一年一道的雪,终于来到老鸹岭。雪花一片一片地飞舞。八十二岁的他,腿脚破天荒地灵便了。他在推开边屋的刹那,甚至还挺了挺腰——那腰,其实早就佝偻得挺不起来了。他就那样跨进边屋,走向墙旮的地火盆,点燃松针,放上淌油的劈柴,等火舌舔上来,再拿个树篼罩住,让其均匀散热。他在火盆边坐下来,抽着旱烟袋,等雷七到来。老鸹岭的人,不下雪不烤火,习惯了。岭外的雷七,也习惯披着头茬雪来,陪他烤这头茬火。 Year of the snow, finally came to the old ridge. Snow flakes one by one. At eighty-two, he had the ultimate in mobility. He was pushing the side of the moment, even quite tall and straight - that waist, in fact, has long been too sluggish. As he stepped into the sidewalks, he went to the brazier brazier of the wall, lit pine needles, put chopsticks on dripping oil, and licked his fiery tongue and covered it with tree shrouds to dissipate it evenly. He sat down on the brazier, smoking a pipe, waiting for the arrival of thunder seven. Laoganling people, do not snow does not roast fire, used to it. Lei seven Ridge Ridge, also accustomed to wearing the first crop of snow to accompany him to burn this stubble fire.