At that time, from the height of modern buildings around her, Guangming Road was a street paved with black tiles. Among them, various communication lines randomly weave a complex network between the roof and the alley. Guangming Road and the people living there have become a unique landscape of this city. The black ceramic tile combined according to a certain rule starts from a single shape, and its two groups of corners form two slightly downward arcs. On the top of a house, these arcs are densely stacked together, covering up a family secret. Like countless wrinkles, they outline the bright avenue and its alleys, form a street bearing time, and hide the original social life behind the city. White wall brick is the most common building on this road.
Black tile is like a small arrow, which came from decades ago and gently hit people who accidentally broke into Guangming Road. In an instant, the old time poured in, and they found their original self here. They prefer the word "long alley". No matter the Xijiao Backstreet and Beimen Street in the Republic of China, or the revenge road taken by 1945 (renamed Guangming Road by 1950), there is no such thing as "long alley" that gives people reverie and emotion. A long quiet alley, with black old houses on both sides, a tree in the corner, a well, a small chimney in the eaves, Xiao Xuan window open, and a stone paved road, is the gathering place and fermentation field of stories. The taste of life, the complexity of human nature, and a person's life are all here. Heiwa is a symbol from distant times. And the whole black and bright road has become a carrier for adults to return to their hometown temporarily.
This is an old street full of whispers. Mu Xin can prove that new buildings can't talk, while old buildings can talk. In the afternoon, the old house will sink into the recliner, watching all kinds of clothes in the patio evaporate in the sun, and then slowly enter the memory and begin to describe. These narratives are sometimes dull, sometimes passionate, and sometimes inarticulate. You sit on her threshold, follow her eyes and see those clothes dripping with water while rising with the hot air, hanging on an old black bamboo pole. The two ends of the bamboo pole are hooked with lead wires and firmly fixed with the other two bamboo poles to form a clothes rack. A layer of plastic outside the question mark hook of the clothes rack has fallen off, and rusty steel wire is hung. Clothes are hung on bamboo poles in rows, scattering people's marks and breath. They listened to the narrative of the old house, and sometimes swayed with the wind, gently swinging away this intoxicated time.
Looking around, the wooden structure of the old house has been blackened by human fireworks, the white lime on the wall has been patched, the blue bricks inside are clearly discernible, and there are broken cobwebs in the corner. After more than 40 years of retrogression, chickens and ducks used to sing in these courtyards. There may be a nest of swallows under the beams of the main house. At some point, when people pass by the hall, they will be accidentally hit by a drop of white swallow dung. However, even so, looking back decades later, it is still a beautiful thing. Speaking of shit, there is another strange thing. Ping Xiu, who grew up on Guangming Road, put it this way: Every morning at a specified time, people living on the street will put the toilet in a fixed place at the door, which is the "material" accumulated by the whole family day and night. Then, the people of the city sanitation department pulled a dung cart, poured these "materials" into the car door to door, cleaned the toilet and wrote a line in the notebook. At a fixed time every month, residents of Guangming Road can get a sum of money to sell "materials" according to the figures in the book. Those who are careful will have to wait until the villagers who come along the door to buy "materials" arouse the long sound of "materials-yes, materials" before taking out their baby toilets, so as to get more income. Later, the "materials" were worthless, so the toilets had to be brushed by themselves and the sanitation department had to pay money every month. The old house has gone through all this. Time has changed not only her color, but also everything she wraps: plates, washbasins, buckets, cups, New Year pictures and people.
The small flower bed outside the house is happy in the afternoon sunshine. Everything in the room is silent, only these flowers and plants are bathed in sunshine in spirit, emitting the fragrance that attracts insects to stop. Calling it a garden is actually a pile of abandoned bricks piled along the wall of the house, and then all the broken enamel washbasins are used as flowerpots, and soil is dug from the railway not far away, and onions for Chinese rose, impatiens and fireworks are planted. Sometimes when the birthday cake is ready, it seems awkward to keep the cake box made of foam. Finally, the owner filled it with soil and planted flowers and plants. In this way, it becomes a flowerpot. In this way, these potted plants are placed on bricks, high and low, and the flowers are red and green, forming a small plant world. They blossom and bear fruit in festivals on time every year. The vicissitudes of life seem to have something to do with them, but they seem to have nothing to do with them. They are just a nature who moved into an old house. Although small, it is big. Under the potted plant is a brown bamboo chair, which is empty. You can almost hear the creaking sound of the owner when he gets up.
Such a cross-section of rural life actually takes place in the center of the city.
