Old house memory prose

The old house in memory is like a vicissitudes old house, sitting permanently in the small village in memory.

The old house is located in the east of the small village. It is three huts built on the mountain. A wall of yellow mud and stone divides the old house into two parts, and two families live in it. The surname Liu in the west is a distant relative who has circled several times. I call her Aunt Liu. East is my home. There are two big heatable adobe sleeping platforms in the room, crowded with three generations and eight people.

According to my mother, our hometown is not here. Because of a flood in 1960, the house in my hometown was swallowed up by the flood. With the immigration policy of the government, my family moved to a small village hundreds of miles away. This one-and-a-half thatched cottage was relocated with the help of the government. A few years later, I happened to be born in this low thatched cottage, so I had a different feeling for it, and many childhood memories were engraved inside.

The window of the old house is divided into two parts. It has a wooden window on it and a translucent paper on the outside. It is one of the legendary Three Monsters in Northeast China. Every year when the autumn wind gathers and the weather turns cold, the old ones should be torn off and replaced with enough new paper. Wooden windows open up and down, with hooks on them, which are specially used for hanging windows for ventilation. Below is the wooden frame glass window, and four bright glasses are installed in the wooden frame respectively. Over the years, after the wind and rain, the wooden frame is inevitably loose and rotten.

I have a special memory about the windows of the old house. After the autumn harvest that year, the autumn rain outside the window was continuous, which was the season when the forest frog went down the mountain. In that era when materials were scarce, everyone waited until the lights were turned on at night, holding flashlights or torches to catch forest frogs at the water's edge or in farmland. Catch a lot, it can be delicious on the table, and you can change some small change.

Seeing that everyone else had left, I thought it must be a very interesting thing, and repeatedly begged grandpa to take our brother and sister. Grandpa smiled and said, "Don't worry, Grandpa can do tricks, so you can stay by the window and catch frogs." After dark, the old house lit up with dim lights. Grandpa slowly pulled the lower part of the rear window out of a gap and told him, "the rest of the task is up to you." Jump in and grab one by one. "

My brother and sister stared out of the window with a grain of salt. Half an hour later, two wood frogs jumped on the windowsill. My brother has a quick hand and a quick eye, so he reached out and grabbed one and turned to show off to us. My heart itches, and I reach out my little hand and grab another one. The moment I held it in my hand, I was so scared that I threw it out and burst into tears.

I only remember that night, my brother caught more than a dozen wood frogs and kept showing off his victory to us. And I never dared to touch it again, just watching from a distance and secretly admiring grandpa's divine power. Now think about it, it should be because the old house is at the foot of the mountain and the terrain is too low.

The door of the old house is also wooden, with wooden lattice windows on it and enough paper attached. The slight difference is that there is a cat hole. Because there is a cat with white flowers and a black background at home, there is always a way to let it in and out freely. I don't like that flower cat because it always gets stuck in the mud and gets into the quilt.

That night, my father made house calls. The flower cat at home disappeared, but an unexpected visitor came to the old house-a fat wild cat with different colors. When it just jumped into the house along the cat hole, it thought it was its own cat. Later, when my mother found out it was a wild cat, she let out a cry of horror and pushed me into the back room. Mother clung to the door of the back room, but I was curious and dared to look at it on the door glass.

Grandpa picked up the hammer and confronted the wild cat with fierce teeth. The wild cat jumped forward, and grandpa leaned back to hide, so he threw the hammer out and hit his own big iron pot. With a crunchy sound, the iron pot was broken by a hammer. Grandpa was so angry that he picked up the hammer and hit it again. The scream of grandpa fighting with the wild cat alarmed the neighbors. Everyone came to help and finally caught the wild cat.

Grandma thinks it's indiscriminate killing, and everyone in the family has made taboos. The wild cat was taken away by the neighbor, and finally it was heard that it became a neighbor's table game.

In junior high school, grandpa got stomach cancer and died in an old house. He finally failed to live in a beautiful and spacious new tile house, which is also the biggest regret of his father's life. In high school, my family chose an open space in the west of the village and built several new houses. From then on, I bid farewell to the semi-old house and my childhood.

This old house, like a portrait of Zhang Zhengui, has always hung in my heart. Every contact will involve some unforgettable stories.

The memory of the old house is endless. It is still simple and vicissitudes, still sitting in a small village like a child, waiting for the wanderers who are attached to the countryside to sing repeatedly.