作者 尚洪钟
《云之北》英文翻译出炉：
感谢潼萍（我的校友群）推荐，《云之北》在年前（Dec 2020 三个月前）与本群校友见面后，有朋友建议将其翻译成英文，这样孩子们也可以看一看，了解一下我们这一代人的故事。实际上，过去的14年中，我一直想把《云之北》翻译成英文给儿女看看，但是此举一直未能成行。我总认为，用英文无法充分表达这个原文故事。但是我想错了。大概是因为我这个井底之蛙，只觉得天空就只有井口那么大。
《云之北》的英文版 《Beyond the Clouds》经过了三个月、两个人的修改，我觉得已经好到可以找英文刊物发表的水平。这两个人中，一个是素未谋面，萍水相逢的大才子陈兴宇。对于他花费的时间和精力，我实在无法说谢谢。因为面对这个世界上所有的字典，我都无法找出一个字，可以表达我感激的心情；另一个是儿子延隆。在哈佛法学院读书的延隆，现在是哈佛法学杂志 （Harvard Law Review)、学生编辑部的负责人之一，写作水平按理说也应该是可圈可点。希望朋友们喜欢这篇文章，并推荐给您的孩子们，也可以推荐给其他说英文的朋友们。愿这篇文章，能够加深我们和下一代的理解和交流，以及与其他人的交流。
老尚
Beyond the Clouds An English Translation 看中文原文 Ctrl-Click Here Editor's Note: Recently, our editors came cross the article《Beyond the Clouds》written by Dr. Shang Hongzhong ten years ago. After reading and appreciating this beautiful piece, we obtained permission from the author to publish it again to our readers. In the spring of 2006, three major Chinese newspapers in Washington DC area, including the 《New World Times》, jointly organized an essay contest named “Nostalgia”. This 10,000- character article, 《Beyond the Clouds》, won the first-place award. We have known the author Dr. Shang for many years, not only he is a kind and honest family man, he has generously served the communities as a volunteer for over 20 years: he was the principal of Howard County Chinese School 2003-2007; he was on the Board of Directors of River Hill Village 2005-2006; he was the HOA president 2011-13; he coached youth soccer for many years and was elected “Coach of the Year” by Columbia Soccer Association in 2015; he served on the Board of Directors of the Heilongjiang Hometown Association 2010-2012; and loves soccer and writing. Dr. Shang is a senior loan consultant at the Topone Mortgage Company, and we would also like to take this opportunity to thank him, and the company, for their generous support to our newspaper in the past 14 years. 《Beyond the Clouds》is a rare gem in this desire rampant world. Using his own personal experience, Dr. Shang described his understanding of life, his perseverance and optimism in his most difficult times, and his tenacious attitude towards life. With his unpretentious writing, Dr. Shang adroitly described his longing for the splendid hometown mountains and streams, the sun and moon, the snow and fog, and scrupulously expressed his love and gratitude toward his parents and family. You will read this heart-warming article in tears, and be inspired by its strength and affection. This timeless piece is strongly recommended to all readers, especially to those who were born in the 1950s,1960s, and 1970s, the first-generation immigrants to overseas, who have been through almost identical adversities. Yes, this is your story, too. 《New World Times》Editors, Spring 2016
With its gasps of exhaustion still lingering, the train finally crawled out of the snow covered valley. I pressed my face tightly against the icy train window, anxiously waiting for the passing scenes outside to speed up. As the train got closer to its destination, its sleepy cabin began to stir, chatter filling the still air, as if there were suddenly acquaintances not strangers. Based on your accent… you do not seem to be a local. What brings you to this remote place? The elderly lady sitting across from me asked with a chummy smile. I am going to visit relatives during the Spring Festival holidays, I smiled back. So am I, she replied softly. I have never seen such high mountains and so many trees in my life…yes, I saw them in movies, but I did not think they were real. She continued. I smiled at her and nodded, then looked outside again. With my eyes wide open, I gazed at the rolling hills and the fluffy clouds, telling myself, just a little further north, on the other side of the clouds, is the place I have been missing every day and every night – my hometown.
Before I left for China, Steve, a graduate student who worked in the same laboratory as me, asked if I would get overly excited when I saw my father after five long years. I said I definitely would. Mom passed away seven years ago, and Dad had been living by himself since. Even though my brothers and sisters lived close and could take care of him when needed, Dad must have been lonely and faced a great deal of hardship. Before leaving the States, I picked out a can of Nestle coffee and two cartons of Marlboro cigarettes, and carefully selected a pocket watch for him. I also took out $1,000 saved from my graduate student stipend. Although the cost of living in my hometown had risen significantly in recently years, this small sum of money, converted into Chinese Yuan, could still help Father to pay for several years of living expenses. I had been imagining in my head the scene of seeing Father when I got off the train, not sure what it would be like when I saw the gray hair on his head and the coarse wrinkles on his face. My childhood memory of Father is that he was a quiet person who worked on the farm fields ardently during all seasons who did not leave much time to get close with his children. Back then, he would go to work in the early morning while I was still sound asleep, and came home after a long day of work, by which point I was already asleep. As the youngest of five, I wasn’t given much room to participate in family conversations, and an exhausted Father wasn’t jumping to say much on the other hand. So the exchanges between the two of us on any given day were scarce. Father never went to school. The only thing he could write in his entire life was his own name. But he had an amazing talent: to entertain the folks, he could recite a Pingshu, a theatrical form of storytelling that he heard, in its entirety. He also taught himself a lot of skills. When home on rainy days, Father would always help relatives and friends to make furniture, iron buckets or stove chimneys. It was on these occasions that I would often be called to be the apprentice. Even then Father would not speak much to me unless I messed things up, in which case he would pick at me with few words, keeping a straight face. As I grew older, Father talked to me a little more. But I had become reluctant to be near him and would rather stay close to Mom. Later Mom told me that on the day I left home for college, Father stood on the hillside in front of our house for a long while, weeping uncontrollably as he watched my train disappear in the mountains. I could not imagine that scene. In my mind, as strong and tough as he was, Father would never shed a tear. When I went home to visit during summer or winter breaks, I often went for walks with Mom, having spirited chats along the way. Father just listened, rarely asking me about anything. But he would always quietly patch up my worn gloves, socks, or shoes, profoundly attentive with each stitch. On the days I was to return to college, Mom always stood by and would watch me load my luggage onto Brother Jun's truck, but Father would never be nearby. When Brother started the truck engine, Father would then appear and hand me a few small bills. I would say, Dad I have enough for the semester, you should keep the money. He would say, take it, buy something to eat on the long train ride. Now that Father had retired at home, I closed my eyes, picturing in my head, the two of us can sit together now and have a few drinks. Once we started talking, perhaps I could finally have a clearer sense of Father’s life story, and better grasp the formation of the Father-Son sentiments he kept in his inner world. The train slowly came to a complete halt on the platform. When I saw the two old weeping willow trees in front of the travelers’ waiting lounge, everything suddenly went blurry. Nephews and nieces rushed out of the noisy crowds, jumping up and down, screaming in excitement. They hugged me, then grabbed my luggage and dragged me off the platform and out of the train station. I smiled while wiping tears off my cheeks and squeezed into Brother Jun's Jeep. Why did Father not come? I asked Brother Bin. Dad is at our sister’s place to help her take care of the chickens, he explained while stowing the luggage. A trace of confusion flew through my head: after five long years, Father does not want to see me sooner? I immediately answer my own question: that is who he is - it would be otherwise strange if he’d have greeted me at the train station. As the Jeep navigating through the bustling streets, I kept an eye on the high-rise buildings on both sides of the road, while attentively answering questions from everyone. When I asked why hometown had changed so much, Brother Bin glanced at me and said, aren't you happy that the hometown is now thriving? I turned my head and looked at him, but did not make any comments. Soon the Jeep stopped in front of a restaurant, and the owner, who looked fresh and radiant, excitedly greeted us and told us that they got some Chinook salmon – extremely rare in the winter season. While dining, I asked Brother Bin when we could see Father, and he said we would go to Mom's grave first.
