At middle age, reminiscing about the past is a very happy thing. Eight years ago, I moved my wife and children from the small village where I was born and raised to a high-rise in the county town. But my heart always flies back to the days when we lived in the countryside, savoring and relishing that rich and intoxicating homesickness. My heart, which longs for the soil, often bridges from one side to the other, soaking in the homesickness that overflows from my homeland, and indulging at my own doorstep...
I have deep feelings for the small village where I was born and raised. As a child, my mother would take me to work in the fields, and I, along with a few young companions, would carefree catch grasshoppers in the grass and chase butterflies on wildflowers. When we were tired and thirsty, we would each find our mothers, who would lead us to the tinkling waterwheel, scoop up clear and sweet well water, and drink several big gulps. Sometimes, if there was no waterwheel, my mother would break a sorghum stalk, weave its leaves into a carnation flower shape, tie it at one end, then lean by the nearby well edge, using the flower to bring up the water. I would quickly open my little mouth, looking up to drink the dripping clean water from the sorghum leaves. It seemed to me that the well water of those times refreshed the lungs and tasted purer and sweeter than today's Wuliangye liquor...
Gradually, I grew into adolescence. In my teenage pupils, dawn was a streak of flying red clouds; daytime was a vast expanse of blue sky; dusk was a pastoral poem painted by the setting sun. At that time, we could clearly see the distant Langya Mountain, cotton-like white clouds, and smoke transforming the villages into fairyland-like illusions... The heaven and earth of that time were fresh and bright, people were simple, and the mooing and bleating of cattle and sheep sounded distant and profound in that tranquil world...
In those nights, we liked to play hide-and-seek. Sometimes, under the cover of darkness, the stars in the sky shone crystal clear, many and dense, the Milky Way separating the Cowherd and Weaver Girl, resembling a stream of white celestial water quietly flowing through the heavenly streets. And when we looked at the moon, it was brilliantly white, its light shining on the ground, trees, and houses as if scattering a layer of glittering silver fragments. Nowadays, I see fewer stars, the moonlight is hazy, and the world seems filled with a veil of light mist that never dissipates...
I felt that life in the countryside back then was very natural, very pure, and very beautiful. The homesickness of those times had a strong flavor. In my small village, if a family needed to build a house, they would first gather more than a dozen able-bodied youths to make bricks in the pre-soaked land. Making bricks was a tiring job involving hard labor, but whoever was asked didn't hesitate or bargain, willingly picking up their tools and heading out happily the next morning. I too participated in making bricks, producing dozens of stacks. But the only reward was three meals a day. Moved by this homesickness, villagers did not complain but rather genuinely and willingly worked hard. When a family built a house, people hearing the news would come voluntarily without being called. Sometimes, more than a hundred people would rush over like bees to honey. After working half a day laying mud and stacking bricks, when it was time to eat, everyone would go home to eat separately. Even if the host tried to stop them, they couldn't be held back. You helped them, and they'd help you in return. Like fish relying on water and water relying on fish, this interdependence wove the fabric of rural life, creating a strong sense of community...
When winter came and the snow sealed the land, some playful souls would carry fireguns, leading fine dogs, catching wild rabbits in the snowy fields. They would return home, stew the rabbit over a stove, sit on a warm earthen bed, invite a few friends, gather around the table, and drink a pot of sweet potato dry white wine. The aroma of the wine and meat truly delighted everyone...
As the lunar New Year approached, people began to feel the festive atmosphere. Pig slaughtering, lamb killing, tofu making, rice cake steaming, paper cutting—all these activities made the village lively. Occasionally, scattered fireworks would explode in the village sky, thickening the New Year's atmosphere even more. Therefore, I felt that celebrating the New Year in the countryside had a real New Year's flavor. When the rooster crowed early in the morning, villagers would visit each other to exchange greetings, bustling like a market fair. After exchanging greetings, people would gather together, either playing cards, chatting idly, standing in the street enjoying the scenery, or going to the village square to swing on swings, feeling relaxed and content... Hence, until now, I still bring my wife and children back to our hometown to celebrate the New Year with the local villagers, year after year. Although my parents, whom I deeply missed, are no longer there, I still keep my "Qingfeng Residence" locked in the small village where I was born and raised, letting it anchor the homesickness. This way, I can often return home, visit the childhood friends I grew up with, chat about family matters, drink a few cups of "Farmyard" wine together, and reminisce about old times, which is one of the great joys of my life...
Now, living in the county town, I don’t know why, but my heart of attachment always lingers in the homesickness of the village. I think that homesickness is like an old bottle of wine sealed for many years, containing my past life, filled with my past pure and beautiful memories, giving me a haven of intoxication in the countryside... I often pour myself a few cups of fragrant wine from this bottle, secretly indulging in nostalgia, connecting the past and present in the chain of my life...
Time passes so swiftly, more than forty years have gone by. For more than forty years, I have walked every path inside and outside the village, memorized the shape of every tree, traversed every piece of land, become familiar with every face of the villagers, and imprinted every story of the villagers onto my heart. Thus, that burning homesickness continuously wells up from the depths of my heart... Home, oh home, you forever warm and pull at my heartstrings, allowing me to enjoy a unique warmth and boundless courage from your maternal embrace...
Oh, homesickness, this old bottle of wine, will forever float in my heart, exuding its fragrant aroma...