The north wind always likes to get through the cracks in the door. The adobe house with ice edges in Lao Xu's family has been lit from the kerosene lamp in the 1970s to the flashing neon lights today. The old couple's rough palms had worn out thirty-six pairs of low-soled shoes, and they had managed to drag the five children from runny-nosed little ones into adults who had taken root in the city.
But the days are getting brighter and brighter, but the contradictions under the eaves are growing like weeds. The new wives think the stove is too dirty, and the sisters-in-law are jealous because of the eggs laid by the old hens. The Eight Immortals table was overturned during the separation, the coarse porcelain bowl was broken, and after the grandchildren were born, several sons fought over the spots to take care of the children. These embarrassing things happened again and again in the courtyard.
The jujube trees in the courtyard were green and yellow, and the old couple's hair was whiter than the salt-alkali land. The pain of chewing wild vegetables during the famine years and the difficulty of borrowing money to pay tuition in snowy days have all slowly fermented over the long years. When the little grandchildren hugged the old people's legs and acted coquettishly, the wind under the eaves finally no longer carried the smell of gunpowder - it turns out that the care that blood is thicker than water has long turned those thorns in life into a bowl of warm millet porridge. Where is the story of Lao Niu's family? It is clearly a common memory written by thousands of Chinese families in the tide of the times.
