父亲是个木匠,无师自通,起房盖屋样样在行,锯凿斧刨敲打出生活。总想刨平那坎坷的人生,努力拼凑着那些松散的日子。他弓腰用力向前推刨的身影映照在老家土墙上,成为我心中永远的皮影。那时家里一间大一点的屋,一半用来打灶做饭,另一半就是摆放父亲的木工床了。夜晚,点上煤油灯,我开始读书写字,父亲也开始用心演奏锯凿斧刨的交响乐。父亲弯腰用力来回推刨,刨花从刨齿间突突飞出,如浪花飞舞,声音清脆 My father is a carpenter, no teacher self-taught, ranging from the roof of the house in the trip, sawing ax ax shaving life. Always want to plagues that bumpy life, working hard to put together those loose days. He bowed hard pushed forward shaved figure reflected in the home wall, as my heart forever shadow. At that time a larger house at home, half used to fight stove cooking, the other half is placed on his father’s wood bed. Night, kerosene lamps, I began to read and write, my father began to heart sawing ax ax plane symphony. Father bending back and forth push shaver, shavings fly out from the planing teeth, such as the waves flying, crisp sound