Memories of missing your dead father?

Editor's Note: What did the author's father who was born in the Republic of China experience in his life? Let's follow the author's memories to see his father's life!

Whenever people talk about his father, I always think of my father in a conditioned way. But my father is just a vague concept and a vague image to me. No matter how I rearrange my memory again and again, I can't remember what he really looks like, because my father left our brothers and sisters for more than forty years.

Nevertheless, my father, born in the Republic of China, as a symbol of family affection and potential strength, has never been far away from my emotional space. ...

In the 1920s, my father grew up in a family similar to a rural gentry, attended a private school for several years, and was familiar with some literature and pen and ink. He was one of the few scholars in my hometown at that time.

When my father was a teenager, his ancestors were still prosperous. The judgment comes from the following points: First, when I was born, the quadrangle was complete and spacious, and it was one of the best in my hometown of Fiona Fang, with blue bricks and tiles, carved beams and carved windows, and elegant orientation and style. Secondly, the plaque of our family rules and regulations was handed down in the late Qing Dynasty or earlier. It can prove that all three brothers of my father can read. Eldest brother's father is the best writer in our region. Before liberation, he often wrote deeds and even eulogized. His handwriting is so good that even my primary and secondary school teachers admire him. Second dad can not only read and write, but also play abacus best. After liberation, he was recruited as an accountant by the county grain bureau. Because he graduated from high school, Sanpa joined the army to fight bandits in Liangshan when he was liberated, and went to work in the state capital after changing jobs. At the same time, my Zufen Mountain is the largest and highest in the village, and the gables are beautifully decorated and quaint, hidden under several cypresses, which is very solemn. I remember one year when I came home, my third dad told me that a grave robber had got into my ancestral grave mountain, and I didn't know what was stolen from it. It is said that my great-grandfather and grandfather were both unfortunately addicted to cigarettes, and they lost all their land. By the time of liberation, there were only two points left in the wet field, and they were lucky enough to judge a poor farmer.

One more thing can prove my father's scholar status. When I was in primary school, there was a "book shortage" in both urban and rural areas. A group of teenagers were like hungry babies and had no books to read. I have been looking for books everywhere at home, from yellowed calendars to textbooks read by my brothers and sisters, but I still can't satisfy my desire for reading. Suddenly, one day, from the bottom of a wooden cabinet in my father's bedroom, many old books were found, including woodcut watermarked opera lyrics, broken vernacular novels with vertical traditional styles, and script pamphlet "Cowherd and Weaver Girl", all of which were swept away by "poisonous weeds". But I don't care so much. I hid in the corner alone, reading a half-baked book. I know that some of these books may have been handed down by my ancestors, but I have been lazy after reading them and put them aside at will, so that I can't find them anymore. I'm sorry.

As the father of poor and middle peasants, he often wears a long cloth shirt and walks gracefully on the country road, showing his difference from other class brothers. My father read some books when he was young, and he was very particular about dressing appropriately. He usually wears a long cloth shirt when he goes out. He always wears that long dark blue cloth shirt when visiting relatives and friends or going to town for tea, which is a bit like a teacher in the Republic of China. It was in the sixties and seventies, and the tunic suit was very popular in the countryside, but my father still had a soft spot for long cloth shirts. As far as I can remember, except for wearing a short blouse and cotton vest sewn by my mother at work, I always wear a long blouse when I go out. I have never seen him in a Chinese tunic suit. This is independent and conservative in front of two knowledgeable uncles and even among neighbors. Mother dare not treat the long cloth shirt lightly. As long as my father is a passer-by or comes back from work, my mother will always wash and fold that long cloth shirt so that it can be put on my father cleanly when I go out next time.

In addition, my father always holds a long cigarette rod in his hand and never leaves his hand for a moment. At that time, I couldn't afford to smoke, so I had to smoke local cigarettes. A tobacco rod nearly one meter long, plus a copper cigarette holder and a tobacco pot, and then put fine cut tobacco or neatly wrapped tobacco leaves in the tobacco pot. When the supply of matches is tight, it looks good with a fire chain. For two years, the local tobacco in the team was cut off as a "tail" and was not allowed to grow. Father had to buy tobacco leaves, so there was a crisis of quitting smoking. Whenever this happens, my father is always inexplicably depressed and angry. Mother had to sell the food at home, and then buy some father's tobacco from the black market, telling him to save smoking. Dad always pretends to be a parent in other things, but he listens to his mother in "Save Smoke". Because of the memory of lack of cigarettes, my father is unforgettable, so I also cherish the tobacco leaves my mother bought. I will try my best to put every point into the smoking pot and suck it into my stomach.

When he came back from work during the day, he always sat under the eaves, took out a small bundle of crumpled leaves, carefully uncovered them one by one, spread them out slowly, smoothed them out, and then wrapped them with some complete parts according to the completeness of the leaves. Then they are arranged one by one, carefully studied and appreciated, just like a miser looking at his treasure. My father is usually calm when he smokes, but he gets angry easily when he drinks. So, we were relieved to see dad smoking in a hurry.

From the time I knew something, my father didn't have the opportunity to write the title deed, but on holidays or when others have weddings or funerals, I was often invited to write couplets to my neighbors, of course, to write some blessing statements. Perhaps his own culture has been recognized by others. I know that my father is the proudest and most excited at this time. He wears glasses, grinds ink and spreads paper, and spends a lot of time thoughtfully. Every stroke, horizontal and vertical, is full of elegance. At one time, it was pointed out that the couplets written by my father were feudal poisonous weeds, especially the one in our family: "Farming and reading have been handed down for a long time, and poetry and books have been helpful for a long time." The folks who asked their father to write couplets were afraid to come to the door, and their father was afraid to help. It was also reported that he was a regular in the national period, but it was later proved that he was forced by others, which saved him from being attacked and criticized. But since then, my father has been more low-key and cautious, and he dare not risk helping people write couplets. I remember one Spring Festival last year, my father couldn't help it, so he moved the idea of writing Spring Festival couplets, but he wrote slogans at that time and posted them on both sides of the gate. This Spring Festival posted Spring Festival couplets, and my father nodded and shook his head Gherardini.