The gun in the wilderness

Every year on Qingming Festival, my father takes us to visit the mountain to sweep the graves.

　　Ancestors' graves, it can be said that the nearby ten miles are, Zhujiashan, cold water source, stacked paper hall, ash grass ridge, monk ridge ...... unlike today, the village over the elderly, or die in middle age, to the back of the ridge a lift the matter. The ancestors spoke of environmental feng shui and would send them over when they saw how far away they were. Nowadays, people talk about convenience, there is a piece of open space on the line. What is right and what is wrong, peace of mind, so, not to say this.

　　Every year, the Qingming Festival, my father took us to pay respect to the mountain, must personally go, because he is old, think he can not bring a few times, so take us to recognize the road, recognize the location. The eldest uncle, the youngest uncle, the third uncle also went to the same twice, and then do not go, one is old, up and down the mountain, a fault, the consequences are responsible, afraid of negative. One is to worship, decades do not leak, life on their own, the ancestors' spirits do not seem to play a sheltering role, the heart faded. My father is more stubborn, an ancestor a story, for the entire family reproduction and development, have contributed, a little grace can not be forgotten, let alone their own ancestors? Father grateful, but also for our descendants to do a demonstration, more than sixty years old, back hunched, but still full of spirit, take a recurve sickle, yell at us, say go, in front of the lead.

　　Out of the village, across the river, along the ridge path along the ditch to the east, climbing a small slope, the desolation of the air on the face.

　　In March, everything is changing from old to new. The feather grass, bitter wormwood, dog's tail grass and winter grass on the ground are yellow and weak. The new buds at the bottom, unceremoniously emerged, under the shelter of the old leaves, dodging in the horizon tinged with a neat layer of green, holding the yellow leaves, a kind of complementary look. Nai plum tree has sent out flower buds, prickly vines also produced leaf bones, evergreen oil tea tree, the treetops also emerged a claw a claw of new green. Spring is no longer brewing, but has begun to riot. My father split the thorns that blocked the road, chattering that the land is getting deserted, now there is a road, after a few years, the road is deserted.

　　My brother, who works in the government, said, "Green water and green mountains are the silver mountain of gold.

　　My father did not answer. This piece of land, was his farming place, planted sweet potatoes, sorghum, soybeans, watermelons, peppers, eggplants, tomatoes. The thought of such good land growing grass, planted trees, there is a kind of reluctance, or, he thought it was a waste. But who will cultivate it now? My father chattered: In a few years, there will be fewer and fewer people in the countryside, and the fields will be left untended.

　　The countryside is imprinted in the hearts of my generation - the post-70s and post-80s. Smoke, chickens and dogs, rice, green water and green hills, human feelings, knotted into a lump, we have come all the way alike, sober or lost, these lumps have played a supporting role in our growth. The countryside is to be hollowed out, to be deserted, to disappear, and we are disappointed and can only let nature take its course. We simply do not have the power to stop it, nor do we have the guts to give up all the conveniences of town life. But in the face of this ancestral birthplace, we can still remember it in our hearts, and the next generation, or it will fade into oblivion and live in a different identity. Where we will be buried when we die, we don't know.

　　My father was familiar with the area, always walking in front of the tomb-sweeping team, holding a knife, ready to strike, splitting the thorns that blocked the road, like a hunter.

　　Three days of the day, said to change. It rains at the time of Qingming. The weather was really caught off guard when it came to the doll face. Mountain rain is not like the drizzle on the flat land, but also about a few poetic, floating ah, flying ah, if there is a light ah. The mountain rain came, across a hill, you can hear the sound of a flood of water gushing, close to the body, is a crackling explosion, hitting the umbrella, thumping, under the umbrella, you can also feel the water mist through the umbrella. Father led us, walked to the hillside in front of the lime kiln, leaning against the stone wall, said: first to take shelter, there is a big grandfather's tomb on the hill in front, and then hang sweep when the rain stopped.

　　Without this rain, our pant legs have been wet.

　　The rain came, more cold feeling.

　　The mountain grass is deep and dewy, the original road, has long been obliterated. Where is the grave, if not my father remembered in mind, replaced by us young people, really can not find. The roadside at the bottom of the mountain, there are a lot of burnt paper money, is the young people to come, can not find their ancestors' graves, had to burn paper at the roadside to pay respects, forget the wish. We laughed at these unworthy children, my father but a serious, said: we also did, in the cold water source of the mountains, can not find too grandfather's grave, on the roadside burned a handful of paper. The forest is too dense, and the road is gone, the sign can not be seen, it is impossible to find. My father said this as if he was excusing himself.

　　The rain in the mountains comes and goes quickly, a typical raid war.

　　We went around the hill and down the slope, a concrete road, newly repaired, no dents in the road.

