Laowu’s articles
Articles about old houses
Articles about old houses. In daily life, many people miss the old houses very much, because the old houses are important to many people. It is full of memories, so there are many articles about old houses. These articles can not only record one's past events but also evoke people's memories. Below I will share articles about old houses, let's take a look. Article 1 of the old house
The old house is a very regular courtyard house. There is a large field in front of the door. There are persimmon trees, peach trees, apricot trees, and jujube trees growing on the side. The thick ones cannot be carried by an adult, and the thin ones require a child to carry them. I don’t know how many generations have been fed by the numerous fruits. Good taste. The entrance leads to a spacious hall, with a wooden screen partitioning the entrance. There is a shrine in front of the screen. Behind the screen is a patio paved with bluestone slabs. There are three bluestone steps in the corridors on both sides and five bluestone steps in the middle of the patio. Going up is the eaves corridor. Behind the eaves corridor is the main room. On both sides of the main room are bedrooms. On both sides of the hall are the bedrooms, kitchen, and fire room. They are all two-story wooden buildings.
When I remember, the old house had changed into something different. Only half of the courtyard belongs to our family. Entering through the gate, it is divided into two parts, and the other half belongs to another family. Dad said that half of this was redeemed by my grandmother who fed pigs, raised silkworms, and collected wood seeds. At that time, my father, my mother, and our four brothers and sisters lived in the front half of the courtyard house. The original hall was divided into a kitchen and a small hall. Grandma, aunt, sister-in-law, and cousin lived in the back half, and next to it. A new kitchen and fire room were also built. Later, the eldest aunt and the younger aunt got married one after another, and my grandma and cousin lived in the back half. Later, we moved away and bought the warehouse in the team. My cousin also moved away and built a new building in a new house. The old house was sold to the neighboring family.
I don’t understand Mom’s move of buying a warehouse. One, I am the eldest son and am already in college. I am already in charge of many things at home. Not only did my mother not discuss this with me, she didn’t even tell me about it. When I found out, the warehouse had already been bought. Another one, it cost 1,850 yuan to buy this house. The family doesn't have a penny, it's all borrowed from a credit union. Fortunately, my father still recognized the people from the credit union at that time. Third, the original price set by the team for this house was only 800 yuan. When it comes time to sell the house, another person wants to buy it too. Mom and the man bid in the village meeting room, and the price went up from ten to twenty yuan, all the way up to one thousand eight hundred and fifty yuan. Mom is a person who does things but doesn't talk things through. She doesn't seem to be the one who can make big decisions. I wonder where my mother got the courage and confidence to do such a big thing.
I asked my mother, and she said: "If we don't have a house, which girl will come to our house?" Oh -, what my mother was worried about was that the cramped, dark and dilapidated old house would not be able to accommodate a wife. She is like all parents in the world. Children are everything to their parents, and their children's affairs are the most important things. They will always make parents fearless and have no hesitation. It does not matter whether they are rich or poor, high or low, or whether they are urban or rural.
The warehouse has since become a new house.
Mom has lived in the new house for fifteen years. Two daughters-in-law and a son-in-law walked into the new house.
People always say that you have something to think about every day and something to dream about at night. I often think of my mother and often dream about my mother. Every time I think of my mother, I remember her kindness and generosity, her tenacity and stubbornness, her uncomplaining busyness and hard work. When I dream about my mother, she is always working: cooking, feeding pigs, washing clothes, setting up vegetable gardens, cutting grain, planting wheat, weeding, building canals, and improving terraces. There was only one exception. In the first month of that year, I had just been working for a few days, and I dreamed that my mother was standing in the water, dripping wet, shivering from the cold, and calling my name. "Mom, what's going on?" I asked her. "I'm cold," she said. After dawn, I quickly called my father to visit my mother’s grave. After my father went to the site for an on-site inspection, he told me that someone else’s tap water pipe leaked and all the water seeped into my mother’s cemetery.
There are many things that I don’t think about during the day, but they are just dreams at night. Like my mother's death.
When my mother died, I was sleeping and still dreaming. I dreamed that there was a big show in the old house. Dream practitioners never think this is a good dream, saying that if you have such a dream, you will lose a relative. Before I woke up from the dream, the phone rang: Mom is no longer here.
Mom’s illness started in the eighth lunar month. At first she just felt chest tightness and shortness of breath. She asked the doctor at the village clinic to prescribe seven or eight pairs of traditional Chinese medicine. Not only did it not work at all, but it got worse. She was sent to the town clinic. The hospital examination revealed that it was hydropleural effusion. When I received a checkup from the county, I found out that I had terminal cancer.
“Didn’t you feel anything before?” I asked my mother. "No." Mom said. You shouldn't ask this question, and it would be in vain if you ask it. Because my mother is not a person who suffers from headaches and fever and moans all day long. No matter how great the pain was, she would rather bear it by herself than reveal it; no matter how great the pain was, she would rather suffer it by herself than ask for help. She always supports her beliefs with astonishing patience.