After lunch, a blizzard suddenly came. The searing north wind mixed with brisk snow pellets painfully slammed my face, and it was very difficult to keep my eyes open. I stood in the snowstorm, quickly glanced at the once-dearest mountain city, and then hurried to the Jeep. The wind was blowing loudly, and the Jeep windows were covered with ice. Brother Jun blasted hot air onto the windows, while wiping the ice and snow off the windshield. The Jeep started moving gingerly on the snow-covered street. Once out of the city, it started bumping up and down on the rough mountain road. While the Jeep roared thunderously through a patch of dense forest, no one inside spoke, and the only thing we could hear was the wheels’ squeaking sound pressing the thick snow. As the Jeep just climbed up to the top of a hill, the magnificent view of a forest of birch tree on the sunny hillside suddenly came into sight.
Seven years ago, when the pink azaleas were blooming on the mountain cliffs, Mom was laid to rest forever in this birch forest. I remember it was a normal day in graduate school: I was preparing my thesis defense when I suddenly received a telegram, which I had never received one before, from my brothers: Mom misses you please return quickly (母惦念请速回). Before I finished reading these 6 words, the sky started spinning and I fell onto the cold cement floor. I asked my roommate to help notify the school about my emergency leave, washed my face hastily, then rushed to the train station and slammed myself into a northbound train. After a long day and night, when I dragged my weary body off the train, I did not see the usual whole family awaiting, instead finding only Brother Bin standing quietly on the platform. I quickly walked toward him, stopped, eagerly stared at him, seeking answers. Brother stared back at me motionlessly. Snow fell on his messy hair, melted, and slowly flowed down his tired face. I still remember the intense snow shower in the gleaming sun that afternoon, a sun snowburst it was, that I had never seen before. The huge snowflakes were flickering in the dazzling sunlight. The sunbeam was extraordinarily warm. Although the winter wind was freezing, the snowflakes would melt away once they fell on the ground or trees. The hundreds of thousands of branches of the two old weeping willows were silently dripping with snow water, as if they were crying. I took my brother into my arms, hugged him tightly, and felt water streaming freely down my face, not sure how much was the melting snow, and how much was my tears.
I rushed to the hospital. The whole family of about 20 had been waiting in the ward. Mom lay motionless in bed by the window, with the soft sunlight quietly illuminating her. The strong smell of chlorine filled the room, and the liquid medicine in the infusion tube was dripping slowly. I sat gently on the edge of the bed, looking at Mom closely. Mom breathed peacefully with her eyes closed. Her worn face was covered with deep wrinkles, eyes sunken, cheekbones high, and gray hair scattered on the pillow. I took Mom's thin hand, leaned forward and whispered in her ear: Mom! Mom heard my voice. She labored hard to open her eyes, stared at me for a while, then said something softly. I wiped tears off, held her hand tighter, and lowered my head closer to her. Mom signed, slowly closed her eyes, and murmured: My son, is it really you?
It was late when I was to leave the hospital that night. Father told me to take a good rest and worry about taking care of Mom the next day. I pushed the heavy doors open and walked out, leaving the hospital behind, stepped on the ice and snow and into the street at dead of night. The biting wind blustered out of madness, howling dauntingly, sending the otherwise stagnant street sights into shivering. Moving vehicles or pedestrians were nowhere to be seen: the only things in motion were the hapless snowflakes, swirling in grief in the shadow of the dim streetlights. I stared feebly at the faint old house on the hillside in the distance, inching along the center line of the road. Buildings, shops, sleet, and even the wind, all were slowly sliding behind over my shoulders.
More than two feet of snow had piled up against the front door of the old house. Father must have had neither the time nor the will to get it removed, I thought. Trembling in the bitter cold, I managed to open the lock with my frozen hands, then yanked the door open forcefully, got inside, and pulled hard to make it shut. I turned on the lights. What came to sight was both familiar and foreign, and there was something gravely different that made me feel hollow: Thick ice stuffed the windows, making the rooms feel like ice cellars, which had been vacant since the day Mom went to the hospital; All the wooden furniture Father built many years ago stood in silence; dust blanketed the television set, and the old clock wound out its spring, no longer airing the soothing ticking. One of the New Year paintings had slipped to the floor from the wall, with several thumbtacks scattered around it. Subconsciously I stretched out my hand to pick it up, wanting to hang it up again. But, my hand stopped in mid-air. I suddenly realized, Mom does not have many days left. It is no longer meaningful for this painting – or for that matter, all the paintings for the New Year – to be hung up on the wall. Suddenly I collapsed onto the cold floor. The darkness from outside crammed into this old house, pressing on my head, shoulders, and chest. I could not breathe. I grabbed the fallen painting, rolled it up, opened it, then held it in my arms. I dropped the painting, and tried to stand up, but my legs did not have any strength. I somehow managed to crawl to the window and pressed my face against the icy window, hoping to inhale a little bit of cool air. But it was to no avail. All of a sudden I felt the urge to be with Mom, wanting to tell her how much I missed her. But in my hazy consciousness, I at the moment felt Mom but had gone. This old house had already turned frigid, and in the entire world outside it felt like there was not a single warm place to go…... I was finally able to take a long and deep breath, then burst into tears.
