Wine in memory

There is an unknown old man in my hometown. He only knows one craft: brewing wine. He can only say one thing: sell-sweet wine! But he has been to many places.

I still remember when I was four or five years old, my mother used to ride an electric car and take me around in the summer evening. Many memories are blurred, but I always remember that kind of hawking. The old man will ride a creaking bicycle with a big white horn hanging in front of him. His hawking voice "sell-sweet wine" circulates in the horn, with a long melody, full of charm and a strong sense of vicissitudes. There is a big iron box with a big spoon hanging in the back seat. He is a mysterious man, and no one can tell where to buy and sell his wine.

My mother also likes old people's wine. Every time I just hear the vague cries in the streets, she turns around like a child, looking for the sound. When I was four or five years old, I pretended to be mature and laughed at her. My mother just shook her head gently and said, "I tell you, this is my mother's childhood memory." I looked at the iron box behind the old man doubtfully. He didn't turn around, as if he knew we were looking for him. He stopped the car slowly, wiped his hands with his feet, lifted the iron cover and smelled of wine. The natural sweetness is mixed with the earthy smell of summer, which is very good.

"Give Arazza a bowl!"

"Ok, two yuan a bowl and eight yuan a bowl."

The old man picked up the iron spoon and skillfully fished out four spoonfuls of wine from the iron box.

"It's dangerous and sweet to pinch distiller's grains today!"

He saw my face full of doubts and repeated it in Mandarin with a big grin. "Yes, it's sweet!"

I stood next to the old man, whose wine smelled delicious. He always wears a shabby gray apron and rubs it with his hand every time before getting off the bus, as if it were a tribute to the wine. I looked down at the distiller's grains in the plastic bag, which was white. Even in the alley with little light, I could see the rice grains clearly. A glutinous rice is like Bai Yushi, round and full. I can't forget it with a bite. After he handed us the distiller's grains, he stepped on his bicycle and walked away with the sound of peddling on the loudspeaker. I wonder which alley the next distiller will meet him in.

Later, I went to elementary school and junior high school. As soon as I finish my homework, I will think of drinking a bowl of ice wine on a summer night. The old man seems to know what I'm thinking, as if he stopped to amplify the sound of the horn when passing by my house downstairs. Repeated hawking became the code word between us, and the old man waited for me to buy his wine. I will prepare coins and go downstairs to buy a bowl or two. Old people know nothing about electronic products and only accept cash, so they miss a lot of business. But the old man is stubborn and free and easy. He didn't listen to the suggestion that he should pay by electronic means. "It is fate to buy it, but it is also fate that he can't buy it."

Unconsciously, this wine has also become my childhood memories. Before the long summer, old people would wear gray hats to sell fermented grains. After the long summer, he took off his hat to sell fermented grains. When autumn comes, fresh osmanthus will be put in the wine, and it will disappear silently in the winter of this city. My mother explained to me that he was going to hibernate. Old people have been shuttling through the streets of Jinhua since the 1980s, which has become the memory of countless local adults and children. Maybe in the bustling Wuzhou River, maybe in Xiao Jing Street downstairs of my house, or in the distant Dongguan food market. Old people always come and go without a trace, walking for thirty or forty spring, summer, autumn and winter with a horn and a crunching bicycle.

This year's epidemic, I have been staying in Jinhua, and I haven't eaten the wine of the old man for a long time. For some reason, Chang Xia still dared not see him. Until this evening, when I was walking with friends from afar in Guzi City, I finally heard the familiar voice of Hawking. I took my friend with me, and the old man was still selling alcohol with his horn hanging as usual, just standing under the street sign, with no intention of leaving.

I went up to him and asked him why he didn't wander around Xiao Jing Street. He just said, "I'm too old to run."

At this moment, I suddenly felt a little guilty. The old man is nearly eighty, and I only care about the smell of this wine. This year, the old man hung a small sign of Alipay, and the old man who was once alive has gone through many vicissitudes. Looking at the collected brands, my nose was a little sour, and I didn't ask too much about the elderly. I bought eight bowls with my friends, and the price was fifty cents higher than before.

Walking on with eight bags of wine, my friends looked puzzled and I smiled without a word. Probably many Jinhua people are like me. Jinhua gives people the impression that it is not only the ten thousand pagodas with thousands of lights, but also the Wuzhou River. This old man who sells wine all over the city on horseback belongs to the memory of two or three generations of China people.