In those years, my father had been working away from home, and my mother lived with four of us, brother and sister. The family had a small labor force and a large population. The food standard we ate was the lowest in the team, and we owed all the food rations. The tallest in the team. In order to earn work points, my mother would often not even go to her grandmother's house once every half a year, even though the distance was only a dozen miles away; in order to earn work points, my mother would often go out under the stars and come back under the moon; because she owed ration money, she was sent to the squad or even the brigade. "Please" go to study classes; because of poverty, many people mobilized my mother: "What's the use of reading so many books? Let the boss come back and earn as much as you can." My mother ignored this and never said that she would let my brother and I When my sister goes home to earn work points, she never tells us about her hard work and humiliation. She remains in the wind and rain, day and night, and in the small house. Although there was little food, we sometimes even had to borrow food from neighbors to circulate. Mom carefully arranged the food, and we never went hungry. Although the clothes were old, Mom washed them cleanly, mended them neatly, and kept us warm. I even learned to sew from my mother. Although the house is small and damaged, my mother requires us to clean up the house inside and outside every day after getting up, so that there is no garbage on the ground, no dust on the furniture, and everything must be returned to its place after use. Mom turned her poor days into a warm and elegant life.
We have grown up, worked, and started a family. It is rare to go home usually, but even when I go back, it is like starting a fire, going back in a hurry, and leaving again in a hurry. Although I have more time during the Spring Festival, I still go from home to home and visit the west. From the wine table to the wine table, I rarely have the opportunity to be alone with my mother. Because of this, my mother felt that I was busy and never came to me about family matters. No matter how big the difficulties or disputes at home were, I could only learn about them from other people's mouths.
I am not a sentimental person who likes to cry. Just like my mother, no matter how hard it is, I grit my teeth and bear it, silently swallowing the pain and tears in my stomach, and rely on perseverance to survive the difficulties again and again. However, for more than a year after my mother passed away, I couldn't do this. I didn't dare to talk about my mother, whether it was my own or someone else's. I couldn't see the funeral scene, whether it was in reality or in movies and TV shows. Every time at this time, my throat would choke and tears would flow down my face. I am drowning in a sea of longing, gratitude, and guilt.
When mom is at home, she is there, and when mom is at home, she is there. When my mother is gone, my home is gone, and my roots are gone, people become like flying catkins in the wind, duckweeds in the water, and prodigal sons among men. Although the house is there, it is just a mud wall, gray tiles, and a dirt floor. It has no soul, no emotion, and even no care.
A few years after my mother left, the new house turned into an old house again. The purlins and rafters rotted and the walls cracked. When my father lived alone in the new house, when it was windy or rainy, I was always worried that it would not be able to hold on and it would collapse. I gave my father countless instructions on the phone.
We discussed demolishing the old house and building a new house on the original site so that Dad could live in it safely. It took half a year to finally build the new house. When it was completed, I looked at it from front to back, inside and outside, up and down. My wife said sadly: How happy it would be if Mom were still here. I turned around and wiped away the tears that were pouring out.
Mom’s grave is next to the old house. When Mom was buried, the grave was still outside the bamboo forest. Now, it is hidden in the dense bamboo forest. My gratitude to my mother is like this bamboo, endless. The older you are, the better your conditions are, and the deeper your thoughts are, so that you are wrapped tightly. Even though the yin and yang are separated, every year during the Qingming Festival and every twelfth lunar month, I would tell my mother all the major and important events at home. Mother and son would often look at each other, speechless.
Dad lives in a new house with running water, hot baths, large color TV, and gas stove. We feel much more at ease.
I have to go back to see my dad every two or three weeks to have a meal with him and chat. Every time he went back, he was either telling people and gods about old sesame seeds and rotting millet, explaining and commenting on major events at home and abroad, or he was busy in the vegetable garden, or working on the fruit trees and flowers. The vegetables are all seasonal and no chemical fertilizers or pesticides are used; the fruit trees are all planted and grafted by my father himself. The flowers and trees were all common types, and my father planted them in broken pots, waste vats, and corners of idle land. They were tall and short, messy and colorful. They made the surroundings of the house colorful, making them appear full of vitality in spring, summer, autumn, and winter. Article 2 of the old house
The old house was built in the late 1960s. It is a typical dry fortress in the Songnen Plain. It faces south and backs to the north. It is built with rammed loess on all sides and is erected with beams, purlins and rafters. , spread a target made of sorghum stalks and wheat straw, and then apply a thick layer of alkaline soil mud. Looking from a distance, he looks like a disgraced country boy.