I was born when Mom was forty-three, an age considered old to have a child back then. As far back as I could to remember, I always followed Mom around in my younger days, not only because my older brothers and sisters had left home, but also because one night, under a dim light, I saw a few white hairs on Mom’s head while she was cooking supper. Frightened, I vowed not to leave her ever again, because I was afraid she would leave this world soon. The first time I had to be away was to go to college. Mom was fifty-nine then. It was difficult to bear to say goodbye when we parted. When I was in graduate school four years later, I started sending home ￥10 yuan a month saved from the stipend. I thought the money might be enough only to buy a few pounds of apples. To my surprise, Mom said that the day she received the money for the first time, she was so overjoyed that she did not get to close her eyes that whole night. I had no idea it could have brought so much joy to Mom. I stayed with Mom every day in the following month. Although pale and emaciated, she was in good spirits, asking if my girlfriend bought me the new down jacket I was wearing, and who wrote the first love letter. I ran around town, carefully choosing different sorts of snacks Mom would normally consider too expensive to buy. Though they tasted good, Mom could only eat a little. After a few agonizing weeks, Mom suddenly started to have a fever, and every time she ate she would vomit. Later, it became more and more difficult for her to breathe, and she often stretched out her hand to grab something in the air. Her arms became so thin that it was no longer possible to find a new spot for the medicine injection needle, so it had to be stuck on her foot. Afraid Mom would move her feet accidentally and shift the needle, Sister Hua would sit on a small stool by the bed and hold Mom’s feet all the time. Picking up Mom to bathe or change clothes became particularly hard because she did not have any strength. A few days later, Mom could no longer eat anything, breathing became more difficult, and she began to throw up all the time. I often sat her up, put her head on my shoulder, and held her shoulders to make her breathing easier. Mom was too weak to support her neck, and her head would gently rest on my shoulder, as light as a tree leaf. One day after vigorous vomiting, Mom laid on my shoulders wheezing, and whispered intermittently in a faint voice: Son, Mom does not want to suffer this anymore…. I had been praying for Mom to live longer. But I knew that it was too much suffering for her to bear, every second of every minute was an eternity for her to weather. I gently stroked her back while wiping my tears, thinking to myself: my Lord in heaven, please do not make it so tough in her final days. If it must be this hard, then please shorten this difficult journey. Please, please shorten it even more. The date for my thesis defense was rapidly approaching, and there was still unfinished lab work awaiting. I could not delay anymore. I must go back to school soon. Seeing my bewilderment, my sister-in-law assured me: you do not need to worry about Mom…we are all here, and we will take good care of her… In the afternoon I was to depart, I dragged my heavy feet back to the hospital to bid Mom goodbye. The hallway leading to Mom’s ward was silent, without a single moving being. I quietly pushed the door open, greeted my two sisters sitting in silence, slowly sat on the side of Mom’s bed, and put her hand between mine. Mom opened her eyes, looked at me for a long while, then said: they told me you have left…have not you left already? I said, Mom, who said I left? Mom said, your sisters told me. I wiped my tears and smirked: she was teasing you, Mom... but, I really must leave today. Mom looked at me, let out a long sigh, then fell asleep again. With my solemn gaze roving over her face, a vivid memory suddenly played in my head. It was one early morning in the spring long ago, I sat on the doorway in the sunlight after helping Mom clean the house, looking at my own accomplishment. Mom turned at me and said, Son, isn't it your birthday today? Then she took me to the chicken coop to look for eggs, and we found two big red ones. Once Mom lit the fire and boiled the eggs, I devoured them with no hesitation. Now I wished I could replay the scene, where I would have offered to share the eggs with Mom. I knew she would have said, Son, it is for you and not taken a bite, but it would have made me feel a little bit better today... I did not know how much time had passed. Sister Mei came over tapped me while pointing to her watch. I glanced at the watch, then gripped Mom’s hand tightly, leaned over slowly, and whispered to her ear: Mom, I have to leave now. Mom slowly opened her eyes, stared into my eyes deeply for a long while, and spoke softly: Go. Sister Mei walked me out of the ward. I turned back and looked through the small door window. The warm afternoon sunlight streamed through the window, landed gracefully on the windowsill, the heater next to the sill, and Mom’s quilt. Mom seemed at ease, with eyes closed, appearing to be asleep. The quilt on her chest was pulsating with calmness, and the liquid in the infusion tube was slowly dripping. Sitting on the small stool at the foot of the bed with Mom’s feet held in her hands, Sister Hua peered at me though the tiny window. Suddenly tears ran down her cheeks. To avoid being seen, she quickly turned away to wipe the tears. Deep down, it was obvious, that once I walked out of here, and stepped on that train, it could be my farewell to Mom. A special nest for the heart that furnished warmth and comfort, safety and security, would forever be gone. I stared at Mom one last time as tears burned my eyes, for a long moment that time seemed to have stopped. I slowly turned around, wiped away my tears, and muttered in silence, Mom, I am really leaving. The Jeep roared through the frozen stream at the bottom of a valley, then turned sharply to the right and climbed towards the birch forest on the steep slope. The stream originates from a mountain spring, located beneath the giant rock cliff visible from the valley. When springtime comes, the snow accumulating for half a year melts in the warm sun, and the icy water flows through this little stream into Suifenhe River. Then the azaleas on the cliffs bloom without the slightest hesitation, putting lavish bright pink makeup on the faces of the Xing'anling mountains. The colossal blossom of the snow-white pear flowers then follows, stretching for thousands of miles, and the stream banks are blanketed with a dense layer of tiny wildflowers. The crystal clear stream water, warm in winter and cool in summer, always reveals its charitable nature, heartens the bystanders, and its origin never freezes, even in the coldest climate. Summertime is for Shandingzi to amaze in the stream. Schools of fish swim in perfect unison, effortless and elegant. So dazzling is the dancing glittering from their shining scales. The water is sweet, the soil is rich, and the stream is always surrounded with lush green grass and colorful florets. On the hillside beside the stream, Mom's grave had been overlooking the green mountains and beautiful waters for seven years. The Jeep roared before it slowed down and came to a complete stop. Brother Jun told us that the Jeep could no longer go further in the deep snow, we had to walk now. I opened the Jeep door. Just as I was about to jump out, Brother Bin grabbed me and said: Father passed away three years ago.
I heard each and every word my brother said clearly, but none of them registered. My mind went blank. Landing on the deep snow, I slowly turned my head and looked at him in a daze. He stared at me and stood still. Gusty winds whipped snow around us, hanging a hazy but hostile screen between us. I turned around and headed toward the grave, stumbled and staggered on trembling legs in the deep snow under the birch trees. Bare tree branches viciously battered my body, and snow fell from trees and kept pinching my head and face. Suddenly, there was a sharp turn. Unprepared, I fell heavily and slammed my body into the snow. Getting up and wiped off the snow from my face, I saw a tombstone in the distance.
