There is hair on the head and grass on the ground. Grass follows the ground. The grass is near the ground, and the ground is hot. The grass and the ground are intertwined year after year, and the grass has never been broken.
However, some have more grass and some have less grass. Some fields grow this kind of grass, while others grow that kind of grass. Just like people, either this kind of graffiti or that kind of grass, everyone has some grass more or less.
There is grass everywhere in my house. At that time, I felt that what I did most was weeding in the fields. Dogs don't think the family is poor, grass doesn't think the land is poor, and there is grass in the barren land.
Even in the fields closest to the sky, grass can climb up. Chatting with the stars for a while, chatting with the moon for a while, and giving private words to the grass.
On Sunday, my father and I went to the field to weed. After hoeing one crop after another, the Mao Mao seems to have laid eggs in the field and scattered in the blink of an eye.
Especially in the rainy season, the grass grows evenly and explodes intensively in a few days, as if to swallow the whole crop. When my father and I saw this battle, we couldn't stop for half an hour. We immediately took out our hoes and Lingling's iron mouth began to attack the grass in the field. Hard and strong, it looks strong, but no matter how hard it is, it can't compete with grass.
Because the grass is older, the iron mouth slowly descends, and the moon slowly rises-my hoe is honed in fine and solid, and unconsciously becomes crescent grass.
The sickle hanging on the wall is worn out, the axe on the ground is polished, but the hoe never needs polishing. It relies on grass, which is a grindstone, which not only wears off the body of the hoe, but also wears off the temper of the hoe.
I really admire those tenacious grasses, some of which indulge quickly after hoeing. Some remove them, and when it rains, they secretly take root and sprout underground-the dead leaves slowly moisten and turn green, and finally fully recover, and become as lush grass as before.
Portulaca oleracea is this kind of grass. In order to eradicate it completely, my father always hoes the ground in the hottest days. Cracked land rolled like waves, hard hoes shuttled under crops, and dense grass fell down one by one. When the sun melted the blood vessels of the last grass, the groundwater was completely cut off, and the grass was never saved through this passage.
I sometimes prefer weeding with my mother. She has her own way, unlike her father's obsession, making herself a grass in the sun. Mother hoes the ground in the coolest time, even when it rains lightly and the weather is crisp. Grass is very sensitive, and of course it knows that this time is a good time-wet land, warm sunshine, suitable climate, riding the wind to run fast.
Mother unhurriedly crouched down and began to fight against the grass. She hoed the grass first, then collected it and threw it far away. Mother's idea is to peel the grass off the ground completely without giving it a chance to reproduce. At least I can't see these nasty grasses at present.
Once, my mother and I went far away to weed. It was exceptionally cool that day, and the sunshine was warm as spring.
The wind blowing from a corner of the mountain shook the leaves on the tree and clumps of grass. The rabbit jumped around like a madman, running around, and finally found the grass he wanted to eat most.
We hoe one piece after another, and the soft soil stretches under our feet, wiping the grass like rubber. Mother said, look how prosperous this millet is! Such a good land, such a good kind, how can you watch it grow into a messy grass?
After the villagers dredged, the river gurgled, birds kept singing, and colorful notes fell, making people stroll in the fairyland.
I don't know when my mother brought this topic to me. There is a carpenter in a village not far from our village. His furniture is authentic. Especially good at making bellows. The wind from the small hole makes the flame fly high and instantly surround the bottom of the pot.
Mom said, remember what Uncle Yao said? Uncle Yao not only plays the bellows beautifully, but also blows his mouth like a wind board. Everywhere, children can't be grass.
The clouds are hanging on the kite. Mother saw my slackness. In that field, pull up weeds and tell me the stories of those great men over and over again.
That day, my mother also told me about a young man from Zhejiang who was admitted to the university at the age of thirteen and then rose to the top step by step. Where Dashan looks forward to, work hard, work hard, and work hard again! After listening to those words, I grabbed a handful of grass, hoeed the ground for a while and stopped for a while. The grass in the field is gradually decreasing.
In our village, the cleanest land belongs to those old bachelors. They have the least things to do, no wives and children, no collisions between pots and pans, no quarrels with outsiders, and there are not so many weeds in their hearts. They never want to go out to make money. The unit doesn't want them, and they don't have that big desire.
