The old man next door

     I remember living in a bungalow in the old town. One of my neighbors was a kind and gentle old man. His bright eyes and agile movements made him seem much older than his eighties. I think this was inseparable from his love of life, his positive and open-minded attitude.

    In his spare time, he loved to grow flowers. The bright red azaleas, evergreen orchids, fragrant white magnolias, and the thousands of willow branches with their drooping green canopies in his yard were all planted by him. Whenever I passed by his house, the delicate fragrance was intoxicating. He was always busy in his flowerbeds, watering, arranging, fertilizing, and loosening the soil, finding contentment and peace in his work. He often said, "All things have a spirit; treat them well, and they will be grateful." The flowers seemed to understand his words; every spring, the flowers in his yard would bloom in unison, a truly delightful sight.

    The old man loved gardening and would compose a few poems when inspiration struck. In his spare time, he enjoyed calligraphy, mastering cursive, clerical, and regular scripts with ease, but his regular script was his best. I often saw him holding a teapot in one hand and a brush in the other, the brush flashing across the paper with powerful strokes, producing several lines of characters. He would then recite, swaying his head,

    "The autumn harvest is pleasant, the weather is pleasant after the rain, the grass and

    trees are fresh, the garden is full of blooming flowers, the moisture is better than spring

    ." The old man wasn't particular about the paper he used for calligraphy and poetry; he would write on scrap paper, even on cigarette foil. I'd seen him use cigarette foil most often. After finishing, he would admire it for a moment and then burn it. At first, I didn't care, but after seeing it so many times, I asked him why he didn't keep it. He chuckled and said, "Just having fun, having fun, that's what matters." I still don't understand his words, but I think that's his attitude towards life.

    Besides his beautiful calligraphy and poetry, the old man was also adept at writing couplets, wedding couplets, and inscriptions for parks. (Many of the couplets and poems in the county's temples and the inscriptions in the parks are his work.) Despite this, the old man is very low-key and never likes to show off. He frequently receives visitors asking him to write couplets, poems, or inscriptions, but he usually declines. It's not that he doesn't want to help, but he simply doesn't want to be in the limelight. He's

    not particular about his personal life. When a good friend holds a wedding, he wears his usual attire: a white shirt, black trousers, and slippers. His children, seeing this, say, "They're having a wedding, so please dress nicely before you go, to avoid being impolite." So, they busily find him a suit, tie, and leather shoes. The old man, seeing this, angrily says, "Do you want me to dress like a clown?" It would be impolite to look out of place just for a wedding; he'll dress the way he always does, everything as usual. The old man was very honest; he would never buy reading glasses for 20 yuan if they were available for 10 yuan. He preferred simple clothing, as old clothes were more comfortable for him.

    Time flies, and now the old man has passed away. His flowers, neglected for so long, have lost their former glory; the once vibrant flowerbeds are now overgrown with weeds. Returning home for the Mid-Autumn Festival, I visited the old house in the old town. A willow tree, not reaching the wall, caught my attention. Oh, it was the willow tree the old man planted years ago. Inadvertently, I recalled one of his poems: "

    Planting flowers and trees, forgetting the years; the setting sun hastens the red azaleas; the slender willow,

    newly planted, when will it grow strong? The drooping branches are hard to see, a somber feeling."