This must be my parents’ tombstone. Seven years ago, when Mom was buried here, my brothers and sisters set up a wooden column, on which Mom’s name, birth and death dates were written in black ink. The first time I came by, while caressing the silent column and dissolving in tears at the setting sun, my feelings plunged in grief, and I was remorseful and in agony that this wooden column would soon be worn down under the severe cold and hot weather conditions. Just about to open my mouth to ask my brothers, I realized that this memorial could only be a temporary arrangement. Father was very old, and this would certainly be replaced with a permanent tombstone after his passing. It was now unmistakable, the inconceivable was brutally awaiting: the moment I saw this tombstone in the place of the wooden column, I knew that Father had gone. I gripped the stele with both arms, pulled my chest against it, sobbed convulsively, tears streaming down, freezing on the cold surface of the stone. Knowing Father too well, I could hear the advice he had for the family when he was dying: since my son could not get here on time from the other side of the ocean, there is no need to let him worry. Just tell him about this when he returns…I sat in the snow numb, letting my face cling to the icy tombstone, staring at the endless snow and trees, allowing time to run its course. I fumbled in my bag for the items I brought for Father, eventually managing to take out the watch, coffee, and cigarettes, and placed them in the snow deliberately, one piece at a time. I did not know when my nephew got there, but he lit a string of firecrackers and handed it to me. The firecrackers rang, crackling sounds echoing in the woods. The surrounding air was quickly suffused with the smoke of gunpowder, and the red and white fragments of the firecrackers scattered on the snow-covered grave, forming a gracious arc. The wind and snow came to a stop, the dark red setting sun on the snow ridge shone coldly from southwest, stillness reigned over the mountain forest, and even the long black shadows of the birch trees printed on the smooth and white snow prairie were utterly silent.
It had been three years since Father had passed away, and life seemed to have returned to normal at home. Although I was still coping with deep sadness, the time I spent with family in my tenday visit was nevertheless precious. Relatives and friends came in droves, bringing heartening words and cheerful laughter. Some claimed I looked young, others argued I actually looked very old, but all were warmhearted. One of my childhood friends, who had been my classmate from elementary all the way to high school, talked enthusiastically about Sino-Soviet trade and making money, patting me on the shoulder time and again. While engaging myself cordially, I wanted to have a moment alone, to sit down quietly to sort out my convoluted mind, stirred up by an unforeseen matter of titanic magnitude. But such a moment did not have a chance to occur. The night before my departure, I finally was able to sneak out of the noisy restaurant without anyone noticing, holding a glass of rice wine, and I climbed up the winding path towards the hillside in front of my old house. It was late, the night was calm and fresh, a luminous moon hung high in the sky, casting a soothing light, glazed on the rising hillside with graceful ease, like a field of water with wavelets glittering in the silver lightening. Every once in a while came a firecracker sound from a distance, interrupting the silence with a soft ringing. I unbuttoned my shirt, letting the wind brush my chest. I turned around, facing the darkened rolling mountains, and my heart slowly drifted, floating freely in the air. In twenty years away from home, I felt from time to time struggling and exasperation from being exhausted. Only in the middle of these mountains, could I find the longing serenity that I needed to brush the dust off and let my heart rest completely. In these two decades, there had been times I felt I could no longer hold on. It was the tenacity these mountains bestowed that propelled the endurance. Though staggered, I went on, and survived.
I felt a profound attachment to this hillside and the many warm memories I made here, forever fresh and intimate. Every time I came home, Mom and Dad were here to greet me. And every time I took my leave, they were there to say goodbye. The pile of firewood was here, Brother Jun’s truck parked here, and the vegetable garden was nearby. I remembered that on the last chilly autumn day before I left home for college, Brother Jun and I drove his truck in the mountains to deliver goods to a city afar. When we came back home in the early morning, through the thick fog we saw two thin figures standing under the streetlamp on the hillside, waiting quietly. We came home late because on the way back after the delivery, I lingered to watch the sea of fog under the full moon in the mountains, and I completely lost track of time. What I also forgot was the certainty that worried Mom and Dad would be waiting in the cold to see our safe return. It was another breezy winter afternoon. I stepped onto the train platform again. No matter how much I was unwilling to part, the moment I must leave still arrived, though felt much too soon. On the platform there were family members, relatives, and a crowd of friends to see me off. I grinned, hugged everyone, and said goodbyes. The sky was overcast, it would probably snow again soon. My brothers and sisters stood at the very back of the crowd, with hands behind their backs, looking at me quietly. The cold wind howled, flapping their coat collars and hair. I bent down to hug my niece Xiaoyu. Xiaoyu stretched out her hands, holding my neck, and said, Uncle, my mom keeps saying these days...grandpa had gone, and you are so far away. Would you ever come home again? At 1:17PM, the train blew its final whistle, and the crowed waved and shouted while chasing the train. The train turned slowly, and little by little, their voices faded, and soon I could no longer see anyone. Before my eyes the mountain city spun slowly and gradually pulled away, retreating into the shadows of the mountains. Sitting across from me was a four or five-year-old girl. Perhaps she had never seen a man my age cry: she tilted her body, staring at me in silence. As I turned to face her, she quickly hid in her mom's arms, leaving one eye peering at me quietly. The mountains turned and slid, slowly but surely, moving to block the sights of the city inch by inch. I stared at the last corner of my hometown for as long as I could, seeing it disappearing after a few minutes in the white snow.
My inner sense had not had the time to adjust: it felt that Mom and Dad were still in the old house. At precisely 1:17PM, when the train sounded its last horn, Mom walked out of the old house, wearing that black cotton-padded jacket with the gray hair neatly tied behind her head, slightly chubby, ruddy faced, but with tears on her face. Father came out with his hands behind his back. He was wearing an old leather jacket with gray overalls and a thick fur hat. While coughing in the cold wind, he talked to Mom loudly. They walked up the slope, and turned around from time to time to look at the train at the bottom of the mountain that had just left the station. At 1:25PM, they stopped at the top of the slope, putting their hands on their foreheads to block out the bright sun, and looked at the two shiny winding tracks into the mountains and the speeding train. At 1:29PM, the train disappeared into the rolling mountains, leaving only the milky white vapor in the valley. Mom said, I do not know when he would be coming back again. Father replied, wasn’t it just a flash, the past five years? With the chat going on, Mom and Dad slowly walked downhill back to the old house. They stared at the ticking clock and estimated the train’s arrival at Kuangou Station. At 4PM, my nephews and nieces were back from school. My brothers and sisters had told the kids to come back to accompany their grandparents. Once inside, the kids began to chat and argue, making the old house lively. At 5:30PM, my brothers and sisters got off work and brought food home. A large family started to have dinner in two groups: parents, brothers, and sisters sitting around the table on the tukang, a heatable clay bed, and the children on the floor. They ate while discussing where the train I was riding would be at that hour. Although knowing that the overseas letter would take two to three weeks to arrive, at noon the next day, Mom started to check the mailbox. When Father was chopping wood in the front yard, he often heard the sound of the iron cover hitting the empty mailbox.
