In the distant ferry port of memory, there is a short pavilion, and the rows of benches are polished, I don't know how many years they have been, but the camphor around the pavilion is tilted, as if quietly listening to the daily story. Every time you go to the ferry, you can always hear the sound coming from the pavilion, with a melodious tone, flowing in time.
The ferry port is located in the middle of the village, and the river beach is the most lively place, and it is necessary to pass through this place to enter and exit. Next to the village's river beach, there are many pebbles of different colors, the color is white and smooth, and the river beach under the moonlight is glowing with a cool hue, like day. For the villagers, the river beach is inseparable. The farmers poured vegetables and washed the objects on the river beach, and the women each found a suitable large stone to wash. What is incomprehensible is that it has not been possible to masonry the stone port, and everyone has been following the most primitive way. The river beach in summer is particularly lively, and the children play in various ways, playing with the water, touching fish, touching shrimp, catching small crabs are staged every day, until the night is dark, and then gradually disperse in the shouts of each family, and gradually restore calm.
A small wooden boat, not quite sure if it has a canopy, the hull of the wood is somewhat white, and it is somewhat shiny, perhaps the water washes the wood grain. The boat is tied to a large rock at the port, swaying slightly in the turquoise water waves, and the boat is crossed on one side. Over time, I don't remember the appearance of Gong Gong, only that he was a silent person. He wears a straw hat and elongates his voice when he sails the boat, roaring in dialect. The distance between the river and the river is not far, but the boat line is slow. The first time we took the ferry, we were still young, and My Grandfather took us to play in the short pavilion on the other side of the river. The boat was dangling in the water, not yet standing, its hull narrow, and it seemed to feel like it was going to fall into the water. Fortunately, Grandpa saw our fear, pulled it with his hand, and sat down on the side. The hull of the ship naturally tilted, we were closer to the water, and now the scenery that wanted to come to the turquoise waves was completely unintentional at that time, and all that was in our hearts was fear. The inserted the oar into the water, and the boat moved slowly. The ripples of the water became more and more intense, and the sound of the water meeting the hull of the ship was heard, and the occasional breeze was heard, and the sound of the water became more and more powerful. The boat traveled to the center of the river, watching the gurgling water sparkling in the sun, his eyes narrowed into a slit, and the previous fear seemed to dissipate. The boat gradually approached, approaching the ferry at the other end, where the water was much deeper, the fish were clearly visible, and a few large stones on the shore were surrounded, and here was a different scene, like a small pool, which was a little intimidating. Whenever you get off the boat here, you always have to be extra careful, for fear that there will be no water, and if you fall into it, you will be frightened.
We followed Grandpa and staggered off the ferry, and when we looked back, we were already standing on the other side, and we were suddenly excited. The ferry is next to a mountain, and further on it is to cross the mountain. The road up the mountain is paved with stones, and over the years, the color is gray and shiny, and each stone step has its own form, leaving the mark of time. The road was a little narrow, and we followed one after the other, curiously looking at the familiar river beach opposite. The higher up, the more lively it became, and many noises were heard. It didn't take long for us to finally walk to the short pavilion, and when we first met, we were probably attracted by the snack stalls at the entrance of the pavilion. A simple stall, with some brightly colored snacks, we mostly see it at the counter in the commissary, but at the moment it is close at hand, naturally we can't help but imagine. Grandpa ignored it, walked forward with self-care, met the familiar townspeople, sat down on the bench, and the adults began to gossip. And we didn't care about their small talk at all, still stuck in the stall.
Suddenly there was a burst of sweetness in the air, floating around, looking around, it turned out that there was a steamer basket on a stove, a familiar smell, and when the owner opened it, it turned out to be Huang Chengcheng's nine-layer cake. On weekdays, there is no such thing, and only on special occasions does Grandma steam once. Every time the nine layers of cake are steamed, it looks particularly grand, and the air condenses the atmosphere of festival. The busyness began from the first day, the carefully selected japonica rice soaked in water, it took a whole day, let the rice absorb enough water, and then moved out of the stone mill at home, spoon by spoon to grind the rice into a pulp. The preparations were ready, the rest of the steaming kung fu was a kind of test, Grandma stood in front of the stove, spoon by spoonful to the pot of rice syrup, grasping the heat, we gathered around, anxiously waiting for the nine layers of cake. Years later, we left, and my grandmother often made nine-layer cakes in the summer, which was the deepest taste left in my memory. We ate the nine-layer cake in the short pavilion once, the taste was sweeter, and Grandpa could not resist our pleading and bought a piece to send our hungry worms. Naturally, we like to be small tails more and more, and we often follow them, and there are really some inseparable meanings in it.
The annual spring and autumn tour is the most enviable. Grandma prepared lunch and snacks for her sister, and early in the morning they assembled and set off, to the mountain behind the short pavilion. They lined up to board the ferry, and one after another they reached the opposite side, and we stood on the river beach, and heard their joyful cries in the distance, and some let go of their voices, and the echo was repeated over and over again, and at that moment, I wanted to grow wings, fly to the mountains, and play well. However, this eventually became a dream, and before I had the opportunity to go to the other end of the ferry for an autumn tour, I left, and then I never came back.
The ferry port is busy. Villagers go to the town to catch the market, sell the harvest for money, pass by the ferry, or take a boat at the ferry. The river beach is wide, and boats are often parked on the ferry, and it is here that boats come from upstream and take a short rest, and it is also here that you need to take a boat into the city. In autumn, the reeds on the riverbank gradually bloom, and the white flower spikes are soft in the sun and blue sky. Grandpa often set off at the ferry port, sometimes carrying a basket containing autumn harvest crops, leaving early in the morning, and we often waited at the entrance of the village at sunset, accompanied by the moonlight, and there were often unexpected surprises in the basket. From the market, Grandpa would occasionally bring some things that we could not eat on weekdays, and for children, satisfying their appetites was the most cheerful.
Gradually, many people set off from the ferry, either down the river or against the current, wading through mountains and waters, and walking in all directions. Many people in the family gradually left this ferry port, took their bags, and went out to find a new life, and the ferry port was another kind of beginning. The dense boats on the river beach also gradually dispersed, the voice of the short pavilion became weaker and weaker, and the ferry port became increasingly depressed.
Many years after leaving, I learned that the ferry port had disappeared and sunk to the bottom of the river, and the large stones on the shore did not know whether they were still there? Standing on the edge of the river, I wanted to see the former ferry port, but I was just dazed. In the vastness of time, we are all just passers-by at the ferry, and perhaps nothing has been left behind, and the untied boat of the ferry does not know where to go with the river? Where will we go in the torrent? The ferry port has disappeared, leaving only a faint memory of indifference, only a memory of it.
Author: Empty Mountain Moon Shadow
Image: Network