Prose about my hometown and old house

Old House Essay 1

Standing in front of the main hall of the crumbling old house in the wind and rain, looking at the ruins under the "bald ridge" and the "bald ridge" behind the ruined walls, Really, there is an inexplicable regret.

According to the genealogy, it has been about 180 years since the founding of our ancestors in Daoguangzhong of the Qing Dynasty. Our generation is the sixth generation. I cannot verify when the old house became what it is in my memory. But I remember that the old house when I walked out was indeed very old. It had been repaired and repaired, but it did not look old. There were more than a dozen families and a hundred people, calmly guarding the old house. In the old house, the elders and the younger ones are in order, and people follow the ancestral precepts, "Adhere to filial piety and brotherhood to emphasize human relations; uphold the clan to show harmony; depose heretics to uphold orthodoxy; uphold the order of the monasteries to educate scholars; emphasize agriculture and mulberry trees to ensure sufficient food and clothing; Be frugal and cherish your money; be courteous and uphold customs; stop false accusations and be kind." These rules and regulations have become the unique culture of the old house. The back hill of the old house, in my memory, is not only a world for birds, but also a paradise for little kids. Groups of our little kids played in the back hill, and the back hill brought happiness to the little kids. It also cultivated the hard work of little kids... What is particularly worth mentioning here is that in the past thirty years, the squareness and solemnity of the old house and the green and straight hills behind have influenced and created a group of hardworking people in the old house. Upward descendants. Because of these young people, Laowu has a relationship with the Chinese Academy of Sciences, Tsinghua University, National University of Defense Technology, Beijing Post University, Kunming University of Technology, Changsha University of Science and Technology, etc.; because of the achievements of these universities, some people in Laowu have entered the palace of scientific research. Only then will some people enter government schools and hospitals, and only then will some people become doctors, teachers, accountants, etc. Really, in recent years, no less than twenty people have entered the university and walked out of the old house. People within ten miles of the country know the old house and praise the old house because of this. Some people even call the old house "Xiucai Village". Once upon a time, the old house that was full of vitality, although simple and simple, was full of virtue and warmth.

Talking about the old house, the mountains behind the old house, and the scenery of the old house, although I dare not exaggerate it with "Zhong Ling Yu Xiu Xiu, outstanding people, and outstanding people", I think that although it is far away from Nanyue Dongting, here is The mountain is connected to Hengyue Mountain and the water is connected to Dongting. Perhaps it is "the spiritual energy of Hengshan Mountain and the nectar of Dongting"? However, regardless of the presence or absence of Feng Shui, man and nature should be unified, harmonious, and interdependent. Alas, who would have expected that the old house collapsed and the mountain behind would be bald. I think that even if a new house is built on the ruins of the old house, it would be a pity if the "new house" does not have the beautiful background of the mountain behind it. Essay on my old house in my hometown 2

As I grow older, I feel that I am more and more nostalgic. I feel that the nostalgia arises inadvertently and becomes more intense. The old house I love in my hometown is almost I have been haunted by dreams, and I have seen your silhouette in my dreams several times, so clearly and profoundly, that it reminds me of the beloved old house in my hometown where I was born and raised.

I remember that the year before last, I went back to my hometown for business. After lunch, my brother and I had nothing to do. We wanted to see the old house that had been lingering in our dreams for more than 30 years. I finally found the original village. At the base, what we saw were ruins, overgrown weeds, and a few scattered Paulownia trees. When my mother left with us, the few paulownia trees she planted were already so tall and leafy that even one person could not even close them. Hug; there are also a few persimmon trees planted by my uncle in my hometown. The trees are full of ripe persimmons, with abundant fruits and bent branches; among the weeds, there are a few goats eating the weeds leisurely. , seeing all this made me feel sad and filled my eyes with tears.

I think back then, in the early 1980s, although the old house was simple, it was still one of the best in our village. Although it was a brick and adobe structure, it carried the hard work of my parents and the friendship of the villagers. This is something I will never forget. At that time, my father was working outside and there was no labor at home. We, four young sisters, relied on our mother alone to work hard and earn cents. Over time, we built our love nest and old house. The construction of the old house was all thanks to our mother. There were many mothers and sisters in the family, who pulled soil, laid foundations, and pulled bricks and tiles. It was all the villagers and several uncles from my mother’s family who helped, and this was the reason why the house-building scene was booming at that time.

I remember that day, it was time to put up the beams. According to the tradition of my hometown, relatives, friends, and neighbors all came to congratulate me. Everyone carried ropes on their shoulders to pull, and finally, with great difficulty, the main beam of the house was firmly placed on the roof. The family brought a piece of red cloth. The so-called "matching the red cloth" was probably for good luck. Grandpa was also full of smiles. He bought a pig head and fired firecrackers. It was so lively. My parents used the unique way of their hometown to entertain the villagers who came to help. Our children also saw the long-lost smiles of our tired parents. .

I pressed my hands against the ruins of the old house, brushing away the dust of the years affectionately, and quietly felt the ruthlessness and vicissitudes of the years. Although the old house was dilapidated, it left behind The accumulation of years, with infinite nostalgia, reminds me of the dripping raindrops left on the green tiles on rainy days on the eaves of the old house and the happy years of playing in the rain.