At 1:22 PM, the train crossed the road leading into the mountains. The winding mountain road was covered with thick snow, bordered by dense woods on both sides. The same birch forest, as vigorous as ever, is just behind these woods on the sunny hillside. After hearing Xiaoyu's question before getting onto the train, I held her tightly, failing to hold tears from bursting out. Yes, I would always be coming home. Then I heard my inner voice: Xiaoyu, Don’t you know, how much remembrance of deep love I have deposited here, under the snow and ice, gathered in the spring blossoms and autumn rains. Do you know, I have engraved in my heart the name of each plant and each wood in this place I call my hometown. Where else in this world could I be given such caring and blessing? If the Lord let me choose once more from the very beginning, I would be undeterred by the rich and famous, doubtlessly return to my old house, and start again from my tough childhood. Although there would still be helpless regrets, these difficult but enchanting long years did not have to be any different. Suddenly, a scene from the autumn late-night into early-morning trip flashed back - the scene I witnessed with astonishment, while my parents were waiting in the cold wind under the streetlight. On the way back after delivering goods, the fog intensified steadily on the mountain road, slowly blocking the moonlight in the primeval forest. The two long white headlight beams gradually shortened, until they only illuminated a couple yards. The white mist of the fog refracted the light in all directions, and slowly the dazzling white light surrounding the truck formed a silvery luminous semi sphere. The trees, flowers, and plants on the roadside turned glittering white and gleamed, translucent. The truck inched forward slowly, as if drifting in a celestial garden of crystalline jade-sculptured trees and flowers, or more vividly, wandering amidst a magical white coral reef on the seabed. Suddenly I felt as though schools of shinyscaled fish were to come, swimming by the truck windows soon. It took a long time for us to crawl on the bending mountain road. Then the fog faded. The silvery moon returned, faintly. The truck finally was out of the deep valley and had almost reached the top of a mountain, where the fog was much thinner. I felt a bright white light reflected from behind and turned around. I hurriedly asked Brother Jun to stop the truck. Brother said he was very tired after driving all day and wanted to take a nap. I said okay, then jumped out of the truck.The valley, just a few yards away, was filled with sparkling white fog. As I looked around, it appeared as though not just this valley, but rather the entire world of thousands of valleys was covered with an endless sea of white mist. The giant bright moon hung on the edge of the foggy prairie, like the shining sun gleaming over a resplendent and serene snowy plain. The sky was vast, dark, and distant, without a trace of clouds or a single star, accentuating the full moon – so shiny white that it was blinding, yet seemed so close: almost touchable with my fingers. The mountain peak I was standing on happened to be one of the highest, with only a few feet out of the fog. Looking around, in the massive sea of white haze, there were only four or five looming peaks scattered in the distance, like islands in the sea. The surroundings were quiet. Not a single bug was chirping: the only sound was the rustling of mist bumping into tree leaves. I walked around and looked everywhere, and tears suddenly filled my eyes. I asked, who am I? Where am I going?
