My hometown is in Zhen'an, and there is a place called Milian Town in Zhen'an County. Seven mountains, two rivers and one field. It belongs to the poor ridge area of southern Shaanxi. It also belongs to the area with strong nostalgia for the villagers.
The sky is a little hazy, is it fog? No! Is it haze? No! It's an obscure mood.
The car is getting closer and closer to home, and I have never felt the feeling of riding a leisure car so enjoyable! Escaping from the gray ancient capital, the car suddenly burrowed into the arms of the father's mountain, a hug of green mountains, full of greenery, full of green clusters flew by, the distant mountains and near the water were so sweetly snuggled, birds sang in the forest, a few egrets accompanied by the river, from time to time a few dive into the water to try their hands, and when they came out, they seemed to have a good harvest. Did not make a moment to stay, the low tire noise extended, the car shuttled in the vein of the father's mountain, quiet like a child in the swaddling, a song that was not carefully savored in the past", "The Most Beautiful is Shangluo" melodiously intoxicating charm, at this moment the heart is drunk, drunk in the melody of the song, drunk in the thick green of the mountain!
A little light ahead became brighter and brighter, and finally it took the shape of a door, and gently we stepped into the place where the sun stayed. Green mountains and green waters, lotus fields ripples, green dominates the world in front of you, children running and playing, a few young girls with raccoon yarn by the river, willows fluttering on the riverbank, a few buffalo leisurely nibbling on the grass on the field, cooking smoke wafting a few sounds of mother calling children ... . In front of you, the hometown of ink painting, tian is a mirror scattered on both sides of the riverbank, and the vascular-like ditch is sparkling with light, connecting the clean lenses on the green riverbank, regular or irregular reflection of the shadows of distant mountains and nearby trees. Although it is not the season of rice blossoms, the aroma of the field soil is still drunk on me at this moment!
In this way, he gently stepped into his hometown, measured the soft dirt road with his feet, used his hands to shake the coolness of the river water, the Qianyou River still flowed endlessly, and danced with the selflessness of "a river of clear water to Beijing", rushing with the endless rush of his fathers and fellow villagers. Whether the dragon, which has the charm of the meandering water, is named after the Qianyou River's several unwilling looks back, and today's dragon has historically carried the burden of welcoming guests in a beautiful hometown. On both sides of the riverbank, rice paddies are connected to the unfolding landscape and cattle herding map, the mountainside is surrounded by broken flowers woven with cherries and walnuts, and chestnuts and green pines are pulled out of the greenery of the mountains and the great banks! The costumes of the hometown throughout the year are beautiful, the green mountains and rivers, the simple rural sounds in the ears, and the smell of firewood in the mountains and wilderness, so gently remember the nostalgia.
Still moving forward with the feeling and joy of the heart, he suddenly stepped into the Jiangnan of the Terrace Wine Pavilion. Step over the stone arch bridge, sandwich between the quaint buildings, there are no high-rise buildings, more than two floors of quaint and elegant rhyme, once the hometown is still faintly in front of you. Under the ancient eaves, the wine flag flutters, and the taste of those memories fills the streets and alleys, the oil aroma of twist flowers, the thickness of bacon, the crispness of sesame cakes, the peculiarity of bean sauce... Just revel in the streets of Yun Town.
Happy streets and alleys, handmade noodles in the sunshine reflect the happy smiling faces of craftsmen, jingling blacksmith shop, writing the continuation of a thousand years of farming civilization, holding a string of cypress trees spun out of the wooden beads, boiling a pot of small wooden ridges contained in the mountain spring, three or three two reclining street corner of the old man, savoring the taste of the elephant garden rare leaves. The streets are lined with mille-feuille bottoms, old coarse cloth, embroidered pillows, and Red Army hats, which lightly outline the taste of the street market; shochu, caramel, popcorn, walnuts, chestnuts, pulp buns, hot baking tells the taste of home in memory. The halal food on the street corner stirs the stomach of pedestrians, and the lamb bubbles and dumpling noodles are not only the intestines of the fathers and fellow villagers, but also the warmth of the tourists who come out of interest and gradually look back and nostalgia. On the stone slab street, I can no longer find the bluestone that broke my forehead when I was a child, and the brick wall on the corner corner is clearly engraved with the imprint of the second uncle's worn-out ox cart creaking and ringing axle, so quietly stepping on the imprint of the years on the stone bridge, gently remembering the nostalgia on the bridge railing.
Today I embarked on this road home again, and the mountains of my hometown are still there, and the old houses full of childhood joy are still quietly stationed in that mountain range. The grass has become the protagonist of today's home, and although they cannot enter the house, they also violently crowd the familiar road home. The old holly tree on the edge of the soil in front of the courtyard was still green, the trunk that stretched out obliquely forward was getting older, the empty trunk seemed to have no birds and finches to stay, the moss had crawled all over the trunk, the light-dried nodules that had climbed as a child were still there, and the wild vines that grew from the tree had grown as thick as an adult's arm. Childhood memories, every autumn when the grapes are ripe, climbing the vine and picking grapes has become the best entertainment after school, when we hang one by one in the treetops, the mother holds the thorns under the tree, caring more than scolding, worrying even the tone of high octaves of reproach has changed. When we jumped in front of her like a monkey, she had forgotten what to do with the thorns, and the smiling face was full of love, the heartache of the hanging clothes, the eagerness to take the opportunity to slap the dust on our bodies, check whether we were injured, laugh and scold from under the old holly tree, and the care would fall unreservedly in a rice bowl larger than our faces!
The mountains in my hometown are still familiar and stubborn, I have left in a hurry countless times, and I have returned empty countless times, and my hometown is still quietly waiting. The old house of the slanting sun, the climbing vine hedge, the holly of the sky, the artemisia grass, these places that have stayed nostalgic, no matter how far I will come back, I will come back with thoughts!
drip... drip...! Two crisp trumpets, I woke up from the dream, the window is still my deeply attached hometown, the mountain, the water, the people are different, the Qianyou River has become a bend of the stream, those familiar mountains, familiar water, familiar streets, familiar trees, familiar people, familiar taste is not yesterday.
Over the years, some things are slowly returning, and I only hope that one day the hometown in front of me will return to the dream! Let people shallowly recall the former ink hometown, see the green water, see the green mountains, stay homesickness!
About the Author:
Mao Zhaodong, pen name "Yisong Listening to the Wind",
Anren of Zhen' Shaanxi, a cadre of the County Development and Reform Bureau, loves literature.
"Fast" happy youth, "flash" bright chestnut township.
Zhen'an youth sang "Sing a Mountain Song to the Party":
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