If I have lived in a grass house, I will have the impression of a grass house, even if the house is gone. Every time my father planted this field, as long as I was around, he would say to me that this was the foundation of the old house.

Maybe you don't think there's anything to mention about the grass house, but I understand my father's intentions. I know it was a time when we were not old.

In an architectural sense, it is the crystallization of the wisdom of farmers, although it is not reinforced concrete like in the city, but it can shelter from the wind and rain.

It is all made of mud, beams and doors made of wood, and covered with bamboo and grass, all of which are hand-finished works, and living in them is like living in the mountains, warm in winter and cool in summer.

I can imagine that the farmer's purpose is to make it look like an old grandmother, you see! The sparse and neat, hairpin roof, and the wrinkled walls.

And the granny-like serenity, sitting there motionless. There, when there is no bright light at night, children will be afraid of the dark when they sleep, which is like the childlike innocence of the elderly, besides, in winter, the snow on the eaves melts, freezes out and slips, and then there will be children to play with sticks, what an old naughty boy!

If you asked me to tell me what life was like there? What I could immediately think of was that the air there sometimes smelled of stinky pickles, which was more like an old village.

"The Song of Things" poem, additional prose Lao Zhuang is in the hand, please wait a moment,

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