At 1:29PM, the train entered the valley of high mountains. I pressed my face against the icy cold window and looked north. Now I could only see the snow-covered mountains and the white clouds in the sky. In the past few days, there were countless times I had reminisced about the scenery I saw in the mountains that foggy morning, every time feeling startled, confounded, and shocked. I could not help but wonder, was I the only one who recorded the magnificent sight that early morning? Was that surreal scenery that made me tremble presented just for me? How could my thin shoulders bear such a heavy burden, and who am I to deserve such a weighty blessing? Maybe there is such a thing as Fanfare for the Common Man. Perhaps I could only say Thank You, from the bottom of my heart. I could only say, Mom, Dad, family, hometown, thank you for all the love you gave me. Inside this train cabin where everything seemed to have entered its dreamland, as my sweet home watched my journey from afar, my conscience gradually eased. With all I knew, the path ahead became clear, the least I could use to guide myself: In the season of warm sun and gentle breeze, I will genuinely do my best to return every little expression of care I have received, to a world I am so grateful for; On the bumpy road, I will be kind to every challenge I face. With the infinite beauty and love this planet has put in me, I will strive with the most graceful smile on my face, even in the most tumultuous storms. There will surely be times of staggering and wobbling, but I know, determinedly, and confidently, that I will continue my journey with that smile, till the end of my days.
云之北
Beyond The Clouds For my Mom, Dad, family in my hometown, and my most difficult times.
May 2006
中文原文
Original Chinese Article Read English Translation Ctrl-Click Here 编者按：
近日编辑偶阅本报好友尚洪钟博士昔日佳文《云之北》，欣赏感动之余，征得作者同意，有意再 次发表以飴读者。近一万字的《云之北》字字真诚，曾再2006年华府三大中文报纸联合举办的征 文大赛中获最高奖（第一名）。了解他的朋友都知道，尚洪钟博士无私服务社区多年，正直坦 诚，德高望重，2003-2007曾任哈维中文学校校长（义工），2005-2006曾任River Hill Village 社 区董事（义工），2010-2012曾任HOA社区主席（义工），2015曾获得哥伦比亚市区足球协会最 佳教练（义工），曾任黑龙江同乡会理事（义工），喜爱足球和写作。尚洪钟博士是全美贷款公 司的资深贷款专家，我们也想借此机会，感谢他十四年来一直对本报的鼎力支持。《云之北》是一篇不可多得的佳文。尚博士用自己的亲身经历表达了对生活的思考，和我们都应 该拥有的乐观，豁达和坚韧的生活态度。尚博士用朴实无华的文笔，细腻地描述了对故乡的山 水，日月和雪雾的感受，表达了对父母和故土的思念和感激，及其对生活释解。 文章感人肺腑， 催人泪下；字里行间处处都激励着自己和他人，渗透着向上的坚强和刚毅。本编辑对各位读者鼎 力推荐此文。尤其对于在海外第一代移民，已经奋斗多年的50, 60, 70后，此文不可不读。因为， 这就是你的故事。
《新世纪时报》编辑部
2016年春
《云之北》 尚洪钟
火车喘息着慢慢地从覆盖着白雪的山坳里爬了出来。我把脸紧紧地在贴在冰冷的车窗上，急切地 盼着外面那一道道移动的风景快飞过去。越靠近终点，好像车上相互认识的就越多，车厢里慢慢 喧闹起来了。对面坐着的一位老太太笑眯眯地对我说，听口音你不象是本地人，到绥芬河这么远 的地方来干什么? 我笑了笑说，是春节探亲。老太太说，我也是；我过去可从没见过这么高的 山，这么多的树，以前电影里见过的，还以为是假景呢。我向她笑着点点头, 又转头睁大了眼睛 望着前方那连绵起伏的山峦和天空中洁白如絮的云。心想，再向北走，在云的那面，就是我日夜 思念的故乡了。
