A mottled and damaged village stone mill on one side

There may still be a mottled, broken stone mill lying in every corner of the country.

Old Liu got up early in the morning, put the hammer and chisel into the blackened canvas bag, and lifted his legs out of the door. The mountain was more than 30 meters behind the house, and he had to get to the hillside early and go to Chiqian Village to see the mill made by Zhang Jiagang. When he looked up at the dim sky and walked up the mountain road step by step, the black dog behind him was stumbling along like a shadow, which he had been walking faithfully for more than a decade.

The mill on Zhang Jiazu has been handed down for three generations and is as dilapidated as the rafters on the roof. Lao Zhang pondered the decision to change the mill for several nights, and his son, who went out to work, gave a thousand reasons for opposing his approach. But Lao Zhang thought that this ancestral craftsmanship should not be lost in his own hands. I am sorry to say that I can't do anything about my ancestors.

The eastern whitening, knocking Bangzi shouting street Liuzi again appeared in the narrow alley, he has been selling stone sesame oil in this village for 30 years, this most inconspicuous hutong spent his best years. He walked away the old lady of the Wang family at the end of the hutong and sent away the young master Tan, who was only one step away from where he was standing. The elm willows in the village were green and yellow, yellow and green, and the voices shouting the street were hoarse and clear, clear and hoarse. Liuzi suddenly felt as if he saw a vague hope, but he could not tell what the hope was.

The stone mill crunched again, just like a stop-and-go dreary day, Lao Zhang scooped up the last ladle of soybeans and poured it into the grinding eye, watching the thin donkey silently circle around the mill, suddenly feeling a trace of sadness in his heart. His life is like the donkey and the mill, moving day and night, the sun shines into the mill through the east gate, and the moonlight falls in through the west window. One side after another snow-white tofu came and went, sent away the old wife, and ushered in a daughter-in-law. The hair is black and white, and it is less white. Sometimes, he thought, should human life be like this?

The village used to have four-eye stone mills, two noodle mills, one tofu mill, and another one to grind sesame oil like Liuzi, but now there is only the tofu house of the old Zhang family. Lao Zhang feels that this is a kind of persistence, and he seems to have a sense of mission on his shoulder, which is probably the main reason why he ordered a grinding plate from Lao Liu. In the second half of the morning, he considered going to the back mountain to see what Lao Liu had made of the stone mill.

The sun rose in the sky, and Lao Zhang began to walk up the mountain. The mouth of the hutong was quiet, few people left, and the shouting of Liuzi had disappeared without a trace. I'm afraid the sesame oil of Liuzi will be sold out this year, Lao Zhang thought. He saw that Liuzi's legs and feet had become more and more clumsy, and the stone mill sesame oil had become unpopular. It's the same with tofu. Who wants to eat tofu made by donkey pulls and mills these days? Lao Zhang sighed, the autumn wind lifted a lock of his white hair, and he looked particularly lonely among the empty rocks.

Old Liu sat in the autumn wind like an old rock, lifting the hammer slowly and heavily, and the chisel hit the grinding plate with a hoarse murmur. When Lao Zhang approached, he saw the grinding chamber that had been chiseled. In three days, you will come and grind. This was the only thing Lao Liu said, and then he bowed his head and carved it with a chisel, as if Lao Zhang did not exist. Lao Zhang wanted to chat up, but had no excuse, so he had to turn around and walk down the winding and narrow mountain road, with the long and powerless bark of the black dog behind him.

At dusk, cooking smoke had risen in the village, and Lao Zhang began to make tofu according to the procedure. Soak, pulp, filter and remove dregs, boil, press and shape, and you can finish every step with your eyes closed. He thinks that making tofu is like working on crops, just like raising children. You have to bear hardships, be flexible and pay attention. You can't do anything without it. He likes this old traditional craft, just as he likes this dilapidated old mill for more than 30 years. He raised his cloudy eyes and looked at the corner of the mill, and suddenly there was an indescribable taste in his heart, astringent.

When it was almost dawn, he began to wait for the young man to pull tofu. The young man is shrewd and wants to bargain with him every year, the price of tofu is lower and lower, and the smile on the young man's face is brighter and brighter. Lao Zhang likes the young man's sweet mouth, so he never cares about the price. The young man pushed the door and jumped in as if he had entered his own house. Lao Zhang felt alive and felt that the repression of the past few days seemed to be relieved. After a while, when the young man leaves, he must have a good sleep, Lao Zhang thought.

But he couldn't sleep, and the young man brought him two frightening news. The old Liu Tou, who made the mill, fell down the hill and left on his way to the hospital. The young man will go out to work in two days, and the tofu business is over. Hearing these things, Lao Zhang staggered out of the mill and wanted to take a breath.

The last stone mill in the village disappears at the dawn of one day, and who knows which day it is? Old Liu's hammer and chisel were scattered in the dry grass halfway up the hillside, and the cries of Liuzi had long been far away from the entrance of the alley. Lao Zhang's mill had been removed, and it was said that it would become a building, but who knew?

In every corner of the village may lie a mottled, broken stone mill, which is like the rings of a thousand-year-old tree, recording unspeakable ups and downs. Touching the grinding plate is like walking into a long history.

Author: sun Shouming