My Grandpa's Prose

Answer 1

The following was an essay about his grandfather:

Grandpa

In the long river of memories, his grandfather's image was like a bright and unique star shining. Grandpa had a variety of roles and faces, and every face was engraved with the traces of time and deep feelings.

His grandfather might be a forest ranger in the production team and was called a mountain watcher by the villagers. This identity was not easy to obtain. It required a person to have a good background, good relations with others, good thinking, and be a person of high moral standing to take on this important task. And my grandfather is not only good at these three things. He has a good temper and is extremely patient. I have never seen him lose his temper, nor will he beat or scold others. When there were conflicts between neighbors, and the conflicts intensified to the point that it was difficult to resolve, Grandpa became the " mediator " for everyone. He would sit on the stone bench in front of the door, slowly take out his pipe, and take a sip rhythmically. He would take the tea bowl that was handed to him and gulp it down. Then, he would calmly listen to the excited and chaotic narration of both parties. After he finished explaining, he knocked the ashes of the pipe pot on the green stone slab beside his feet, wiped his lips, and slowly began to analyze. Who was right and who was wrong, the reasons for right and wrong, according to the old logic and new rules, were clearly displayed one by one. These words could always convince both sides, and the surrounding onlookers could not help but nod. After the matter was resolved, Grandpa would hold my hand and go home satisfied.

When his grandfather looked at the mountains, he would often pick up chickens that had been bitten to death by weasels. He carried the bloody chicken and shouted at the village entrance. Soon, a circle of people would surround him. After the owner of the chicken recognized the chicken, Grandpa would hold my hand and walk home with his head held high. At that time, I was like Grandpa's little tail. I especially liked Grandpa holding my hand as he walked through the crowd and accepted the baptism of the layers of praise. It was as if I had become taller under the contrast of Grandpa's tall image. When there was no class, I carried my bag and followed Grandpa up the mountain. I would do my homework on the bluestone slab in the thatch, and Grandpa would walk around with a dung bag on his back. He collected dung in winter, mowed the grass in summer, and collected firewood when he didn't collect dung or mow the grass. When he went down the mountain, the dung was always full.

However, his grandfather also had a side that no one knew about. Once, I saw the chicken feathers on my grandfather's manure basket. It was a chicken that was bitten to death by Huang Langzi. He said it didn't belong to this village and didn't know which village it belonged to, so he took the chicken away. At that time, the family's food reserves had run out, Grandma was sick, and Mother had just given birth to a little brother. The poverty of life made Grandpa do such a thing. As for me, standing under the dazzling sunlight, my initial surprise was replaced by the anticipation of the fragrance of meat.

His grandfather could also be a bamboo craftsman, dealing with bamboo and bamboo pieces all day long. His left eye was blinded because he used too much force to cut the bamboo piece, and he became what others called a "one-eyed dragon". He had experienced the hardships of life, such misfortune even before his release, and he had to support many children. Unfortunately, his grandfather didn't manage to survive the tough years. He starved to death in bed in 1952. Before he died, he still endured the pain in his eye. One of his eyes was bulging, leaving behind a young child.

Grandpa could also be an old man who curled up on a bamboo recliner in his twilight years. In the autumn wind, when the yellow leaves fell, his life gradually came to an end like the yellow leaves on the tree. He once had the dream of leaving the village. After he became an adult, he worked hard all over the world for his family. When he reached middle age, he had his own small family. However, when he was old, the three-point house in his hometown had become his entire world. He fought with his grandson over the TV remote control like a child. Although he lived in the countryside, he could not adapt to city life. The high-rise buildings, security doors, security windows, and indifferent interpersonal relationships in the city made him feel uncomfortable.

No matter which image these grandfathers had, they all carried the memories of the family and the warmth of kinship. Their stories were indelible marks in the long river of time, rooted in the hearts of future generations, forever remembered and remembered.