　　In front of us is the source of cold water, the grave of the great grandfather is on the hill opposite the source of cold water.

　　Leng Shui Shui is a small village of about 10 families with houses built on the slope. Since it had just rained, the water was already flowing in the ditches on both sides of the road. The Goddess of Mercy meditated on the cold water source and crabs drew water to the flat fields. My father pointed us towards the north and asked: See? There was a temple of Guanyin on the flat land halfway up the mountain, see? We looked towards the north side of his finger, the cold water source is on the slope, under the slope, is the paddy field, the paddy field side is the crashing stream, a few hundred steps up, is a ping, like a platform, also like a chair. Further up, the water vapor rises and the clouds cover the fog, hiding the mystery of the mountain peaks. The water source is just below, and the tens of thousands of people on the waterway of the generation of Lengshui, Zhujiashan, Lv Xianyan, Dongganjia, and Pingtian Yard ...... are supported by the water flowing from here. The people of Pingtian call this stream Longxi, which runs from east to west and bends to the south at the entrance of Donggankou, like the trail of a crab. Some old people also say that this stream is a large cheek of a crab, sandwiching Pingtian Yard. My father rambled on and on about people's stories, and he just couldn't stop talking about them. He was also willing to do so, so that future generations remember some of the tales and legends of the land, he felt that it was also a kind of heritage. For him, he thinks he has this responsibility.

　　Cold water sources have also changed a lot, with new buildings covering the old tiled houses, like a few new patch scars on old clothes. The mountain water flowed through the village open space, revealing the smell of desolation. My father pointed to the mountain in the west and said, "Grandpa's grave is on that mountain, where is it, you have to find it.

　　The mountain is like a steamed bun, no rocks, planted with oil tea trees, artemisia wild fern growing around.

　　This mountain is turtle-shaped, with four feet.

　　We could not see it.

　　Father said: there is a road on the mountain, now can not see.

　　We just look, do not even think, do not have to guess, we do not know the specific location of the father's great grandfather's grave, into the eyes, is a barren mountain.

　　My father waved the curved bow and sickle in his hand and said loudly, "I found it. You see, just under the mountain red, where a few tea trees green.

　　We looked in the direction of his scythe, eyes from the foot of the mountain to climb the mountain, finally found that a mountain red, no long a leaf of the mountain red, topped with a cluster of fiery red flowers, like a red tassel gun, stuck in the oil tea trees and yellow thatch above, not moving, condescending look, like defying the earth.

　　Look elsewhere, actually can not find a second tree.

　　Father in front of the thorns and thorns, leading us in the direction of the red mountain climbing up.

　　The red of the mountain red, more and more clear, more and more bright, more and more proud.

　　I saw the iron branches and copper skin of the red.

　　The trunk of the red tree is only a thumb thick, not a branch, straight one, in the oil tea trees, winter grass, standing proudly.

　　The father carried a curved bow scythe stood under an arm higher than the reflecting red, gasping for breath, gasping a few, raised the scythe, and put it down. The children wanted to eat the flowers of the red flowers - we had eaten the red flowers that my father or the elders of the family brought back when they went to the mountains to cut firewood, and it was time to open the rice planting door and plant a season of rice, and the weather was fine.

　　My father tilted his head and said, "I've never seen such a thick, tall red sorrel that looks like a red tasseled gun. After saying that, he waved his knife to clean up the thatch and wild fern on the grave. The children also stopped shouting and stared at the red tree.

　　The petals of the mountain red, decorated with rain and dew, but can not hide its eye-catching red.

　　This is the purest red.

　　This is a javelin that spring throws at the earth.

　　No matter what happens to the earth, no matter what happens to the earth, spring has its own unique way of expression, and is everywhere.

　　I was looking at the red tree and imagining it, when my father cleared a clear area in front of the grave and arranged for us to do the rituals.

　　When I went down the hill, I looked back at the red tree, the lonely red mountain, it does not reflect the red mountain, but represents the beginning of a red-hot spring. Small, thin, lonely, even at any time will be dying in the wind, but this does not affect its enthusiasm, its mission, it is the spring throws a grain of fire, will light up the whole mountain, the earth.

　　After several Ching Ming Festivals, I still remember the red tree growing halfway up the mountain.

　　I love that piece of earth. And I left.

　　I am not rooted in that land, however, that land has always nourished my mind and soul, pulling out my nostalgia and attachment. It is endless.

　　The first time I saw him, I was in the middle of the world, and he was in the middle of the world.

　　O reflecting mountain red, accept him as one of your leaves.

　　He will use his curved bow scythe to carve you together into my thoughts and life, and finally, I will return to you, and together we will guard the wild mountains and wild hills, lively in solitude, lively in solitude, and I will be satisfied.

　　The red tree on the wild mountain range became a gun in my meditation, poking countless holes in my hometown thoughts.