My hometown is in a village called "Dongwanzi" in northern Jiangsu. It is located in a remote place and is often described as "a place where turtles don't lay eggs".
Poor is the epitome of that era. In an era of poverty and insufficiency, it is a great thing to drink "ink". The father is the boss of the family, and the honest grandpa actually sent him to the private school. The "ink" in his father's stomach was the foundation he made during his years of learning.
Father was studying in a private school, and his deskmate later became my mother. Later, when I heard from my mother, my father didn't suffer much from his husband's discipline because of endorsement and writing. Now it seems that my father wrote good words, thanks to the harsh school teacher.
After I went to school, my father always wrote Spring Festival couplets for Zhuangshang people every year before. One writing lasted for several days, which caused a mother who was busy and busy to complain, complaining that the busy year was busy for others. For his father, writing Spring Festival couplets is very particular. Even when writing traditional poetry and song couplets, the content of each couplet is not the same: there are those that echo the current politics, some that match with rural production, and some that are customized for the seeker...a small couplet Here, the writing is not just festive, but also his father's cautiousness about the complicated situation, his care for the warmth of humanity, and his awe of the ancient writing.
When my father wrote Spring Festival couplets to others, he was catching up on my winter vacation, so he often helped him brush ink, draw paper, and learned how to cut paper by hand. He was a little book boy for many years. Sometimes the paper is slow and not correct, he will train me a few words; if someone else laughs when writing, he will cough twice, suggesting that others are more serious; occasionally wrong or missing words, he will blame himself Do it again, and again; for a long time, he pondered for a long time, and no one dared to speak out, and when he caught the pen and dropped the paper, and waved it, the onlookers dared to applaud loudly.
The ancients were correct in their heart. His father's life is just like "like his studies, like his talents, like his ambitions, in short, like his people". In the "Cultural Revolution", my father wrote a few big arguments for himself. It was repeatedly argued and clarified that he was not a member of the "Three Youth League" and never "hidden property." He wished to give the only handful of rice and a bowl of porridge to the poor. In the eyes of the father of the village party secretary, the warmth of the majority of the production team members is his life. But the "crime" that had not happened had fallen on his father's head one after another, copying homes, criticizing, wearing "big hats" and fighting scenes. Father is a person with an urgent personality and can't stand a little injustice. In those unbearable days, he completed these words in helplessness, anxiety, and pain, and the words were in tears and blood. Days and nights where he fights against black time with dripping ink, only he knows how to survive. After the movement was over, his father rehabilitated and he said moistly in his eyes that he believed in the Communist Party and enjoyed his happiness.
In his father's life, he has the heart of the party, the ups and downs, the warmth of others, and the happy old age. His father had been writing for life, but he hadn't written enough, because his old man's pen was too straight and too hard, too real and too cut, and too tense for life, just like the ink in his stomach, never dried up.
When his father was young, he had no time to specialize in calligraphy. He began to copy "Guwenguanzhi" every day after he was 80 years old. Finally returned to his childhood dream of holding a pen, he wanted to write and write, unrestrained, pen and pen center, neat and clean. Father's advice to me is only four words: iron painting silver hook. It's really "the book is thin and hard, and the gods can communicate", which is the same as his life style. Now I want to think about it. My pen and ink will also be stained with ears before my father since I was a child, and it has colored my life with a layer of ink. Farewell to my father, I took a writing brush that his old man used before his life and brought it back to the desk pen. Tonight, the shadow is elegant and the fragrance of ink is quiet. When I take the pen and twist the tube, I feel that it is still warm. Father, I miss you!
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