Some of my childhood memories were a blur, and became more blurry when I strolled in an old city in which I was born and raised. The re-structured city, like breaking puzzles, polished and put them back again, took on a new and strange face. Was this the hometown that I spent my first twenty years? The old square where people in 1970s gathered for revolutionary slogans gave away to modern commercial buildings; the rickshaw sedan witnessed as late as 1990s were nowhere to be seen. Modern cars were sprawling instead. Though this was not the first time I went back home to see my parents, who moved to a new home after I came to the U.S., I couldn’t connect it well.
In the afternoon of the second day of Chinese New Year, my brother, my father and I decided to visit the old campus at the other end of the city. It is the place where my father spent almost his entire life teaching and working. It is the place where my brother and I had our most memories. When the car was let in and crawled along a narrow road, flanked by old leafless phoenix trees on both sides, old memories flooded in. The same entrance, the same basketball courts, the same buildings for teaching and library, the same location for cafeteria, all remodeled, of course.
We parked our car in front of a new building and got off. Dad pointed out to an endangered building sheltered in a corner, and asked us if we remember anything? In an instant, we recognized that it was an administrative building Dad once worked in for years.
As we continued our walk and stepped over a small iron gate at the back, a familiar passage by the side of a high solid wall came to our sights. Stood on the other side were the three high residential buildings for teachers, weathered and shabby now after being there for more than four decades. Entering the last building, which we dwelled in 1980s, was like lifting a lid off my memory well, distant but clear. What resurfaced on my mind was the then excitement of moving down from a moist one-floor bedroom uphill, where water cannot be supplied sufficiently and where we did not have our bathroom but a shared stingy public one. The then new apartment was around 40-50 square foot, with three bedrooms, one tiny kitchen and a simple bath. I had my own room, and my brother had his. My room was smaller, with a window facing north, a bed by the walls, a wardrobe on the corner, and a desk by the window. Many a day I studies late into night, for the National Standard Tests, with a dream that one day I could land a good college……
The flurry of memories was interrupted when my brother suggested walking further uphill. A flight of stone stairs led us up, and we both stopped at an old shallow well. The well was at the bottom of cornered walls, with scattering plants and small patches of green moss around the area. This water, seemingly murky, is said to be trickling down from the stream in the mountains. It was this well that I frequented when our household ran out of drinking water. Mom used to give me a scoop and a pail or two, and gingerly I scooped the upper part of the water, not to stir the mud or sediment at the bottom. When the pail(s) was/were full, I carried home up along the long stairs, stopping in the middle for a breath. This could be repeated within a day, depending on the need. Alum (明礬) was then used to settle turbid water before cooking or drinking. Of course, we had better water sources, wells deeper and water more purified. However, they were further away. Mom and I had to trek along the meandering mountain road, carrying a big heavy bucket hung in the middle of a pole from our shoulders. This well, locally known as a “frog well”, was once our closest water source. The sight of its being well-preserved made me relive the moments.
Our visit soon came to a halt, as the courtyard where we shared with other ten families before moving downhill was abolished and replaced by a new building. Barred by a gate and blocked by a high wall, we were like visitors that could not see what was beyond the wall, a place that had our fondest childhood reminiscences.
回複 'Rolfemom' 的評論 : Rolfe媽媽好！謝謝你這麽說，英文其實真是督促自己寫，知道讀的人少，經你這麽一說更有動力了。你也在南加啊，今年雨水多，春天一定漂亮的，不要忘了去踏青賞山花。2017年春天Chino Hills State Park 的罌粟花開的很漂亮，估計今年一定錯不了。如果我知道信息一定post或告訴大家。回國一趟，才懷念加州的陽光、天空、環境和溫暖。是的，讓我們珍惜所擁有的，更好地享受這份美好，享受親情和當下。多謝你的來訪和溫暖話語。
回複 '7grizzly' 的評論 : Right, let's practice As much as we can. Reading is just important, otherwise, writing will be like pulling hairs off the head. You read and write more than I do. Keep up the good work!
