Chapter 629 The Warmth of Home
As soon as Zhou Yimin parked his motorcycle outside the courtyard wall, he saw that the windows of his house were dark - his grandparents might have been unable to wait and had gone to bed.
He turned off the engine and tiptoed to push open the half-open courtyard door. The wooden door hinge made a slight creaking sound, which was particularly clear in the silent night.
"Who?" The old man's voice suddenly came from the room, hoarse from just waking up.
This was followed by the rustling sound of someone getting dressed, and then with a "click", the kerosene lamp was lit, and a hunched figure with a cane was reflected on the window paper.
Just as Zhou Yimin was about to respond, he saw the door being opened with a "crash". The old man was standing at the door, wrapped in a patched cotton jacket, holding a wooden stick used to push the door open in his hand, and his eyes were vigilantly scanning the yard under the dim light.
"It's me, grandpa." Zhou Yimin quickly took off his helmet. The collar of his military coat rubbed his chin and it was a little itchy.
The old man squinted his eyes and stared for a long time before he leaned the stick against the door and breathed a sigh of relief: "You kid, why didn't you say anything when you came back? I thought there was a thief."
He looked at Zhou Yimin and saw frost on the brim of his grandson's hat. He couldn't help but scold him, "You're here so late? Did you get frozen on the way?"
"Just when I arrived at the village entrance, I was tripped by the dust in the threshing ground and was delayed for some time." Zhou Yimin rubbed his frozen hands and walked into the house.
"After finishing my work in the city, I thought it would be the New Year soon, so I came back to lend a hand."
"What kind of meeting is being held in the threshing ground?" The old man followed behind and asked, and suddenly slapped his thigh, "Is it to divide the harvest? I heard from the Wang family next door in the evening that they can get more this year?"
Just as Zhou Yimin was about to answer, his grandmother's voice came from the inner room. The door curtain was lifted, and his grandmother was wearing a blue cloth jacket, with her hair tied up loosely with a cloth ribbon: "Yimin is back?"
She glanced at Zhou Yimin's face, and without asking if he was tired from the journey, she took his hand and walked towards the kitchen, "Have you had dinner? There's sweet potato porridge left for you on the stove."
"Not yet. I wanted to come back and eat, but I didn't expect to catch the village meeting." Zhou Yimin followed him to the kitchen. The remaining fire in the stove had not yet gone out, reflecting the iron pot's faint light.
"Grandpa guessed correctly. When the harvest is divided today, each family will get 130 yuan."
"How much?" The old man stopped suddenly and poked the ground with his walking stick, making a shallow hole in the blue brick.
He was hard of hearing and didn't hear clearly just now. He took two steps forward, and the front of his cotton jacket swept across the pile of firewood beside the stove. "Can you say it again?"
"One hundred and thirty yuan." Zhou Yimin raised his voice and watched his grandfather's eyes widen. It seemed as if sparks had fallen into his cloudy pupils. "It's more than double what it was last year."
The old man kept his mouth open for a long time. The pipe in his hand fell to the ground with a "clack", and the tobacco was scattered all over the floor without him noticing.
Although he knew that everyone would get a lot of money this year, he didn't expect to get so much.
You have to know that in the past two years, each household might only get 20 or 30 yuan after working for a whole year, and that was considered a relatively large amount.
This is also why so many people want to work in factories. As long as they can become a glorious worker, they can earn at least a dozen yuan a month, not to mention that their salary can be increased in the future.
While Zhou Yimin was chatting with the old man, Zhou Yimin's grandmother came out with a bowl of sweet potato porridge and white flour buns.
"Eat quickly, the porridge is still hot."
Zhou Yimin took the bowl, and the sweet aroma of sweet potatoes mixed with the wheat aroma of steamed buns entered his nose, and his heart was warm. He knew what his grandparents were thinking - they always felt that it was not easy for them to live outside, and even if they had a good life, they wanted to leave the best for him.
"Grandpa and grandma, New Year's Day is coming soon, is there anything you want?"
The old man waved his hand and said, "Yimin, just keep your money. Your grandmother and I are living in the village, eating, drinking and dressing well."
Zhou Yimin also knew that the old man was telling the truth. After all, whenever he had time, he would go home and take a lot of food and meat.
And after a period of "correction", grandpa and grandma finally stopped being like they were at the beginning. Even if they brought back good things, they would be reluctant to eat them. They would save them for when they came back and then make them for themselves.
Zhou Yimin was sitting on a small stool next to the stove. He had just taken a sip of hot porridge when he heard his grandmother whispering beside him, "Did you suffer any injustice in the city? You look a little thinner."
"I don't feel wronged. I eat well and sleep well." Zhou Yimin stuffed a steamed bun into his mouth and said vaguely.
The fire in the stove crackled, casting the shadows of the three people on the wall, sometimes bright and sometimes dim.
Zhou Yimin's grandmother sat next to him, sewing shoe soles. Her smile was reflected in her stitches, and she would add a piece of sweet potato to her grandson's bowl from time to time.
