How many years have you not seen snow in the sky?
A few days ago, the weather forecast said cold air was coming and there would be snowfall. Last night, the winter wind blew and blew all night. In the morning, the snow fell, this year's snow fell with the leaves of the ginkgo, the ginkgo was a little earlier, in the wind of last night began to rise, one, two, three or four, paving the streets, attracting passers-by to stare. It turned out that Ginkgo biloba had come to play a sentinel first, after all, the snow had not come for many years.
The snow came, beating the tree branches, the black tiles, the window glass, the granite ground, rustling, like a beautiful note, telling the people who waited for the snow that the snow was coming. It began to be sparse, and then one after another, like a heavenly goddess scattering flowers flying in the sky. I opened the window, the snow drifted in front of the window, I stretched out my hands to hold it, trying to see what it looked like, but the flowers did not intend to turn into droplets of water in an instant.
The first snow of 2020, boiling circle of friends, vibrato, videos, pictures, was brushed by this long-awaited first snow.
Winters haven't been so lively in years. Winter in the south, now the change of seasons is no longer so distinct, yesterday was still warm as spring, a cold wind overnight, immediately frozen you caught off guard. The snow doesn't know where it's going, and winter without snow always feels like something is missing.
When I was a child, the winter was not without snow, and the winter at that time was particularly long, and the snow was also very public. At the beginning of the snow, the shallow creek is covered with a thin layer of ice, clear and transparent, and you can see swam in groups of small fish swimming around. At the head of the port were black pebbles, and the thin ice floating between the pebbles was lightly stepped on with his feet, clicking and clicking. At the top of the hill in front of the village, there is a steep rock wall with clear spring water flowing all year round, and where the water flows, there is a dense water calamus and grass. Frozen three feet, the water calamus and the grass will form a crystal clear ice lingzi, hanging long, like the old man on the stage hanging long white beard. We picked up small stones one after another, looking for the most favorite throw, accidentally hit, crackled, and the ice lingzi cut off and fell on the rock, bursting into countless pieces, rolling down the foot of the mountain. We scrambled up, scrambling for the crushed ice stained with grass foam, sucking beautifully, like eating sweet popsicles, grinning with our teeth.
In the snowy winter, we craned our necks, sandwiched a fire cage between our legs, and sat in the ventilated classroom on all sides, secretly simmering beans and simmering rice cakes under the table with our hands. Crackling sounded, the sharp eyes of the teacher in front of the podium swept over like a sword, the fire cage fell to the ground, soot and charcoal flew, the same table jumped and dodged, and the classroom laughed.
I still remember that winter in the fourth grade, at noon when snowflakes were flying, a few of us sneaked to the orchard of Daping Mountain and picked a lot of green and astringent apples. Eating and playing all the way, before reaching the door of the classroom, it was blocked in the corridor, and the uncle who managed the orchard in the original production team had already come to the school. With a confession of leniency, one by one obediently stood against the wall, and more than half of the class went to the orchard.
The snow day reminds me of my hands full of frostbite, I don't know when it is good, maybe it is the winter of those years is particularly cold, frostbite has not been able to shake off, like a shadow following me for decades.
The snow fell for a long time that year, and on the day of Chinese New Year's Eve, it snowed again, all the way down, all the way down, without the slightest intention of stopping. The leaves of the pig's food radish vegetables stored at home were about to disappear, and the mother put on rain boots, tied a piece of plastic sheet on her body, and picked up the basket to prepare for the door. As soon as I saw my mother dressed like this, I immediately went back to the house to put on my rain boots, tie up the plastic sheet, and pick up the basket. When my mother saw that I insisted on going with me, she brought me a large piece of plastic cloth to change into, and then went back to the house to find two thick cotton cloths for shoes, and wrapped my palms with wires in a circle and a bandage.
We walked into the wilderness in the face of the wind and snow, and there was no one around. The snow on the ground was piled thickly, and the mother decided to dig grass seeds in her family's field, which were usually reluctant to dig up for pigs as food, but to keep the seeds and sell them. When I came to the grass seed field, I saw only a white expanse, and occasionally I saw grass seeds showing yellow-green leaf tips, which were also hidden in the snow pile one by one, and it was necessary to pull off the snow covering it. Snowflakes caught in the snow, not like raindrops falling straight down, but like small worms flying up and down, some hit my face, some stained my eyelashes, and some burrowed into my collar, wetting my neck and upsetting me. The dirt and snow were frozen together, the cotton cloth that my mother had tied for me had long been soaked by the snow water, my fingertips were unconscious, and my feet were numb and stiff. I squatted down and dug a few trees, stood up and stomped my feet, folded my palms together and put them to my mouth, and kept breathing, my face was full of water, and I couldn't tell whether it was rain or tears. When my mother saw it, she urged me to hurry home quickly, and I saw the shallow pig grass in my mother's basket, and her wet face, gritting her teeth and insisting until both baskets were full, and then dragging her wet and cold body home.
When I got home, my mother quickly brought hot water to soak my feet. Unziped the wet cotton cloth on my hands, I found that my hands had swollen into two swollen buns, blue and purple.
After that time, my hands and feet fell to the roots of frostbite, and in the winter, they were extremely itchy, festering and bleeding, and my heels were so swollen that I couldn't even pull my shoes. In order to heal my frostbite, my mother tried many folk remedies. I heard that wiping my hands with snow water in the summer can cure frostbite, so my mother washed large and small jars and filled them with snow sealed storage; burned the dog bones and crushed them into fine powder to apply to the rotten sores; cut the ginger into slices and baked on the lid of the fire, and gently rubbed the red and swollen areas when it was baked hot; dug a hole in the radish, poured with chili oil to preheat, and then smeared with radish pepper juice with a feather. I heard that the blood of the sparrow can cure frostbite, and my father also went to catch the sparrow and came back, and concocted it according to the home remedies.
Outside the window, there was a burst of laughter, which pulled back my drifting thoughts. Not far away, a group of adults and children playing in the snow at the door. The snow was getting heavier and heavier, one piece, two pieces, swirling. Before long, the roof accumulated a layer of white, along the tiles arranged in the lines, like the imprints of the car rutted, holding up branches without a single leaf, neat lines flowing out of pure black and white simple pictures, the world became so pure, only black and white, snow covered all the complexities of the world.
When I came home from work, I pushed the door into the house, and the warm breeze came in. When my mother-in-law saw me, she quickly got up and went into the bedroom, felt a hot water bottle in the bed with her hands, wrapped it in a flannel cotton cloth and handed it to me.
Blowing the warm wind, holding the hot water bag, looking at the beautiful snow scene in the circle of friends, I remembered the snowy winters of those years, remembered the Chinese New Year's Eve with the wind and snow, and the past when my mother and I dug grass seeds in the snow.
About author:Song Xuan'e is a member of Jinhua Writers Association. He has published literary works in local newspapers and online platforms.