回複 '暖冬cool夏' 的評論 : Indeed, writing must be practiced daily, just like running, weight-lifting, martial arts, etc. It's in the quest of eliminating errors our proses are improved. So I totally agree. And this gave me an idea to blog my own writing experience. So Thank You.
暖冬cool夏 發表評論於
回複 '7grizzly' 的評論 : Thank you, my friend,for carefully reading them and your comment. I actually found some errors in English. Sometimes I feel that writing English is like practicing piano. You cannot stop practicing for one day:), not to say that I have been away for two weeks.You and 某人 are just alike, and I am not surprised that you two see eyes to eyes on some issues:)
7grizzly 發表評論於
This is a great post, full of details that I found interesting. Places in your hometown, the frog well especially, seemed much better preserved than those in mine, which is a good thing. I like your 某人's attitude toward death. 視死如歸 doesn't have to be a monopoly of Chinese heroes.
Some of my childhood memories were a blur, and became more blurry when I strolled in an old city in which I was born and raised. The re-structured city, like breaking puzzles, polished and put them back again, took on a new and strange face. Was this the hometown that I spent my first twenty years? The old square where people in 1970s gathered for revolutionary slogans gave away to modern commercial buildings; the rickshaw sedan witnessed as late as 1990s were nowhere to be seen. Modern cars were sprawling instead. Though this was not the first time I went back home to see my parents, who moved to a new home after I came to the U.S., I couldn’t connect it well.
In the afternoon of the second day of Chinese New Year, my brother, my father and I decided to visit the old campus at the other end of the city. It is the place where my father spent almost his entire life teaching and working. It is the place where my brother and I had our most memories. When the car was let in and crawled along a narrow road, flanked by old leafless phoenix trees on both sides, old memories flooded in. The same entrance, the same basketball courts, the same buildings for teaching and library, the same location for cafeteria, all remodeled, of course.
We parked our car in front of a new building and got off. Dad pointed out to an endangered building sheltered in a corner, and asked us if we remember anything? In an instant, we recognized that it was an administrative building Dad once worked in for years.
As we continued our walk and stepped over a small iron gate at the back, a familiar passage by the side of a high solid wall came to our sights. Stood on the other side were the three high residential buildings for teachers, weathered and shabby now after being there for more than four decades. Entering the last building, which we dwelled in 1980s, was like lifting a lid off my memory well, distant but clear. What resurfaced on my mind was the then excitement of moving down from a moist one-floor bedroom uphill, where water cannot be supplied sufficiently and where we did not have our bathroom but a shared stingy public one. The then new apartment was around 40-50 square foot, with three bedrooms, one tiny kitchen and a simple bath. I had my own room, and my brother had his. My room was smaller, with a window facing north, a bed by the walls, a wardrobe on the corner, and a desk by the window. Many a day I studies late into night, for the National Standard Tests, with a dream that one day I could land a good college……
The flurry of memories was interrupted when my brother suggested walking further uphill. A flight of stone stairs led us up, and we both stopped at an old shallow well. The well was at the bottom of cornered walls, with scattering plants and small patches of green moss around the area. This water, seemingly murky, is said to be trickling down from the stream in the mountains. It was this well that I frequented when our household ran out of drinking water. Mom used to give me a scoop and a pail or two, and gingerly I scooped the upper part of the water, not to stir the mud or sediment at the bottom. When the pail(s) was/were full, I carried home up along the long stairs, stopping in the middle for a breath. This could be repeated within a day, depending on the need. Alum (明礬) was then used to settle turbid water before cooking or drinking. Of course, we had better water sources, wells deeper and water more purified. However, they were further away. Mom and I had to trek along the meandering mountain road, carrying a big heavy bucket hung in the middle of a pole from our shoulders. This well, locally known as a “frog well”, was once our closest water source. The sight of its being well-preserved made me relive the moments.
Our visit soon came to a halt, as the courtyard where we shared with other ten families before moving downhill was abolished and replaced by a new building. Barred by a gate and blocked by a high wall, we were like visitors that could not see what was beyond the wall, a place that had our fondest childhood reminiscences.