The wind was still blowing outside the window, but this small kitchen became especially warm because of a bowl of hot porridge, a few family conversations, and the tacit care and love.
The bowl of porridge was empty, and the white flour buns were eaten up to only residue. The fire in the stove gradually weakened, leaving only a pile of dark red charcoal.
The old man yawned and wiped the corner of his mouth with his sleeve: "It's getting late, let's all rest."
He leaned on his crutches and moved to his small side room. His cotton shoes made a rustling sound as he stepped on the ground. When he reached the door, he turned back and reminded, "I have already heated up the kang in Yimin's room. It is warm now."
Grandma was cleaning up the dishes, and the crisp sound of the bowls colliding was particularly clear in the silent night.
"Go quickly, you have to get up early tomorrow." She stuffed a hot water bottle into Zhou Yimin's hand. The peony flowers embroidered on the cloth cover had faded. "Cover yourself with this in bed and you will sleep comfortably."
Zhou Yimin responded and walked towards the east wing carrying the hot water bottle.
When I opened the door, a faint smell of coal smoke mixed with the scent of sunlight hit me in the face. On the kang was a newly replaced coarse cloth mattress, which felt warm to the touch.
He took off his military coat and hung it on the back of a chair. Just as he lay down in bed, he heard his grandfather's snoring coming from the next room. It was like the sound of an old bellows, even and steady.
I don't know when the wind outside the window stopped, and the moonlight shone through the window lattice onto the ground, reflecting a square bright spot.
Zhou Yimin leaned against the hot water bottle, the unique smell of home lingering on his nose. The fatigue from days of running around came over him, his eyelids became heavier and heavier, and soon he fell into a deep sleep.
At daybreak, just as the roosters crowed for the first time, the old man and grandma got up. The door of the kitchen was pushed open with a creak, and grandma added a few pieces of firewood to the stove. The flames jumped up, reflecting the white hair on her temples.
Today is the 29th day of the lunar year. According to the old custom, we have to worship our ancestors. I was busy sweeping the house and cleaning the windows all day yesterday, so today I have to prepare all the offerings.
"Is the dough ready?" The old man squatted on the doorstep, sharpening the old kitchen knife with a whetstone, the blade flashing coldly in the morning light.
“I’ll steam it now. You count the incense and candles for ancestor worship again.” Grandma lifted the lid of the jar. The dough inside was plump and had a pit where your finger pressed. It also had a faint sour fragrance.
She sprinkled a handful of alkaline flour into the dough and kneaded it vigorously. The dough made a "dong dong" sound on the chopping board and gradually became smooth and chewy.
Soon, the chopping board was filled with round white flour buns, each of which was pinched like a small ingot, and had a dot of red rouge on the top, exuding a joyous atmosphere in the morning light.
"These steamed buns have to be steamed well so that our lives can prosper." Grandma put the steamed buns into the steamer one by one. When she closed the lid, steam came out from the gap with a "whoosh" sound, bringing with it a sweet wheat aroma.
Zhou Yimin was awakened by the fishy smell of chicken.
He rubbed his eyes and walked out of the room, only to see his grandfather squatting in the yard plucking chicken feathers, his grandmother rummaging around for something by the stove, and white steam rising from the steamer, blurring the window glass.
"Grandpa and grandma, why don't you call me to help?" He quickly rolled up his sleeves, revealing half of his strong arms from the cuffs of his army green sweater.
Grandma poked her head out from the kitchen, with some flour on her face, like a playful white beard: "You work so hard in the city, it's rare for you to come back, so I'll let you sleep a little longer."
She scooped some water into the pot and said, "This chicken was killed the other day. Your grandfather insisted that it was fresh, so he caught a live one this morning."
Zhou Yimin said nothing more. He walked a few steps to his grandfather and took the half-plucked chicken feathers: "I'll do it."
He pinched the base of the chicken wing and deftly removed the fine hairs with his fingers, his movements clean and neat.
Grandpa watched from the side and put a pair of tweezers in his hand: "You have to tweeze out the fine hair under the chicken's neck. It's for ancestor worship, so you have to be careful."
The steamer was humming, and white steam was overflowing from the edge of its lid, condensing into a thin mist in the yard.
Grandma picked out the steamed buns and stacked them one by one in a bamboo basket. They were so fluffy that they were springy.
"When we come back from worshipping our ancestors, we'll put these steamed buns on the altar." She looked at the busy grandfather and grandson, with a smile in the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes.
"This year's days are just like this steamed bun, growing taller and taller."
After Zhou Yimin plucked the last chicken feather, he put the naked chicken into the basin. The splashing water wet his trouser legs.
He looked up at the sky. The sun was rising from the eastern valley, giving the old locust tree in the yard a golden edge.
The air is filled with the wheat aroma of steamed buns and the fishy smell of chicken, mixed with the taste of grandpa's dry tobacco. It is the taste of the New Year and the taste of home.