In this way, things don't look for them, and they don't look for trouble. My mind is full of breath, and what I think most is the grass in the field. You see, no matter how fast the grass grows, they can't hoe the ground every day.
As soon as the grass came out, it was beaten, and the buds turned into stiff grass under the power of hoes, and they had not yet grown into thick ropes.
They not only cut their own grass, but also cut other people's grass. When the sun goes down, whoever has more business will shout through the window and be sure to arrive early the next morning.
The family also asked them many times to build a house, build a pigsty and dig a vegetable pit. As long as they can't carry it at home, they asked them for help. Full of beads of sweat, I can't make a face, laughing like grass in the sun. They do their best and never hide anything.
Almost all my big projects have their shadows. In those years, our brothers were young and did nothing, so they were invited to help our family.
Grass also bullies the weak and fears the hard. Strong is weak, weak is strong. The tall and dense cornfields make the grass lose its temper.
Sword leaves hand in hand, shoulder to shoulder, tightly covering the ground. There is almost no light on the land, and the light can hardly penetrate into the ground. The grass below is drooping and tasteless, and some want to pull up the corn stalks, but they can't climb half.
There is almost no grass in the sweet potato field, especially when the vines are spread out, the wide land is covered tightly. The grass is under the nest, holding it, and it can't lift its head at all. My father and I usually don't hoe these grasses.
They hardly affect the growth of crops, don't interfere with others' sight, and can't tell us what to do. Because they grow in the dark, everything is covered by false appearances, and what is presented to people is always simple and beautiful.
Peanut fields, ancient and bean fields are all very fragile places. Grass easily penetrates into its texture. Because the crops leave them too much space. Stuff it in the gap, and if you are not careful, the grass will come out of the gap. Most people in our village hoe these grasses.
It is said that they are weeding, but sometimes they walk around the field to see if peanuts have been scraped by voles, millet eaten by sparrows, pumpkins should be raked, leaves eaten by insects and the land is dry. Grass grows in the land, just like people will get hurt, it will hurt, so that villagers will always miss and be alert to the land.
The scarecrow all over the mountain is the first warning from the grass.
Once, I saw a villager weeding in a field without grass. He looks as if he is imagining the grass all over the floor.
Cha la la, cha la la. In a hurry, one hoe after another, never letting go of every detail. In the green wheat ridge, the old man scraped, as if talking to a nonexistent God.
I didn't know why at first, but I thought the old man's behavior was a comedy, a joke and a performance, like catching a yellow ghost in a play. I am chanting in my heart, smashing the ground with a hoe, so that the grass will never dare to invade again, praying for Chang Yongfu's peace.
I really want to ask the old man, but the old man has no time to take care of it. In the vast wheat fields, the wind blows gently, and round after round of wheat waves turn the earth into an ocean.
. It is a rhythm of life, unrestrained passion, and a symphony floating in the field. The old man buried his body for a while, then surfaced again, in the illusion of reality and emptiness. I looked at the waterfall in the wheat field, shaking and winding.
Suddenly, I felt that the wheat completely surrounded the old man, layer after layer, wrapped in dust, and turned the old man into another image and existence-rolling waves, green and hard straw, sharp wheat awn, flowers on the old man's silver silk.
He forgot fatigue, pain and trouble, and became one with wheat. Can't tell where the wheat is and where the old man is.
Father told me that there is water under the hoe and there is fire under the hoe. When the weather is dry, the hoe can cut off the capillaries that evaporate water outward, so that the land can keep moisture. When the weather is waterlogged, hoeing can increase the exposure area of sunlight and make the land dry quickly. The hoe is the life-saving straw of the land.
Iron man, fire and water are the masters of steel. We lived under a hoe and saw fire and water. They are burning, quenching, harmonizing the land, harmonizing yin and yang, and making crops grow rapidly.
I finally understand what the old man did-in that barren land, emptiness can sometimes become reality, form can sometimes become content, and lies can sometimes give people strength.
There is a saying in Qi Shu Yao Min that "nothing grows on the ground". I'm talking about weeding constantly. Most villagers understand this truth, but some people don't.