D會計、老L和老S，都是隊裡的骨幹，也是交情甚好的哥們兒。他們的家都在農場以外，騎車來回要一兩個小時。D會計是我的頂頭上司，為人嚴謹，是隊裡的「第三把手」。那天，D會計邀請我和室友小G去喝他小女兒的周歲喜酒，並提出想讓我們當孩子的「寄娘」。當時我們一臉懵懂，自己還是個孩子，怎麼就當「娘」了呢？
好幾桌酒席擺在鎮上的家門前，那是熱鬧非凡的露天宴。如今回想起來，那時真是不懂事兒，既沒有帶禮物赴宴，也沒給幹女兒見面禮兒，可淳樸的D會計似乎全不在意。
二、幽靜的居所：老L家的竹林清夢
老L人稱「諸葛亮」，他的家在四團公社，是典型的江南小院兒。前院兒有一眼水井，屋後有一片竹林。房屋西北兩邊被一條大河圍著，幽靜得如同世外桃源。
那天，女主人特地宰了一隻老母雞，早早地把西瓜放在井裡冰鎮著。倆小孩在門口玩兒，大兒子六七歲的樣子，在河邊抓了幾隻青蛙，去地裡摘了新鮮蔬菜，燒柴煮飯幫母親打下手。
當年的新大米配上井水，用柴火灶燒出來，那個香，簡直是城裡人無法想像的。
飯後，我們來到後院的竹林裡，腳下厚厚的落葉踩上去沙沙作響。在林子中間的一小塊空地上，放一扇大大的、磨得光滑的厚木舊門板，躺在上面听任微风拂面。
四周圍拔地而起青翠欲滴的竹子細梢，高高地聚集在頭頂上方，隨風搖曳，陽光被竹葉篩碎灑在林間和我們身上。耳畔飄來遠處的蟬鳴與隱約的搗衣聲。一陣瞌睡襲來合上眼睛，管他「今夕何夕」。
小男孩兒悄悄端來一盆剛剛採摘的棗子、桃子和甜蘆黍，又輕輕地離開。
三、迷糊的一夜：老S家的雕花床
老S住在最遠的大團，或許是看其他人都請了。他也不願落下。我和英子在他家過了一夜，睡的是他女兒出嫁留下的老式雕花床。只是那一晚，隔壁屋的竹榻「叽嘎」
「叽嘎」聲響了一整夜，吵得我們沒睡踏實。多年後才「知道」，那天老S的竹塌床響聲的緣由。多年後才明白，在那交通不便、十天半月才能回一趟家的歲月裡，那是糙漢子們特有的、火熱而短暫的家庭溫存。而我們那時真是單純得像白紙，啥也不懂，白白聽了一夜的「噪音」哈哈。
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A Blind Kinship, a Bamboo Forest Dream, and the Creaking of a Bamboo Bed
Part I: Gaining a Family Connection
Accountant D, Lao L, and Lao S were all the backbone of our team, and they were also close, dependable buddies. Their homes were all located outside the state farm, requiring a one- to two-hour bicycle ride each way. Accountant D was my direct supervisor—a rigorous man who served as the team's "third-in-command." One day, he invited me and my roommate, Xiao G, to his home to celebrate his youngest daughter's first birthday, and he proposed that the two of us become the child's Ji Niang (godmothers). At the time, we were completely bewildered. We were practically children ourselves, so how could we suddenly become "mothers"?
Several banquet tables were set up right in front of his house in the town, making for a tremendously lively, open-air feast. Looking back on it today, we really lacked basic worldly wisdom; we arrived at the banquet empty-handed without a single gift, nor did we give our new goddaughter any sort of blessing present. Yet, the pure and simple-hearted Accountant D didn't seem to care in the slightest.
Part II: A Secluded Abode — A Bamboo Forest Dream at Lao L’s House
Lao L was affectionately nicknamed "Zhuge Liang" for his clever wit. His home was located in the Situan Commune—a quintessential southern Chinese courtyard house. The front yard featured a deep water well, and a lush bamboo grove flourished behind the house. The entire property was bordered on its northwest sides by a wide, sweeping river, making it as quiet and serene as a hidden peach-blossom paradise.
That day, the hostess specially slaughtered an old hen for us and had placed a whole watermelon down into the well early in the morning to chill it. Their two young children played happily by the doorway. The eldest son, around six or seven years old, caught a few frogs down by the riverbank, picked fresh vegetables from the plot, and helped his mother by gathering firewood and cooking.
The aroma of that year's newly harvested rice, cooked with fresh well water over a wood-burning stove, was a fragrant perfection that city dwellers simply could never imagine.
After our meal, we wandered into the bamboo grove in the backyard, the thick carpet of fallen leaves crunching softly beneath our feet. In a small clearing right in the middle of the grove sat a large, old, solid-wood door panel that had been polished perfectly smooth over time. Lying down upon it, we surrendered ourselves to the cool breeze brushing across our faces.
All around us, vibrant, emerald-green bamboo stalks surged toward the heavens, their slender tips clustering high above our heads and swaying gently with the wind. The sunlight, filtered and shattered by the bamboo leaves, dappled the forest floor and our bodies. The distant hum of cicadas and the faint, rhythmic thumping of river laundry drifted into our ears. As a wave of drowsiness washed over me, I closed my eyes, utterly careless of "what day or year it was."
The little boy quietly carried over a basin filled with freshly picked dates, peaches, and sweet sorghum canes, and then slipped away just as softly as he had arrived.
Part III: A Restless Night — The Carved Bed at Lao S’s House
Lao S lived the farthest away, in Datuan. Perhaps seeing that the others had already hosted us, he refused to be left out. Yingzi and I spent the night at his house, sleeping in an old-fashioned, intricately carved wooden bed that his daughter had left behind after getting married. However, throughout that entire night, the bamboo cot in the adjoining room creaked and groaned—ji-ga, ji-ga—without a single moment of rest, keeping us from falling into a sound sleep.
Years later, I finally understood the true cause behind the relentless creaking of Lao S's bamboo bed. I only truly figured it out today: back then, getting a chance to travel all the way home took ten days or even half a month. In those years of grueling travel and constant separation, that noise was simply the uniquely passionate, fleeting domestic warmth of rugged men snatching a brief moment with their families. As for us back then, we were truly as pure and blank as sheets of white paper; we knew absolutely nothing about the world, and spent the whole night fruitlessly listening to that "noise," haha!
Special thanks to Gemini AI for providing the spirited translation and text refinement.
第三百四十五篇
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