The offerings in the bamboo basket were neatly arranged: white flour buns with rouge red dots on top, arranged on the coarse cloth like a pair of small ingots.
A whole chicken with all its feathers plucked out had its legs tied with hemp rope, its head held high, its shiny skin glowing in the morning light. There was also a pot of rice wine that grandma had prepared last night, with a red cloth ball stuffed in the bottle mouth. The aroma of wine mixed with the aroma of wheat came out from the cracks in the basket.
The old man was carrying a bundle of paper money and knocking his walking stick on the frozen ground, making a "thump thump" sound.
"Are you all ready?" He looked back at Zhou Yimin and saw his grandson carrying a cloth bag filled with incense, candles and matches. He reminded him, "Put your lighter in a safe place so that it won't be blown out by the wind."
Grandma followed behind with a bamboo basket on her shoulder, her steps were a little unsteady, but she walked steadily. "Yesterday I told our ancestors that Yimin would be happy if he came back and kowtowed to them."
Her voice was not loud, but it was carried by the wind and floated into everyone's ears.
Walking south out of the village, you can already see groups of people walking on the ridges of the fields.
The Zhou family in the east were heading towards their ancestral graves. The daughter-in-law of the Li family in the west was carrying the same bamboo basket. When she saw them from a distance, she greeted them: "Uncle, are you going to worship your ancestors?"
The old man waved his hand in response.
The ancestral grave is on a sunny slope, with a not-so-high earth cliff behind it. The cliff is covered with hawthorn thorns, and the dry branches rustle in the wind, as if someone is whispering.
More than a dozen earthen graves were crowded together, and the tops of the graves were pressed with last year's old paper money, which rustled in the wind and had the edges curled into waves.
The grave mound was covered with withered yellow thatch. Some of the grass stems were frozen stiff, poking towards the gray sky, while others were stuck to the frozen soil, being crushed flat by the footsteps passing by.
The one at the easternmost end is that of Zhou Yimin’s great-grandfather. In front of the grave stands a crooked stone tablet with the words almost worn out. There are a few clumps of wild wormwood growing around the base of the tablet, and the dry and black stems are tightly attached to the stone tablet, as if guarding something.
There is a circle of old cypress trees planted around the cemetery. The trunks are as rough as the skin on an old man's hands, and the branches stretch out in all directions, blocking a lot of the cold wind. There is a thick layer of pine needles piled up under the trees, which make a rustling sound when you step on them.
On the distant ridge of the field, several piles of corn stalks were stacked like small hills, glowing light yellow in the morning light. Occasionally, a few sparrows would land on them, chirping and pecking at the grass seeds.
"We're here." The old man put down the paper money, squatted down and pulled out the dead grass on the grave. He didn't care that his fingers were red from the cold.
Zhou Yimin hurried forward to help, and the grandfather and grandson cleaned the three graves in no time.
Grandma untied the bamboo basket, placed the steamed buns and the whole chicken on the stone slab one by one, and poured three cups of rice wine, which created tiny ripples in the coarse porcelain bowl.
"Ancestors, I, your humble descendant, kowtow to you." The old man lit three incense sticks and smoke rings floated slowly in front of his eyes.
He knelt on the ground, his knees making the dry grass crackle. "Everything is going well at home this year. Yimin has also made a name for himself out there. I heard that he is an official in the city, in charge of a lot of things..."
He paused, and lowered his voice, but his voice was full of pride. "Everyone in the village says that our Zhou family has a promising child. This is all because of your blessing from heaven."
When Zhou Yimin knelt down, his knees touched the frozen ground and the coldness ran up his trouser legs.
He looked at his grandfather's gray hair shaking in the wind and listened to his earthy prayers, and suddenly realized that in his grandfather's mind, being a section chief in the steel plant was probably no different from a "big official."
“Although these things are not allowed in the city, we country people don’t believe in them.” Grandma also knelt down and added a few pieces of paper money to the fire. The flames jumped up, softening the wrinkles on her face.
"Please continue to bless Yimin and make him more successful next year. It would be best if he can find a wife as soon as possible so that our Zhou family can live a better and better life."
The paper money curled into black butterflies in the fire, and the ashes were blown away by the wind. The old man kowtowed three times, and even though his forehead was stained with dirt, he did not wipe it off. He gave two of the remaining incense sticks to Zhou Yimin: "You should worship too, the ancestors are watching."
Zhou Yimin held the incense in his hand and looked at the rising smoke, recalling the time when he followed his grandfather to worship his ancestors as a child.
My grandfather did the same at that time, burning paper and muttering to himself, hoping that someone "capable" would appear in the family.
He kowtowed deeply, his forehead touching the cold ground, the scent of fireworks and earth lingering at the tip of his nose, and he couldn't describe the feeling in his heart - a mixture of respect for his elders and a complex identification with this tradition.
When walking back after offering sacrifices to the ancestors, half of the offerings in the bamboo basket are gone, and the rest have to be taken home and shared with the children.
(End of this chapter)
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