The alkaline soil was brought back from outside the village by my father in the spring. It was piled in the yard in a circle, like a crater that had been silent for many years. Before the rainy season every year, my father would take care of the old house to prevent it from getting rainy and drafty. My father drew water from the windlass well behind the house and poured it in buckets, and the water in the crater spread little by little. After all the alkaline soil was soaked through, my father gathered the soil bit by bit into the middle, scattered some chopped wheat straw, and kneaded it patiently and carefully like kneading noodles. After the mud was mixed, my father climbed up to the roof and inspected it carefully to find leaks or hidden dangers. He first plugged them with soil clods, then sprinkled some dry soil on top, and then began to wipe them. If the mud becomes dry or thin, if too much or too little wheat straw is put in, radioactive cracks will appear on the roof, so my father will have to apply it a second time or even a third time. After the roof was plastered, it was time to plaster the exterior walls of the old house. The mother standing on the ground struggled to pass the heavy rubber bucket to the father standing on the ladder. The sweating father waved the clay tablet in his hand again and again, with light movements and skillful techniques. It only took a day or two to complete the task. The old house took on a new look. Over the years, those two hard-working figures under the bright sunshine have been deeply engraved in my mind.
Summer is coming, Deja Vu Yan returns, and the old house welcomes a new owner. Two swallows returning from the north chose a feng shui treasured land under the eaves, so they ran around here and there all day long, working hard on the grass and mud. After a few weeks, the nests are built, and the swallows calm down and begin to hatch their eggs. One morning, I accidentally discovered that there were several bald little guys in the swallow's nest. The little guys are all pink, stretching their necks and shouting, and each of them has a pointed head asking for food from their parents. They look a bit similar to us, with a small belly, but they are never full. The big swallows flew around tirelessly, the little swallows were noisy hysterically, and the chirping family under the eaves added a touch of vitality to the old house and gave it new life. In rural areas, swallows are deeply loved by people. If someone wants to take advantage of swallows, they will be cursed with the curse of "hitting swallows will make you blind." And no one dares to touch the swallow's nest, because the swallow's nest is a very lucky thing for this family. Swallows fall in love with home and announce spring. With the protection of swallows, the life of this family will be better and better, so no one can break this luck with their own hands. It is not difficult to imagine how lonely and desolate the old house or the entire village would have been without the presence of Yan Zi at that time.
One autumn rain and another cold. I don’t know when, the swallows that stayed with the old house all summer flew away, and autumn came quietly. The old houses are soaked in and surrounded by the joy of harvest day by day, and the roofs of many houses have become natural drying grounds. Corn, millet, and sorghum are spread out neatly in piles. Autumn is a grand festival in the countryside. Standing on the roof and looking up into the distance, people all over the world are cheering, horses are barking, and the harvest is plentiful. In a trance, the world becomes bigger, the vision becomes wider, and the mind is inexplicably broadened. At this time, the old house was as honest as a charitable father. Riding on his shoulders, I felt particularly at ease.
After standing on the roof for a long time, I got tired of looking at it, so I slumped down on the xuantengteng grain stacks, looking up at the distant sky in late autumn and the white clouds wandering in the sky, letting the cool wind gently blow from my face. , passing under the armpits, carrying the breath of harvest deep in the fields, and faintly, there is also the smell of wisps of cooking smoke. It is the sound of firewood burning, it is the calmness of food going through fire and water, it is the father and his family. The scent of mother’s sweat from hard work all year round. Sometimes there would be a few faint sounds of chickens crowing and dogs barking from far and near, so the dream gradually faded away, and I turned into a bird flying high, completely lost in the beautiful flight. .
When the heavy snow comes and the light snow comes one after another, the old house covered with silver and plain clothes looks like a hermit lying in the depths of winter. At this time, the old house was quiet, and many people started to sleep, so the brazier came in handy. The brazier is handmade with clay mixed with old tangled rope. It has a small bottom and a large mouth, and is fire-resistant and heat-insulating. After cooking every night, my mother would carefully rub out the burning charcoal from the stove pit, put it in a brazier, then compact it layer by layer with a soldering iron, and put it on the kang for the family to keep warm. My brothers and I fought for the best position in the brazier, not letting me or I let you. We would warm our hands and feet, and soon our bodies would be warm. If you are hungry, throw a few potatoes into the brazier. After about twenty minutes, the potatoes that have expanded with heat and contracted with cold suddenly swelled up and let a "fart" in the brazier. Instantly, there was ashes everywhere. My brothers and I were talking about it. He muttered, "Potato, your surname is Liu, you'll be cooked if you fart." While he was picking the potatoes that were crispy on the outside and tender on the inside, he took them out of the brazier. The roasted potatoes are charred on the outside, tender on the inside, sweet, soft and delicious, and the home is filled with the simple aroma of potatoes. Sometimes we would throw soybeans and cornstarch into the brazier, and soon the brazier would crackle, and the fragrant soybean flowers and cornstarch flowers would become our luxurious snacks.
Time flies, and forty years have passed in the blink of an eye. Although the old house has been repaired many times, it still cannot escape the fate of decay. The doors and windows are rotting, the walls are falling off, and the roof is collapsing. Under the ruthless grinding of time, Like an old man in his twilight years, he collapsed on an early spring morning without any struggle or even a humble cry. From then on, every time I returned to the countryside, I would stop there silently and read page after page about the vivid past of this land. I think that is my most sincere tribute and deepest memory for my old house.