On a hillside in the Appalachian Mountains in northern Virginia, there is a churchyard. Every once in a while, I will go back there to visit my family ancestors. This kind of visit has a wonderful power to make people calm. The graves of our ancestors are behind a solemn and striking masonry church. The towering square bell tower is also made of masonry, and it is more appropriate to say that it is "simple but not rough". Some family ancestors participated in the renovation of the church, while others, real ancestors, may have contributed to the construction of the church, but I am not absolutely sure about this, because the church was built there for a long time after all. The scenery there is very pleasant, especially in early summer. The wild roses on the stone fence are competing to open, the fields are dyed white by daisies, and the faint breeze dyes the mountains with faint blue, extending all the way to the west. It's a pity that our ancestors failed to enjoy these beautiful scenery. There is nothing to see in those tombstones. In my opinion, tombstones have never been anything to look at. But they do help to find the roots and ask the ancestors, and they will never nag you like the family now. But this does not mean that they are always "silent". Every time I walk past Uncle Lewis's grave, I can hear the words, "Son, come back to the barber shop and I'll cut your hair." Uncle Lewis is a barber. For a time, he left his hometown to make a living in the metropolis Baltimore, but he finally came back. Almost all people, I mean those who left, eventually came back, but most people stayed here all their lives. By the way, "here" of course does not refer to this cemetery, but refers to the countryside two or three miles away from the cemetery. In the year when the civil war ended, my grandmother was born in a rugged field near the Woods. She spent most of her life on the hillside about three miles from the forest, and now she has been lying under this shade for fifty years. None of our ancestors traveled much. Take Uncle Harry for example. He is his grandmother's second son and is buried next to her grave. He is a carpenter. He spent 87 years in this field all his life. He has never complained. He has never been to Paris to see the outside world. If you want Uncle Harry to say something, you must ask him for directions. "Where is the school?" I asked quietly, of course. "It will take some time to go straight along that road," he replied. In my childhood memory, he has always been like this, always with a vague tone that is good to guide others but not clear. It feels good to visit Uncle Lewis, Grandma and Uncle Harry like this. They will not worry about the status quo of NATO, nor will they be full of complaints because of the weak dollar. Talking to such people can make you more sensible. Most of our ancestors were open-minded and farsighted. Of course, you don't want to indulge in looking at things from a long-term perspective, but it is very beneficial to use them reasonably once in a while, which can make you calm down and look at things more rationally. After learning to open your eyes a little, you will understand that being kicked in the subway is not a great shame for ordinary people. My great-grandfather was buried near here. He lived on a mountain and built a gun, but I never found his grave. He was born there in 18 17-the then president was James? Monroe-I am eager to find him so that I can witness Andrew with my own eyes? In Jackson's heyday, all his relatives got along well. This great-grandfather lives in Jackson, Abraham? Lincoln experienced civil war during his administration, so he may not have much feeling about what is happening now. But I still want to listen to him from the tombstone. Even if he shows indifference and disdain to my great-grandson who has never experienced a real crisis, it will make me shudder. Unfortunately, I never found his grave, but I met the grave of my grandmother's eldest son, Uncle Ou Wei. He's a die-hard Hoover and Republican. "Son, eat all those beans." I heard him say this when I nodded to his tombstone. This is an unexpected discovery: Uncle Edgar's tomb. He has been buried here for many years, but today is the first time I have seen his grave. I dare not disturb him because he is a big shot and the manager of the baseball team. I remember one time, two of his pitchers, my uncle Harold and my cousin Howard, were repeatedly hit by each other in the pitching area. He had to decide to find a shortstop and ask him if he was confident to pitch as a pitcher. I still haven't found the grave of my great-grandfather who made the gun, but when I left the cemetery, I found the grave of another great-grandfather. What makes him different is that he only left a legacy of $3 187. This is the first time I've passed here since I heard about it. I laughed at his meanness, but I heard a voice saying, "Son, in the long run, we will all be as rich as Rockefeller in the end." So I got on the bus, crossed the fields dyed white by daisies, passed the stone fence smelling of roses, and drove the car to the main road. At the moment, I am more satisfied with the world.