My name is Zhao Dezhu, a child born and raised in the northeastern countryside. In 1985, I came into this world with a "gulu" sound like a small potato popping out of the black soil. I was born in a small nook in the Northeast. The place is as small as a drop of ink accidentally dropped on a map. You can't find it without looking carefully.
At that time, in the northeastern countryside, if you look around, you will see low adobe houses everywhere, like little old men with their necks shrunk and shivering, shivering in the cold wind. In winter, the strong north wind is like a pack of crazy wild wolves, howling and howling, which can freeze a person's ears off. My house is no exception. There are several dilapidated houses with walls peeling off like falling snowflakes. When the wind blows the window paper, it makes a "snap" sound, as if crying out about one's own fragility. The thatch on the roof is swaying here and there, resembling my messy hair. This house can barely keep out wind and rain. If there is a windy day, the wind will be like a group of naughty little thieves, crawling into the house from the cracks in the walls and windows, making people shiver with cold.
