye, we were driving on the wooden bridge. After crossing the small river, we gradually turned up the slope. Soon, the light blue color of the river meandered in the overlooking.At the top of the mountain, Professor Angel parked the car in front of the low wooden gate of the villa.They all went to the front door of the summer house, when Mrs. Ingres suddenly cried out that the lock on the door had been broken.After entering the house, there are broken cups, shredded papers, dismembered books, toys with severed limbs, and disemboweled sofa cushions everywhere in the corridor, living room, and study room. Remain.Professor Angor shrugged his philosophical shoulders and smiled wryly at me.Sarah saw her toy being destroyed, and silently picked it up and held it in her hands.Mrs. Ingres complained hopelessly, picking up one piece of broken furniture and dropping another.

"These wild children! These damned wild children!" "Where did the wild child come from? Can't you call the police?" "They are all children from nearby families. After the middle school holidays, groups of people come to our place to mess around, have fun, dance, and drink." As she spoke, she picked up an empty wine glass with a broken neck, "Call the police? We report it every year, what's the use? Do you know who broke in?" "Can't someone guard it?" I asked again. "Oh, that's too expensive, and at the same time no one would do it! We only come here for three months each summer, and we can't hire a man to watch the other nine months."

Then Mrs. Angle remembered the two large bedrooms and a guest room upstairs, and hurried up, followed by everyone else.The messy situation is the same as downstairs: there are dirty footprints on Simmons, fishing rods and open balls are rolled on the floor.After sighing, she had no choice but to sit down dejectedly.Professor Angell and I stood on the west-facing corridor, leaning on the railing and overlooking.The sun was already setting, and dusk rose between the golden ball and us.Looking down from here, you can just see the stone city in the painting.Naturally, on the artist's canvas, everything is simplified, beautified, and re-arranged, through the precipitation of imagination.Professor Angle told me that Wood was painting on the bracket in this gallery at the beginning, and the draft was completed after several changes.Then he recounted Wood’s life for me, saying that Grant (Wood’s name) refused to work when he was young, and he would hang around all day after painting, often offering paper flowers made of glue to women, and soon the bouquet of flowers was scattered. ; or teach elementary school students to shape lampshades into the shape of parchment manuscripts.But people in Iowa liked him, friends gave him money, antique shops hung up his works, and even a millionaire came all the way to attend his bohemian parties— —His bedroom was borrowed for free by the owner of a funeral home.However, he despises this kind of reputation that is limited to a corner. He has traveled to Paris several times, hoping to conquer the capital of art.However, Paris is not easy to conquer, you have to conquer Paris with what Paris does not have; and Wood is just an imitator, he has been learning abstractionism from Impressionism.He rented a gallery in the Rue de Seine and exhibited thirty-seven of his landscapes, but the critics remained very indifferent.During his fourth trip to Europe, he realized from the precise and delicate local scene paintings of the German primitive school in the 15th century that his art must be based on his hometown, the Midwest of the United States.After rushing back to Iowa, he began to create a simple, solid and artistically simplified style. When the painting "American Gothic" was exhibited, the critics unanimously recognized his art.However, this "Stone City" should still belong to his relatively "soft" works, not enough to represent his highest achievement, but a charming innocence is still irresistible. "Grant has been dead for seventeen years, but to me he's been sitting on this porch dreaming of conquering Paris." The orange-red sun fell to the vast horizon, and the coolness of the autumn evening was getting stronger.There was frost on the grass, a thin layer, but in my case it had been gone for ten years.The light of the sunset still lingers on the tops of the beautifully patterned cypress trees, while the shadows in the valley below are already expanding.A cricket's chirping or two could be heard from nowhere, but other than that, the birds were silent and the fields were quiet.What I miss is not a subtropical island, but an ancient city by the Jialing River. On the way home, we tossed the setting sun to our right and sped south.The orange-red lingering on the plain, will disappear in a blink of an eye.The sky is so blue that it is unreal, and soon the myth of the constellations can be written.We seem to be sleepwalking in an unknown century at high speed, and I, who come from the East, are out of touch with the background of all time and space, like a thread of gossamer, completely irrelevant.