Grandpa lives in Lao Huai Li (prose) Wen / Wang Zhiming

The appearance of Grandpa in the memory is blurred. But the old locust tree standing firm in front of the old house is still green and leafy.

When you see the old locust tree, you will see the figure of Grandpa who has long been gone. To this day, I still firmly believe that Grandpa is not dead, and others live in the old locust.

When I was a child, I heard my grandfather say that the old locust tree had grown like this when he was a child, and now it has been hundreds of years, and people have gone through stubble after stubble, but it has not changed at all.

People used to call the old locust tree "old locust", which is different from the "acacia", which is imported from the locust tree race, and some people call it "national locust".

Grandma used to say that this old locust tree was like my grandfather, like the green coat at home, able to shelter from the wind and rain; like the sun umbrella at home, it could shade the sun.

I remember that every year when the Spring Festival couplet was posted, Grandma always told us to stick "going out to see the joy" on the locust tree facing the gate, and said don't break this locust tree, and after sticking it, we must make a wish, prostrate a few heads, and keep the family safe and sound.

I don't know if the old locust is magical, anyway, my family's generations have lived peacefully.

When I was a child, my brain didn't think too much, nor did I take into account my grandmother's inner feelings, but I just felt that she seemed to love this locust tree very much, and we were more careful to paste it tightly, I don't know whether it was the awe of the old locust or the respect for my grandmother.

On a summer morning, when the sky is slightly bright, a few small birds gather on the branches of the old locust and chirp in anticipation of the sun rising soon. At this time, only to hear the "creak" of the door, Grandpa had gotten up and left home to work in the fields.

I don't know when, he developed the habit of getting up early to work, he often hung up on the "three lights in the morning, three panics in the late" on his lips, and nagged for most of his life.

His work in the fields is very distinctive: when he leaves, he eats a mouthful of thin soup, then uses a homemade wooden pot to serve lunch, uses a basket full of pig dung, and waits for the sun to set before picking up two baskets of soil to go home. It wasn't until the moon hung in the treetops and the black light was blind that he went down to the ground and went home. This has become commonplace.

He said to everyone that he was a dirt man, farming alive and returning to the land after death. He believed that farming was his pleasure and farming was his career.

In his spare time, he set up a small homemade wooden table under the old locust in front of the door, and the calloused hand always held a dark and shiny purple sand pot, constantly shuttling between seven or eight tea bowls. Passers-by, whether regular or stranger, can stop and take a sip of herbal tea.

Therefore, the "tea house under the locust tree" has become a beautiful landscape in front of the old house.

The crops are not yet ripe, and throughout the summer evening, the "tea house" under the locust tree has become a gathering place for neighbors to cool off from the heat. People who had been tired for a long time could not wait, when Grandpa took a maza to sit in the middle of the crowd, poured a few bowls of hot tea for everyone, and began to talk to people about whose wheat harvest was good and whose corn was strong.

At this time, someone in the crowd proposed to pull something "with strength", so Grandpa ripped open his voice and talked loudly.

He hadn't gone to school, he was a big old man, but he understood a lot of truth. The stories he tells are often interspersed with the contents of the "Three Character Classic", "Thousand Character Text", "Zhuang Nong Jing" and other contents such as respecting the old and loving the young, thrifting the family, and scientific farming. Coupled with the naturally witty and humorous language characteristics, people can listen to God, sometimes silent, sometimes laughing in unison, sometimes applause thunderously.

Every night he is the protagonist, sometimes afraid of delaying everyone to do farm work the next day, he will also sell Guanzi, always tell the story to the most exciting place to a sharp brake, learn the famous storytelling performance artist Shan Tianfang's tone said: "I want to know what happens next, and listen to the next decomposition!" ”。 Before the "audience" could return to his senses, he had already carried his horse into the house.

The next day, before they could finish dinner, they waited early under the locust tree. In this way, year after year, day after day, I don't know how many happy and happy nights have passed.

Grandpa has always been physically strong and open-minded. But the temperament is too straight, people call it "a tendon", as long as they identify things, the eight rods can not be pulled back. Later, due to a "struggle" with the neighbors, the body collapsed.

The neighbor uncle was a cadre in the township, and he wanted to occupy a corner of my house by virtue of his power, but when grandpa did not comply, the village chief could not be persuaded, so he sent a militia to imprison him in the land temple in the northeast corner of the village, causing his grandmother to stomp on his feet every day to send him food and drink, and later people forcibly occupied the corner. For this reason, Grandpa also vomited blood and became seriously ill.

In front of the hospital bed, he told me that I must study and have a long skill, Grandpa is a loss without culture, and the hope of our family depends on you. Feng Shui takes turns, people will not be poor for a lifetime, and families will not decline for generations.

Holding Grandpa's hand and seeing his tearful eyes, I secretly vowed in my heart that I must grow up and let him "raise his eyebrows" in the future.

It was another late summer evening, and the loyal audience waited for Grandpa for a night, but finally did not wait for his figure, and the story under the locust tree was gone.

Grandpa walked silently with his industrious back, stubborn temperament and wonderful story.

Since then, the "tea house" under the locust tree has disappeared, and the hearty laughter under the locust tree has suddenly stopped. All that remained was the dead locust tree, which was green and dead, standing in the wind.

Decades have passed, my parents have entered old age, and I have jumped out of the "farm door", married and had children, and found a job. A few years ago, the old locust tree in front of the old house actually produced young shoots and miraculously came back to life.

"The tree moves to death, the man moves to live", the root of the old locust has not moved, and the soul is attached.

The hateful uncle of the neighbor is gone, and the "struggle" of their predecessors has become history. But Grandpa was still alive, and I seemed to see him still carrying Maza and telling everyone the "story" that had been repeated a million times. I thought I could go to his weedy grave to comfort him.

Grandpa's life is just like the life of Old Locust. From birth to death, from withering to glory, nature has given them tenacious vitality, so that people and trees will be passed on from generation to generation.

Touching the mottled and cracked body of the old locust, the past is like smoke like a dream, blowing away with the wind.

To this day, I still firmly believe that Grandpa is not dead, and others are still living in the old locust.