临回国时，同实验室的史第文对我说，五年没见到你爸爸了，见面时会不会特别激动？我说一定 会的。妈妈七年前就不在了，尽管哥哥姐姐们住得不远，爸爸这些年一个人也肯定很辛苦。临走前，我精心挑选了一只怀表，一罐雀巢咖啡，还有两条万宝路香烟。另外，我还带了从助学金里 攒出的一千块钱。虽说家乡物价高了很多，但兑换成人民币，这点儿钱也可帮他支付几年的生活 费用。我也想象着，下火车时，当我见到爸爸的满头白发和苍老的面容时，不知心里会是什么滋 味。 小的时候我和沉默寡言的爸爸没怎么太亲近过。记得那时爸爸一年到头总是起早贪黑地播种收 割。他出工时，我还在酣睡；收工时，我又已进入梦乡了。我有两个哥哥两个姐姐，在家是最 小，本来就什么事都轮不到我插话，再加上爸爸日日劳累，回家后言语更少，所以我整天和爸爸 说不上几句话。爸爸虽然一辈子只会写自己的名字，却能将听过的评书几乎一字不落地讲给人听, 而且他也自学了好多的手艺。雨雪天在家歇工时，爸爸总会帮亲戚朋友打些家具，铁桶或者烟筒 什么的, 我也常常被他叫去搭个下手。但即使这时爸爸也不会和我多说几句话。除非我做错了 事，他会板起脸来说我几句。随着我渐渐长大，爸爸同我说的话稍多了一些，但我还是总跟在妈 妈的身边。后来听妈妈说，我离家去沈阳读书时，爸爸曾站在家门口的山坡上，遥望着渐渐消失 在群山里的火车大哭。我觉得有些不可思议。因为历经沧桑，严肃而倔强的爸爸是不应轻易落泪 的。大学的假期中回家时，我总是搀着妈妈散步聊天。爸爸只是听着，很少问我什么，但会悄悄 把我穿坏的鞋和用坏的手套一针一针地补好。离家回学校时，妈妈总站在旁边看着我把行李包裹 装上二哥的卡车，而爸爸一般不会来。二哥启动引擎后，爸爸才会出屋，总会走到车边递给我两 三元钱。我说爸钱已经拿够了。他说，拿着吧，火车上买杯水喝……现在，爸爸已退休在家，我 完全可以单独和他酌两杯二锅头。话匣子一打开，我大概会终于了解他这本不易读懂的书，体会 父子之情了。 火车终于缓缓地停在站台上。一看到售票厅前那两棵熟悉的老垂柳时，我的双眼一下子模糊了。 喧闹的人群中冲出高声喊叫的侄子外甥们。 他们一边抢过行李，一边兴高彩烈地问候着。我边笑 边擦着脸上的泪水， 一同挤进二哥的吉普车。我问大哥，爸爸怎么没来呀？大哥边装行李边说， 老爷子去北寒村帮二姐喂鸡了。我心里掠过一丝不解。五年了，爸爸就不想见我吗？可一想起爸 爸的脾气，我也就觉得他来接站反而不合情理了。 吉普车穿过熙熙攘攘的街道，一路上我一边答着家人的问话，一边看着路边耸起的一座座陌生的 高楼大厦。我问为什么故乡变化这么大呀。大哥看了看我，说变得这么繁华你还不高兴吗？ 我转 头看了看他，没再吱声。吉普很快停在一个餐馆的门前，老板满面红光地迎了出来，兴高采烈地告诉我们今天有冬天里少见的细鳞鱼。推杯换盏间，我问二哥什么时候去看爸爸，二哥说去妈妈 的坟之后再说吧。吃罢午饭，北风突然紧了起来。凛冽的寒风卷起的雪粉打在脸上让人睁不开眼。我站在雪中，匆 匆地环视了一下久违的山城，便钻进了车里。风呼呼地吹着，车窗上已积满了冰碴。二哥一边开 足了热风，一边擦着风挡玻璃上的冰凌。吉普在冰雪覆盖的街道上小心翼翼地驶出城外，在坎坷 的山路上颠簸起来。车里没人说话，只有车轮碾着厚厚的积雪吱吱地响着，卷起的雪块叮叮噹噹 地打在车上。吉普车吃力地吼叫着穿过一片茂密的树林。车刚爬上山岗，对面向阳山坡上那一大 片挺拔的桦树林一下子跃入我的眼帘。
七年前，当悬崖上粉红的杜鹃花盛开的时候，妈妈永远地安睡在这片桦树林中。那时我正在研究 生院准备论文答辩，突然接到平生第一次接到的，大哥发来的电报: “母惦念请速回。” 还没读完 这短短的两句话，我便一阵天旋地转，跌坐在冰冷的水泥地上。我让同屋的志民帮我请假，然后 匆匆地洗了把脸，便挤进了北上的火车。一天一夜后，我疲惫不堪地走下火车，只见站台上只有 大哥一人来接我。我走到大哥面前停了下来，急切地用眼睛询问着。大哥静静地背着手，默默地 看着我，雪花飘落在他凌乱的头发上，融化的雪水从疲惫的脸上缓缓地流下来。记得那个午后正 下着我从未见过的太阳雪。雪片如鹅毛般大，纷纷扬扬地在耀眼的阳光下闪烁着。硕大的太阳象 一只熬夜的眼，通红通红地看着我。腊月的风虽然寒冷，可落在身上地上的雪花还是在太阳的照 耀下不断融化着，两棵老垂柳的千万条干枝也默默的滴着雪水。我一把拥住大哥，泪水雪水在脸 上不住地流了下来。
我急忙奔到医院，看到全家老小十几个人都在病房里。妈妈一动不动地躺在靠窗的床上，输液管 里的药液缓缓地滴着，房间里一股淡淡的来苏水味，阳光静静地斜照在她身上。我轻轻地坐在床 边，仔细地端详着半年未见的妈妈。妈妈闭着眼安详地呼吸着，脸上满是皱纹，眼窝深陷，颧骨高高地突显了出来, 灰发散落在枕头上。我拉起妈妈瘦弱的手，轻轻地叫了一声。妈妈使劲地睁 大了双眼，盯了我半晌，才轻声地说了句什么。我擦了擦泪，握紧了她的手，把头凑到她面前。 妈妈闭上眼睛，吃力地问道，三儿，真的是你吗？
当夜我离开医院时已经很晚。爸爸让我先好好休息，第二天再开始护理妈妈。我推开重重的大门 出了医院，踏着冰雪走进了夜深人静的山城。北风呼啸着，清冷的街道上没有车辆，更没有行 人，只有雪花飞舞着，在昏暗的路灯下旋转着。我怔怔地望着远处山坡上的隐隐约约的老屋，在 路中间缓缓地挪着脚步。楼房，商店，雪粉，北风，都在我的两肩旁慢慢地向后滑去。
老屋的门前已积了两尺多厚的雪，想必是爸爸已多日顾不上打扫了。我用冻僵的手哆哆嗦嗦地打 开锁，使劲地拉开门，又用力带上。我开了灯，仔细地环视着熟悉的家。好久没人住了，窗上已 积满了厚厚的冰，屋里冷得如冰窖一般。爸爸做的炕柜，地柜静静地站在那里。电视机上落满了 灰尘，老座钟也已走完了弦，不再嘀嘀哒哒地响了。一幅年画滑落在地上，几个图钉也散落在旁 边。我下意识地伸出手去捡年画，想把它重新贴到墙上，可刚刚伸出的手却停在半空中。我突然 意识到，妈妈来日无多，这幅年画，和所有的年画一样，已没有贴到墙上的意义了。我一下子瘫坐在地上。外面黑暗的天空紧紧地挤了进来，压在我的头上，肩上和胸口上。我不能 呼吸。我一把抓住地上的年画，卷起来，又打开，然后抱在怀里。我扔下年画，想扶着炕沿站起 来，但双腿却没有一点力气。我挣扎着爬到窗前，把脸紧紧地贴在冰凉的玻璃上，企盼能吸进一 点点凉凉的空气，可无济于事。我突然想去找妈妈，想告诉她我有多么地想念她。可我在懵懂之 中，已经感到妈妈不在了。这个老屋已经如此寒冷，而老屋外面的整个世界，已突然没有了任何 温暖的去处。。。。。。我终于长长地深吸了一口气，哇地一声大哭起来。
妈妈四十三岁才生了我。记得小时侯我总是紧紧地跟在妈妈左右，这不仅是因为比我大好多的哥 姐都已离家，更是因为有一天晚上，在昏暗的灯光下，我第一次看到了正在做饭的妈妈头上的几 丝白发。我突然感到恐惧，再也不肯离开她一步。直到妈妈五十九岁时，我才恋恋不舍地离家去 读书。四年之后读研究生时，我开始从补助费里每月省出十元钱给父母寄去。妈妈说她第一次接 到汇票的那天晚上两眼都没有合一下。我知道那点钱只能买几斤苹果，却没有想到能让妈妈那么 高兴。 接下来的一个多月中我日日陪伴着妈妈。虽然天天消瘦，可她情绪却很好，问我那新羽绒服是不 是女朋友买的；还问我和女朋友是谁最先写的信。我跑前跑后给她买了好多平时舍不得吃地小食 品，但她只能吃一点点。熬了几个星期后妈妈突然发起低烧，吃进去的东西都吐了出来。后来她 呼吸变得越来越困难，常常神智不清地把手伸出去抓什么东西。因为手臂上已找不出一处静脉可 以再扎针，输液针头只好扎在脚上。二姐怕妈妈动脚使针错位，天天坐在床边的小凳上扶着妈妈 的脚。我和哥姐帮妈妈擦澡换洗衣服时需要把她抱起来。可是她全身已没有一丝一毫的力气，我 小心抱她抱不起来，用大力气又怕弄痛了她，一件简单的事竟然是不能想象的难做。再后来，妈 妈不吃东西了，还开始经常地呕吐。