Fortune-telling for the blind in rural areas

Read a passage, the fragrance left by my father.

(1) A pair of barefoot trudging in the snow in the mountains, that's my father; An axe danced under Leng Yue, and went home with a reward in the cry of an owl. That's my father. A green pole forced a big river, that's my father; It was Dai Li's father that a wind and rain plow broke wild rumors; A cup of light sweet potato wine can relieve all sadness. That's father. Father, even if the pen in my hand is as handy as the red shoulder pole in your hand, what can I write in the face of the fading white hair in the desolate mountain shadow of my hometown?

(2) My father said that man is a native and cannot live without soil. I left this land, that was ten years ago. There was a blind fortune-teller who predicted that I would definitely die in another country in the future. Father was very sad and said, "Honger, one day when you are as old as your father, go back to your hometown and live." When you get old, you will miss your hometown. "

(3) I am depressed. I was sixteen.

(4) I remember it was a hot summer noon. It was the last time my father and I talked back and took part in farm work, which completely changed my fate.

(5) When Mr. Li, who had driven more than ten miles to deliver the admission notice, stood in the lush corn forest and called my name, I was staggering forward with a heavy barrel of cattle on my back. My father looked gloomy and panted at me for being stupid in farming, and said with emotion, "I'm afraid no one will leave me for a meal in the future!" I was angry at this unfairness and began to fight with my father. At this moment, Miss Li came over and handed me a thin piece of paper, which was the university admission notice. When I threw the bucket and received the notice, tears poured out unconsciously. I was speechless for a moment, just looking at the dark green mountains and cool rivers in the distance. Partridges in the mountains are half sad and half happy. The angry father is still black-faced. Without a word of happiness or blessing, he just said, "Son, you are so lucky." Turn around and leave in a hurry with a bucket, feeling an unspeakable taste alone in the silent field.

(6) As dusk rises in the mountains, there are friendly dog barks in the village, folk songs floating in the evening breeze, and the sound of river water and rammed earth building houses. I suddenly felt another charm of these sounds, and they no longer had the heavy melancholy of the past. That night, many folks who heard the news poured words of blessing, envy and praise into my old house full of good luck and joy together with the exploding firecrackers. That night, my father was as drunk as a fiddler and looked at me with shame. In fact, at that time, I forgave my father's scolding at noon and said over and over again in my heart: Father, please forgive my son's contradiction. This is the first and last time.

(7) The accident of life is fate, but fate is not just accident. The worship of soil or books is the same in a sense, but the content of soil and books is often very different from my father's fate, and there are many similarities. Was this an accident, too?

That night, I lost sleep.

(9) My father, who has never traveled far and worked in the dirt all his life, decided to send me to an institution of higher learning thousands of miles away. Usually my father is very strict, very tired and has a big temper. I seldom feel the kind of father-son affection that others have had. I was deeply moved and finally realized my father's deep love. My father wants to see me off, not because I am the first college student in that mountainous area in the decades after liberation, but because I am his son, and only because I 16 years old have not been to a county or city. Father is close to the land and far from the complex city. He just wants to be a protector again, for his loving father and for the vicissitudes of life. Father didn't say anything at the time, but I felt it.

(10) On the day of departure, my mother, siblings, neighbors and my good friends all came to see me off. My father wore a blue headscarf on his head, a black bag on his waist, a gray cloth only worn by relatives, an old wooden box and a roll of bedding on his shoulder. Mother cried sadly, so did I, and so did my sister-in-law and those good friends. Sniffing the smell of mud, cow dung and straw mud in my hometown for the last time, I walked down the cool and foggy riverbank, and my father and I got on a small awning boat and started the most unforgettable journey in life.