My Life Notes - The Original Soundtrack of Sixty Years

Author: Ye Wenling
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2006-08-01
Features: On that day when another God, as I casually picked up scissors to trim the ragged edges of my son's terrible jeans, my son arched his eyebrows and exclaimed as if seeing an alien, "Beautiful! Your skill! Mom, you don't know, Bush is also left-handed!" I didn't know that Bush was left-handed, but how does God being left-handed have anything to do with me? With my son, I always try to maintain a dignified seriousness, even though he always looks for opportunities to joke with me. Don't look at him being six feet tall—he's still a sixteen-year-old middle school student! I finally remembered that I had never told him that I used to be left-handed. And this left-handedness was indeed passed down from another God—my wet nurse. The moment I thought of my wet nurse, the moment I wrote the word "wet nurse," my pen suddenly froze. I felt guilty. I had written many articles about my hometown and portrayed many ordinary people, yet I had never written about my wet nurse. Although my wet nurse was vivid in my mind, so vivid that she seemed to leap out at me at any moment. Perhaps it was because of the warning: too familiar relatives are hard to write about. But this time, I decided to give it a try.
Please imagine this scene: After spending eleven and a half hours on a long-distance bus, I arrived in my hometown, relieved to have arrived half an hour earlier than planned. Yet, I couldn't help but taste the bitter fruit of this early arrival: my younger siblings, who were supposed to pick me up at the station, were nowhere to be seen. I had no choice but to reluctantly carry my heavy luggage all the way home. Every time I returned to my hometown and every time I left, it was always in such a disheveled manner as if I were traveling alone. Although it was extremely unbecoming, there was no other way—my hometown had a strong sense of community, and who could blame me for being away for years and returning only rarely?
Not far from my home, at the corner of a lane, I bumped into a woman burdened with luggage just like me. Although she was carrying only a sack of rice, its weight made her bend over completely. But when I caught a glimpse of a few strands of gray hair softly floating around her crooked hair bun, I recognized her and shouted loudly, "Wet nurse!" The wet nurse recognized me at once and exclaimed, "Lingrou, my dear child!" Our luggage and the rice sack slid off our shoulders. Overwhelmed by surprise, both of us were at a loss. Naturally, she wouldn't give me a foreign-style hug, but my wet nurse had her own unique way of expressing affection—regardless of how many acquaintances had gathered around, she would still call me "Lingrou, my dear child" at the top of her lungs. I felt quite embarrassed. You see, in my hometown, people call breastfed babies "meat and liver," but I was already in my forties!
My mother had difficulty breastfeeding, so both my older brothers and sisters and I had a wet nurse. My mother had the highest praise for my wet nurse: "Although Sister Siyou is a bit messy, she is a very kind person. She is extremely caring toward the children, and her milk is abundant. Otherwise, you wouldn't be so fair and plump. Look at your complexion—it's better than any of your older brothers and sisters. No matter how you put it, it's all thanks to Sister Siyou's rich milk!" However, when my mother was praising my wet nurse, she couldn't help but occasionally scold me lightly, "Why do you also use your left hand to hold scissors? Quickly change it. It's all because of Sister Siyou—it's her who passed it down to you!" Changing from left-handed to right-handed wasn't difficult, but I felt that...