In a deep mountain col in the southeast of Shandong, there is a village of several hundred families.

So I use deep to describe it because I can't accurately describe it in words like remote, secluded, closed, etc. Just as when the xylophone first walked into it in March 1970, it tried its best to mobilize all the vocabulary reserves in the mind of a high school student, but failed to pick out an adjective that satisfied him.

It is surrounded by high mountains, and only a small road looms out of the mountains like a ribbon, leading to the county seat thirty kilometers away. This mountain road is like an umbilical cord between the baby and the mother, maintaining the only access and information between the village and the outside of the mountain.

This is the place where my ancestors gave birth to me, and then they gave birth to me.

It is said that as early as the Hongwu period of the Ming Dynasty, there was a flood in the East China Sea. My ancestors, a newlywed couple who had fled here, saw the mountains around them and thought that even if the water in the East China Sea were turned upside down, they would not drown the mountains. So, I lived in peace. Living, reproducing, reproducing, multiplying, and finally having the current group of our family.

The village has a nice name, called Xinghua Village. Of course, it's not the "Xinghua Village" in Du Mu's poems. But looking at its name and knowing its meaning, Xinghua Village is indeed not in vain. Up and down the mountain, outside the village, east and west of the wall, even the yard is full of tall and dense apricot trees. In March and April every year, the col is full of bright colors, flowers, red and white. From a distance, above this red and white thing, there is a faint layer of fog, which does not disperse all day long. In fact, this is caused by the condensation of the aroma of apricot blossoms. Stay until May and June, that is, the apricot yellow season. Orange apricot fruits are piled up and down, left and right, and the whole col is like a basket of yellow apricots. Passers-by can reach out and pick fat, beautiful, large and round apricot fruits without jumping or climbing trees and branches like monkeys to stop the gluttony from their mouths.

It was in such a place, in such an apricot season, that Maosheng came to the world with a weak cry, announcing that the fifteenth generation of the Song family reasonably and legally held up a piece of blue sky and shared the blessing of apricots.

"The Immortal Village" is like the wind (1) is in the middle of the hand, please wait a moment,

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