Huang Nifang (Prose) in Post-95 Literature Memory

  I grew up in the countryside until I was eight years old. I vaguely remember that when I was a child, our house was in a mountainous mountain. The house was a yellow mud house covered with black and gray tiles. There are many bird nests and swallow nests on the walls of the house.

  The yellow mud house is warm in winter and cool in summer. According to my mother, the yellow mud house was built by my father when he was seventeen. My grandfather, who I had never met before, fell down on the mountain road home that year and passed away. Since then, my father has taken up this home on his tender shoulders. I still can't imagine how a 17-year-old child will face all this. My father invisibly gave me strength and taught me to face calmly and live optimistically, which is the best way to face everything in life. But every time I think about what happened to my 17-year-old father, my heart is always sour.

  People in my father's time always seem to be as tough and brave as we can't imagine.

  As long as I can remember, my father can fix things at home, from motorcycles to alarm clocks. I don't know where I learned them. My father seems to have never graduated from primary school, but he knows everything and can do anything. When my father was young, he studied carpentry with his grandfather. The tables, chairs and even sleeping beds at home were made by his father himself. Everything in the house has his father's hard work, the yellow mud room and everything in it.

  Because my home is in the depths of the country, there is still a distance from the road. That mountain road is winding, with many downhill slopes, and bamboo forests on both sides of the road. My father has a Yamaha motorcycle, which he used to drive me for more than three years. I arrived at school at eight o'clock in the morning. My father set the alarm clock at half past six and pulled me out of bed. I got on my father's motorcycle after eating my mother's breakfast in a daze, ready to leave for the urban and rural buses by the road. Every morning, my father sent me to the side of the road at the foot of the mountain to wait for the bus, and there was not a day left. Winter is the hardest, and it's especially cold to ride a motorcycle against the biting wind, so my father bought me a small pink helmet. After my father put me on the side of the road, he waited until I got on the bus. When waiting for the bus, he sometimes picks up some dead branches and piles them together to make a fire. I shivered in my scarf, my father's hands were white, and I lit the branches with a lighter, which suddenly warmed up with the creaking sound. My little hand and my father's big hand were above the fire, and at that moment, all the cold vanished.

  I spent my childhood in the yellow mud house in that mountain, which was also the most carefree and pure time in my life. The side room of the yellow mud house is a kitchen built by my father. There is a big earthen stove. I think the rice cooked by the earthen stove is particularly fragrant. Mother bought some fish and kept them in a big red basin. One day, I saw the fish lying sideways in the water with their mouths open. I thought it was dying, so I learned to give artificial respiration to the fish on TV-it seemed useless, and the fish still lay there with their eyes rolled. In the evening, it served on my dining table, braised fish, and my mother must have stewed it in a cauldron for a long time. "A thousand stewed tofu, ten thousand stewed fish", since childhood, they told me that the more stewed the fish, the more delicious it is, and the richer it tastes, and then put some garlic sprouts on it, which is fragrant! Later, when I moved into a building, the dishes cooked by gas stoves were always less delicious than the ones I ate when I was a child, and they always lacked some smells.

  In summer, the yellow mud room is very cool, and there is no need for electric fans. In the evening, we sat in front of the house and enjoyed the cool breeze. At that time, the night sky was dark blue, black and pure. The stars are especially bright, as if they were close to me. Father often takes out his recliner and moves to the outside of the yellow mud room, so he lies staring and falls asleep. When I was a child, it was common to sleep in front of my house.

  A small vegetable plot was developed by my mother on the narrow foundation in front of the yellow mud house. My mother planted food for our family of three all year round on that small and bare foundation. My mother is the most creative person I have ever met. The delicate and gentle nature of women makes the small family in the yellow mud room rich and full.

  The yellow mud house hidden in the country was demolished a few years ago. I know the news from my father, and I can feel his disappointment, even though he didn't say anything. There are traces of my father's first half life, my childhood and the life of our family of three in that house. Perhaps these are our attachment to our homeland and the house in our bones.

  In recent years, everyone's living conditions have improved, and the small foreign buildings in the village have been built one after another. What remains unchanged is the ginkgo tree at the entrance of the village. Every time I pass that road, I will slow down and smell the ginkgo leaves carefully. In fact, there is nothing particularly obvious, but it will make me calm under that tree. At that time, after dinner, every family moved small benches to sit around the tree and have a chat. Children played games around the ginkgo tree, and the sounds of laughter, words and breeze blowing through the leaves were mixed together. It was these odds and ends that made up my childhood.

  It is these memories about the countryside that make me who I am now. No matter what part I am missing, I will never be who I am now.

  Source: China Youth Daily client