父亲是个地道的农民,黄土地般的肤色,干净整齐的板儿寸头,还有一双捏起拳头如铜锤、张开五指如蒲扇的大手。正是这双大手,养活了我们一家老小,而我正是在这双大手的掌掴下慢慢长大的。小时候,我没少挨父亲的巴掌,屁股上满是红红的粗粗的指印,但我对父亲是敬仰的。他那一双坚实而有力的大手,短而粗的手指骨节突出,掌面沟壑纵横,粗糙且布满老茧。那双手曾举着我看露天电影,曾手把手教我写字,曾扶着自行车为 His father was an authentic farmer, a yellow earthy color, a clean, tidy board, a pair of fists, such as a copper hammer, and his fingers open like a palm-leaf fan. It is this pair of big hands that feed us an elder brother, and I grew up under the control of these big hands. As a child, I did not less to suffer the father’s slap in the ass full of red and thick fingerprints, but I admire his father. His strong and powerful hands, his short, thick fingers protruding prominently, his face ravaged, rough and full of calluses. The hands had held me watching open-air movies, had taught me to write handwritten, had helped the bike