My village, my home.

The wheel of the bicycle ran over the cement road, and I felt a solid, cold stranger. The pedal of the bike is half off, it is my companion at school, the rusty beam frame can not wipe out the original appearance. Riding through every road, every piece of land, every tree in the village, my tears came like a tide, drowning the wandering yearning. My village, my home, the destination of my soul. Tired, tired, want to cry, I will come back here. Take off the costume of the heart, in the bosom of the caress of my village, clarify the dirt of the dust city, clean up the muddy thoughts of the mind.

Every time you ride to a place, some familiar scenes emerge gradually. The big willow tree at the entrance of the village is still there, its huge body branches drooping vigorously, bending down to hold the canal that flows through the village. The old man smoking a pipe under the tree and the playful urchin are nowhere to be seen. The vicissitudes of the old temple stands in the glowing new temple, solemn and old, like an old grandfather's reticence. The wheel parked, but dared not go near it. It is an indescribable emotion, brewing into a strong yearning in the depths of the heart, once released, it will intoxicate the footsteps of time and hinder the wings of the wanderer. Through the curtain of overlapping time, I saw that twenty years ago, the village came shyly like a cowardly woman.

My village is close to the mother river. Since childhood, listening to the waves of the Yellow River, chewing the bitter river wind, following the footprints of generations, I and the village harvest spring breeze and autumn rain. Along the Yellow River, it is a paradise for me and my friends. Elaeagnus angustifolia, locust, willow and poplar form dense natural barriers on both sides of the bank. The red willow and other shrubs on the riverbank are half a man tall, like an airtight brown fence. In spring, flowers are in full bloom, bees and butterflies dance, and the air is full of fragrance.

Sucking the sweetness of the sowing season, the tender footprints of my friends and I stepped into the fertile chest of the field. In summer, the trees are whirling, the breeze is blowing on our faces, and we are sitting by the river bank, which is comfortable enough to make us happy and reluctant to go home. In autumn, the fragrance of rice blossoms speaks of a good year, listening to the sound of frogs. The endless golden rice and heavy ears are filled with joy. We followed the figure of our parents and carried home the full sunset. In winter, heavy snow fell on the vast fields, guarding the rare serenity of my village.

My memory of the village has always been preserved in the scenery of the four seasons by the riverside of my mother when I was a child, and the thoughts flowing in my blood are all related to it. I even think my village stays there all the time: the morning sun rises high, the lotus hoe walks on the ridge of the field of men and women, old and young; the sunset ends, the carriage shafts beautifully into the village. A curl of smoke hung over my young village, calling my daughter home. The streets of the village were covered with tawny skin, the sheep baa, the chickens scraped, the donkeys, horses and cattle tarted past, and the dust emitted a pleasant smell of shame. Compared with the cement pavement, it is dirt and ugly, sunny and dusty, and muddy on rainy days. Its life lurks in the tired footsteps of the wanders. only by stepping on it can the steady, cordial and simple feelings of the countryside have a solid foundation. That kind of ugliness is the most real warmth and peace of mind that the mother gives to the traveller.

In the past twenty years, my village has kept pace with the times. It has become rich and powerful. It is mature, stable, majestic and heroic, from a shy little girl to an enchanting young woman. I ride every road in the village, its modernization, its urban atmosphere, consciously or unconsciously remind me: it is no longer a small village 20 years ago, its earth-shaking changes are enough capital to show off.

People in the village grow vegetable greenhouses, grapes, melons and medicinal herbs. Thousands of miles of rice waves have long been a strange sight for them. In the mother of the river, they raise fish, raise lotus flowers, fish, open restaurants and farm music, and they walk between ancient and modern music. Putting aside the diligence and frugality of their ancestors, they tried to integrate with the city. Buildings, computers, mobile phones and self-driving tours all make people wonder whether the city has imperceptibly influenced the village, or whether the village has accelerated the process of the city.

I no longer go back to my village frequently, and my home becomes strange to me. I often have the illusion that my home has been raped by the city. People in the village don't think so. they are willing to change and like urbanized life. They changed two meals a day to three meals a day and drank milk for breakfast. On cloudy and rainy days, they set up hot pots and boil their lives steaming. In the evening, the wives and aunts gathered together to dance in the square. I hid my sadness and tried to avoid my village.

Sitting on the bus, I listened coldly as the driver kept shouting to buy tickets, buy tickets. It seems that the formation of village culture cannot become a climate without the perfection of the system. For a moment, I was ashamed to look down on my home, my village.

The car moved forward slowly and slowly, and more and more people got on the bus. The people who were sitting kept moving, and they gave up their separate seats to later people, in groups of three, in groups of two in the carriage. People keep coming up, but no one is standing. When giving up their seats, they even asked each other kindly where they were going and where they were only a few stops away. My heart is full of pure native dialect, and I even want to say a few words to them, regardless of whether the content has anything to do with the scene or not.

My mom is going to Wulan town! A shaky old lady in her seventies came up. His son shouted at the car and left. All I saw was a figure of leaving. Before my anger flared up, the old lady had pinched five or six hands and was settled in the seat next to the driver. The old lady seems to seldom take the bus and feel uneasy. She was about to get up when everyone shouted danger and told her to sit tight. In spite of public opposition, she sat on a small stool at the door of the car. Unable to overcome her behavior, the two eldest sisters gave up their seats and squeezed left and right around her, like guards.

I can see clearly that there is not a relative of the old lady on the bus. The driver did not scold the old lady for her stubborn behavior, but gently told her that he would let her know when he arrived at the station. My fleeing heart suddenly wants to return, my village, my home, has not changed. It dresses up a foreign and noble appearance to welcome the travelers, but its pure nature can not be concealed.

My village, my home, forgive my shallowness! Author: story