Looking back at the green onion years

At that time, my family lived in No. 6 Yangjia Village, and Xi Jin's family lived in No. 10, both in Luxi, and they were all Liu family's houses. She and her parents, siblings, and family of five rented only one room. The family is not financially prosperous.

Xi Jin is the same age as me. We all attend Yangjiacun Primary School. She is a beautiful and lively girl, and when she grows up, she is a beautiful and lively girl, and everyone loves her. Her father had served as a soldier in the Kuomintang before liberation, and probably as a minor leader. There's something wrong with history anyway. When we were neighbors, her father's occupation was to pull rack carts. Looks quite loyal, although haggard vicissitudes, but the facial features are correct, the figure is moderate, and the appearance is good. Xi Jin looked like her father. By then her father was suffering from intermittent psychosis, but not violent. I remember once when I fell ill for some reason, it was raining heavily, the streets were muddy, and her father was running back and forth in the street barefoot and barefoot, one foot deep and one foot shallow, shouting and shouting something that others could not understand. Many people stood under the gate and looked out, watching the bustle. Xi Jin felt very faceless, and hid at home with her mother to quietly wipe away tears. Her father's illness was not a frequent occurrence, and I had only seen this time. Then one day her father committed suicide by throwing himself into a well. The well was just outside the window of her house, and the body was fished up and placed next to the well, with the marks of a knife slashing on her bare chest. People talked about it, he might want to wipe his neck, but he couldn't get his hands down, and he cut it a few times before he went to the well. Before throwing into the well, he first threw the reel down, tested his wife's reaction, and saw that her wife did not move, completely desperate, and then jumped down. These are all natural arguments, and there is no factual basis. However, it can be seen that there is a deep rift between husband and wife.

Soon after Xi Jin's father died, they moved. Moved to North Fire Lane near The Eight Immortals Temple. That house was much larger than Yangjia Village, and the sugar gourd was like three small rooms in depth. Xi Jin's mother was a housewife who also pasted matchboxes to supplement the family when she lived in Yangjia Village. She was young and beautiful, with two large braids, her hair a little curly, studded with silver-white teeth, able to speak, and capable, and after her husband's death, her family's days began to blossom and blossom. By then we had already graduated from elementary school, and we were all in the nearest middle school. Because Xi Jin moved, she transferred to another middle school close to home.

Although we are no longer neighbors or classmates, we are still good friends and always in constant contact. Later, her mother remarried, also joined the work, and gave birth to a little brother. Until her stepfather bought three houses in Mengjia Lane and a small courtyard. Her yard is on the east side of the laneway, opposite is No. 52 Mengjia Lane, which is the home of my wife Jingbo.

Shortly after we graduated from high school, we once met, and Xi Jin mysteriously told me that there was a reporter living across from her house and had a lot of books. He also said that now that they were very acquainted, he asked me if I would like to know him, and I was very happy at that time. Xi Jin first borrowed a few books for me to read. Back and forth, the two sides who have not yet met were introduced. Later, one day, Xi Jin said to me that the people's building auditorium was screening the internal movie "Stage Sisters", and the reporter could get a ticket and invite her to watch it. She also asked me for a ticket, just enough to introduce me to him. I'm excited. I had no access to internal films, and I had never been in the People's Mansion. For me, both of these are high-end consumption. Not to mention a mysterious figure. That night, Xi Jin and I arrived early, and in the uneasy waiting, Jing Bo came. I was disappointed by his image, short, supple, walking as if jumping and jumping. There is no trace of journalistic style. As soon as they met, Xi Jin smiled and said, "Why did you come?" Without saying a word, he sat down next to Xi Jin, and said to me, who was sitting on the other side of Xi Jin, you are that literary youth.

Shizuna and I met in this way. It was 1965.