Unlike people who live in tall buildings, people who live in alleys look more relaxed. Sunbathing, drinking tea, going to the opera, going out to chat, when doing this, the door at home is open, you can see the steaming pot sitting on the coal stove, and you can smell the smell of hot air-usually the smell of pig's trotters after drinking. There is also a small bamboo chair next to the coal stove, and the brown chair body has made people unable to see its material clearly. As you can imagine, the owner strolling outside is sitting on this bamboo chair. At this moment, he may put his hands in his pockets and listen to his neighbors talking about state affairs.
At this time, after an afternoon of silence, Guangming Road and her alley began to become active. As people come home from work, there are noisy voices everywhere: footsteps, greetings, bicycles and children's laughter. This is the second time in one day that this ancient alley has played the tune of life loudly. Unlike the crisp and fast sound in the morning, the sound at night is downward and sticky. Apart from children's voices, they have their own world, which is just the opposite of that of adults: their voices are heavy in the morning and high at night. After the silence in the afternoon, the four-eye well and many other wells on the bright road began to sound the sound of rushing water and the voice that people were eager to share. While washing vegetables, the women exchanged information about the day. This is so-called street life. Well is of great significance to the residents of Guangming Road, and a well is a small society. For those who break into Guangming Road, the well is classical and vicissitudes, which reminds people of the sentence "Where there is a well, you can sing willow words". Beautiful and practical, it is another password. Although, for people who can't live without it every day, this is just a place to draw water. At this time, there are always some strangers carrying big boxes into Guangming Avenue. Passing by the well, the woman who was washing was staring at people. Strangers will be a little embarrassed to ask them, where is the Red Flag Hotel? They raised a wet hand and pointed in a certain direction. There are many small hotels on Guangming Road. She is only a few tens of meters away from the railway station, so residents divide the extra rooms in their homes into small rooms, put on small beds and small white sheets, and then rent them to hungry passengers through the storm at a price of several tens of yuan a night, so that they have the initial acceptance of the city. In their sleep, the train continued to pass through their bodies, and the windowsill shook rapidly. They always wake up several times a night. On their first night in Zhuji, many migrant workers lived on Guangming Road like an old city manager, and like many young people on Guangming Road, it became their starting point.
There was a sizzling sound of cooking in the old house, and the fragrance drifted away. The housewives on the stove are busy intently, while the children are running in and out of the platform door happily, chasing and playing. The shouts of adults are more like instructions to keep them crazy. Then, the sound in the kitchen faded away. The children were lured home by their mother's long call, washed their hands in a hurry and formed a table in the dim light. At this time, this lamp has become the warmest guide for those who come back late.
After dinner, it is time for adults to do nothing. The children are very busy. The old house is suitable for playing hide and seek, and many corners are hiding places. Sometimes the eagle catches the chicken. In short, with children, the night is far from reaching the bright road. Sometimes, adults who are tired for a day are really bored, so they pick up a bamboo branch and chase the playful children around the yard. Children run fast, adults pretend to be white. Ping Xiu said that when she was a child, her father was very angry and wanted to hit her, and she would run everywhere upstairs and downstairs. At that time, the second floor was open, and she confronted her father upstairs like a loach, unimpeded. She said, I really miss it. I ran enough and finally fell asleep. As soon as the light went out, I went straight to sleep and ran in my dream.
Guangming Road finally quieted down. The lights gradually dimmed. Except for the occasional footsteps coming home late, the trains that pass every three to five can disturb Guangming Road the most. The green leather train roared in spring and roared away. The whole house is shaking. Then it fell silent again. The arrival and departure of the train no longer disturb the residents of Guangming Road, which is part of their night.
1997 One morning in the summer, Ping Xiu's house suddenly caught fire. Soon, there was only an empty shell left in the house: doorways, stairs, pavilions and furniture were all reduced to ashes in a fire that was faster than the wind. The aging of wires leads to fires, and most old houses on Guangming Road face such a fate, just as people face vascular aging when they are old.
There is a provision of "Guangming Road" in Zhuji Urban and Rural Construction 1992 edition: from Xishi Street 1 1 in the railway station square, turn north to 177, and turn east to meet Renmin Road. It is an old street, which was very prosperous in Ming and Qing Dynasties. It is 890 meters long and 3 meters wide, and there are 20 lanes along the road. In the past, there were many doors in the street. In the northern section, there is the former residence of Amin Wanli scholar Yang Zhaotai, which is called "Yangyataimen" and is a county-level protection unit. ...
In 2007, Guangming Road disappeared in the urban renewal: Wangjiatai Gate, Lijiatai Gate, Dujiatai Gate and Chenjiatai Gate all disappeared.