But now, seeing this scene and thinking about the past, I look at this old house full of scars, leaving only the warm old house full of memories in my heart, which gave me childhood memories. Can you not make me burst into tears? The old house I love in my hometown contains my childhood memories and the bitterness of my parents. It contains my growth process and childhood aspirations. It carries the hopes of my parents, inherits the blood of my ancestors, and continues the family tradition. It is Beautiful memories that I can never erase.

My old house in my hometown, you are my eternal concern. Although you have been submerged in the long river of time, I, I will come back to see you, because there are no parents’ hardships, expectations, and I understand the deep nostalgia and reluctance to leave the old house that my parents often nag. Hometown and Old House Essay 3

Some people equate hometown and old house with the same thing. This is wrong. Hometown is hometown and old house is ancestral home.

Opposite the old house in my hometown, there are two caves, known as the Old Man's Cave. Together with the surrounding bamboo bushes, they look like a tiger's head, and they often look covetously at my old house. According to the elders, when the ancestors grow old (and die), they are put into the cave. On the one hand, they watch over the home that is difficult to leave, and on the other hand, they hope that future generations will honor their ancestors. To be precise, Lao Lao Cave is the rock burial mentioned in history books, and Lao Lao Cave is the old house of the ancestors.

Every time I go back to my hometown, I have to pay my respects to the old man's cave devoutly, and then, under the gaze of those special eyes, I walk along the long cobblestone path, swaying my clumsy body and stepping on it. After cutting through the soft ridges of the fields, you gracefully step over the ivy-covered fence, pass through the dirt-paved courtyard dam, and go up a flight of steps to truly enter the old house. At that time, although the two-story, four-bay house with earthen walls was not as good as the four-in-one patio left by the big landowner, it was still tall and impressive. The front is covered with comb-toothed mud tiles, and the back is covered with light gray slate, just like the newly shaved scalp of the second ugly man next door, with an angular bun, which is simple and childish, and can be seen as childlike.

The base of the village was carefully selected and built by my grandfather. Looking out through the green rice fields, a beautiful river is looming. The Yue'erba on the other side is more vivid than the Crescent Spring in Mingsha Mountain, and it glows under the sun. Shining like emerald light. The umbilical cord-like weir and canal behind the house is the lifeblood of hundreds of acres of rice. There are three families living on the lotus platform supported by the hard rock wall on the ridge, guarding five acres of thin farmland. There is the moon in front and a lotus behind. The moon shines on the lotus and I feel at ease, the water flows around the old house and I listen to the wind blowing from the tiles. My father said that although this place is good, it should not be surrounded by water. The humidity is high and the food is prone to mold. Grandpa said that life is about obeying the local conditions and the local atmosphere. It seems that my grandfather, who immigrated to the south, was right. It is sunny, prosperous, surrounded by mountains and rivers, warm in winter and cool in summer.

In my spare time, I like to wander around the house, smell the fragrance of grains, and see the colorful fruits. The album-like tiles are like the curled hair of classical beauties, starting from the wall stacks. Layers upon layers drift diagonally toward the ridge of the roof, seeming to be flowing, yet still remaining silent. Under the strong light, the color of the tiles was deep, as if blue and black ink had been poured on it. Looking at the sky again, the tiles and the sky were of the same color, taking care of each other. Only then did I understand why the poet loved to say that the sky was blue. At dusk, the smoke from the cooking pots diffuses from the tiles, sometimes gathering into braids, sometimes spreading into nets. When the wind breathes, it becomes a wisp of unpredictable emotions, hidden in the brain trust of the family tree. When it rains, the carp's back is exposed on the roof. It seems to be moving but not moving, and the mud tiles have turned into fish scales, giving off a faint purple light in the lightning.

Nowadays, slate and mud-tile houses are becoming increasingly rare, and the memory of the old house, like my childhood, youth and youth, is getting farther and farther away and becomes increasingly difficult to let go. Standing at the entrance of the tunnel with long memories and looking back, this civilian residence full of nostalgia and rustic flavor, just like certain people and things in certain eras, will always remain warm in old photo albums. It is homely, authentic, simple, plain, and The richness, dignity, depth, and kindness often remind me that my roots are in the countryside, my nickname is in the hearts of the folks, and that I am a poor child from the countryside.

The walls of the old house are made of soil, and the tiles are made of clay. Every step the villagers take is solid on the soil. Therefore, missing one’s hometown is called nostalgia, caring for one’s old home is called nostalgia, and remembering one’s birthplace is called country. Countryside is the mother body of all human affections. Countryside belonging to oneself and one's belonging to countryside have long been a relationship of flesh and blood, like a pot of strong tea or a jar of old wine. One is reluctant to drink it all in one gulp for fear of never returning. Countryside is a kind of fertility, countryside is a kind of richness, countryside is a kind of heartache that cannot be resolved. Pain is heart-wrenching, love is also heart-wrenching. I have to always reminisce about that earthy feeling under the bright moonlight of the small town.

What is an old house? The old house is the house of the elderly. It is a knot that cannot be solved by people who are far away from the country. It is a piece of bamboo whip that sprouted from the base of the wall and went to live next door. It is a local teaching material that has been excavated and sorted out after being unearthed from the pile of old papers. .

Every time I leave and look back at this place where I used to live, an inexplicable light but deep sweetness or sadness will surge up in my heart for no reason. Tired birds miss their nests, fallen leaves return to their roots, and the lively world is boundless. I just need a quiet place. It seems that I should go back to my old house in my hometown to live my life.