父亲只是一个木匠。儿时的记忆中,老家的小屋里,堆满了各式各样的木料。打开大门,木香就迎面扑来,在鼻孔里横冲直撞,让整个人都醉醺醺的。坐在父亲为我做的小摇椅上,玩着父亲为我做的玩具,看着父亲忙碌的背影,听着锯子与木头碰撞在一块儿的交响乐,我就知道,心灵手巧的父亲又要为谁制作精美的工艺品了。 My father is just a carpenter Childhood memories, the home’s cabin, filled with a wide range of wood. Open the door, woody on the face flew in the nose rampage, so that the whole people are drunk. Sitting on the small rocking chair my father made for me, playing with my father’s toys for me, watching his father’s busy back, listening to the symphonies in which the saws collided with the wood, and I knew that the dexterous father had to Who produced exquisite handicrafts.