她本来就呼吸困难，呕吐时就更加难受，我就常常把妈妈的 头放在我的肩上，双手扶着她的肩膀，好让她舒服一点。妈妈因颈上已没有一丝力气来支撑，她 的头像片树叶一样轻轻地搭在我的肩上。有一天一次次地呕吐后，妈妈趴在我肩膀上吃力地喘息 着，用微弱的声音断断续续地说，三儿，妈不愿再遭这个罪了。。。。。我一直祈望，请让妈妈多活些日子。可是我知道，她现在每分每秒都煎熬得实在太苦，我心也疼痛地不能忍受。我一边 轻轻地抚摸着她的后背，一边擦着泪暗想，老天有眼，请别让妈妈这最后的日子这样的辛苦；若 是如此的难熬，就请让这艰苦的历程缩短些，再短些。 可是我必须回学校了。只有两个多月就要论文答辩，我的实验还没有完成。我一拖再拖可还是得 走。大嫂说，老三，我们这么多人在这儿伺候着，你别放心不下。我知道全家每人都尽心尽力地 跑前跑后，我怎么会不放心呢。临行时的那个下午，我拖着沉重地步子回到医院和妈妈最后道 别。医院过道里静悄悄的，没有一个人影。我轻轻推开病房的门，默默地看了看正在护理妈妈的 两个姐姐，然后轻轻地坐在妈妈身边，把她的手捂在我两手之间。妈妈睁开了眼睛，看了我半晌 说，你不是已经走了吗？我说，妈，谁说我走了？妈妈说，你二姐说的。我苦笑了一下说，她逗 你呢……可是，妈，我今天真的要走了。妈妈听罢轻叹了一口气，又昏昏睡去。我仔细端详着她 消瘦的脸庞，突然想起我很小的时候，一个初春的朝阳明媚的上午，我扫完地正坐在门坎上欣赏 这干净利落的三间草房，妈妈看了看我说，三儿，今天不是你的生日吗？然后就带着我去鸡窝找 蛋。记得是找到了两只大红皮鸡蛋，妈妈点上火刚刚把蛋煮熟我就狼吞虎咽地给吃掉了。我知 道，妈妈一年到头从来舍不得吃一口鸡蛋，如果当时和妈妈客气一下的话，我此时也许还会稍微 好受一点……不知过了多久，大姐走过来拉了拉我，又指了指表。我看了一眼表，就捏紧了妈妈 的手，轻轻伏下身来，趴在她的耳边说，妈，我走了。妈妈缓缓地睁开眼睛，望了我半晌，轻轻 地说，你走吧。 大姐陪我一起走出病房。我带上门，回头又透过门上的小窗最后看了一眼。午后的斜阳暖暖地照 着窗台，暖气，和妈妈身上的被子。妈妈静悄悄地像是睡着了，搭在胸口的被子有节奏地起伏 着，输液管里的液体仍然缓缓地滴着。二姐坐在床脚的小凳上，扶着妈妈的脚，看着我，眼睛里 突然涌出泪来。怕我看见，她就急忙转过脸去擦泪。我知道这一步走开，恐怕是千秋难回。我擦 了擦眼泪，最后凝望了妈妈一眼，心里说，妈，我真的走了。 我坐着的吉普车轰鸣着穿过山下冰封的小溪, 向右一转就向着陡坡上的桦树林爬去。小溪的源头 就在前面的石崖下面。春天时，当温暖的阳光把半年的积雪融化后，清凉的雪水就随着这小溪流 进了绥芬河。崖上的杜鹃这时候会毫不犹豫地把这小兴安岭一片片地染成粉红。接着盛开的是绵 延万里的雪白梨花，然后就是这溪边不知名的野花了。无论这里的雪有多大，风有多冷，这小溪 的源头是永远不会封冻的。溪水冬暖夏凉，清冽沁人，夏日里总有一群群山丁子鱼带着闪光的鳞 游来游去。水清土沃，溪边总长满了丰郁的野草和零零星星的野花。妈妈的坟就在这山坡上，俯瞰着青山秀水已经七个春秋了。吉普车轰鸣了几声，停了下来。二哥说车已无法在深雪里走了， 下车吧。我拉开车门正要跳出去，大哥一把拉住我，说，老三，爸爸三年前已经不在了。
我清清楚楚地听到了大哥的话，但没有马上领会到是什么意思。跳进路边的深雪中，我才慢慢地 转过头来，怔怔地看着大哥。大哥一动不动地看着我，风卷着雪在我和他之间挂上了一层朦朦胧 胧的纱幕。我转过身深一脚浅一脚地向树林中跑去，干冷得树枝一边抽打着我，一边匆匆地向我 身后退却；树上的雪扑苏苏地落在我的身上，头上和脸上。转弯时我重重地摔在雪中，爬起来擦 干满脸的雪水时，我远远地看到了石碑和坟地。
这一定也是爸爸的坟了。七年前殡妈妈的时候，哥姐给立的是一块木碑，木碑上用黑墨写着妈妈 的名字和生卒年月。我抚碑对着斜阳大哭时也为妈妈感到一丝委屈，因为严寒酷暑是会很快把这 简陋的木碑腐蚀的啊。我张嘴刚要问大哥时却意识到，这个碑只是暂时的。爸爸年事已高，等爸 爸去世之后这自然会换成石碑的。换句话说，我见到石碑的那一刻，意味着爸爸就已不在了。 我一把抱住了石碑泣不成声。以爸爸的脾气，我理解他临行时给家人的嘱咐：老三既然飘洋过海 的赶不上，就不必影响他念书了，等他回来时再告诉他吧。我仿佛看见爸爸拉着大哥的手，吃力 地说着。我把脸贴在冰冷的碑上，呆坐在雪地里，眼睛空空地望着那一望无际的雪和树林。我摸 索着从提包里把给爸爸带来的礼物掏了出来，一样一样地摆在雪地里。侄子点燃了一串鞭炮，递 到了我手上。鞭炮响了起来，劈劈啪啪地声音在树林里回荡着。硝烟顿时弥漫在树林中，令人窒 息。鞭炮红红白白的碎片纷纷扬扬地散落在覆雪的坟上，钩勒出一个温柔的圆弧。不知过了多 久，风停雪住，暗红色的夕阳在西南方的雪岭上冷冷地照耀着。山林里静寂无声，只有桦树那一 条条黑黑的影子印在平滑晶莹的雪原上。
爸爸已经过世三年，家中的生活似乎早已恢复平常。我虽是怏怏的心情，可这十几日的探亲时间 仍是十分宝贵。亲朋好友来往着，谈笑着；有人说我依旧年轻，也有人说我变老了好多。小学高中的同学们拍着我的肩膀，高声地谈着中苏贸易和赚钱，哈哈地大笑着。我一边陪着笑，一边想 把头脑里的紊乱的思绪好好清理一下，但不曾有任何单独一人安思静想的机会。 临行前的最后一个晚上，我终于端着酒杯，独自悄悄走出了热闹的饭店，沿着山前弯曲的小路， 爬上了老屋前的山坡。天已晚，明月高高挂在天上，撒下水一般的淡淡光芒，远处传来零星的鞭 炮声。我解开衣领，让风轻拂着我的胸膛。回首环望着熟悉的黑黢黢而绵延的群山，我的心慢慢 轻盈地飘浮起来。离家二十多年来，我拼搏得满身疲惫。只有在这群山之中，我才能扑落满身的 灰尘，让心完全歇息和沉醉；在这二十多年中，我曾经有坚持不下去的时侯，是这群山给予的坚 韧，虽然踉踉跄跄，但我都坚持了下来。
这大概是我最熟悉的山坡吧。每次回家离家，父母都在这里迎送。柴禾堆在这里，二哥的卡车停 在这里，菜园子就在旁边。记得上大学离家前的最后的一个寒冷的秋日，我和二哥开卡车去送 货，凌晨两点多才赶回来。大雾中我远远就看到一高一低两个瘦瘦的身影站在山坡上的路灯下静 静地等着。那是因为送货归来的路上，我在兴安岭的老林中观看深夜里的山雾海月，忘了回家的 时间，更忘了，父母一定会在凉风中翘首盼望。 我终于又踏上了火车的站台。无论我如何的留恋，离开故乡的时刻还是不期而至。站台上有家 人，有朋友，熙熙攘攘一群送行的人。我咧着嘴笑着，与大家握手，拥抱，道别。哥嫂们站在人 群的最后边，背着手，一动不动默默地看着我。天阴阴的，象是又要下雪。寒风呼啸着，掀动着 他们的衣领和头发。我弯下腰，去抱侄女小玉。小玉一边伸出手来搂我的脖子，一边说，老叔， 我妈这些天老叨咕，爷爷也不在了，也不知道你以后还回不回来了？ 下午一点十七分，列车鸣响了最后的长笛，家人们一边跟着列车跑，一边挥手大喊着。列车缓缓 地转着弯，慢慢地，我再也看不见送行的人们。山城在我面前旋转着，渐渐远去。坐在我对面的一个眉清目秀的四五岁的女孩，大概没见过我这么大的人哭吧，歪过身子瞪大了眼看着我。我一 回头时，她急忙躲进妈妈的怀里，可还是露出一只眼，悄悄地打量着我。群山也慢慢地转了过 来，把山城一寸一寸地遮住。我使劲地凝望着山城的最后一角，几分钟后，它也消失在皑皑的白 雪之中。
我恍惚觉得父母还在老屋中。一点十七分整，当列车准确无误地鸣响了最后的长笛的时候，妈妈 会从老屋中走出来。她会穿着那件黑色的对襟棉袄，灰白的头发整齐地扎在脑后，身体微胖，面 色红润，但好象脸上有些泪痕。爸爸也会背着手跟出来，他穿着一件有灰色罩衣的皮袄，戴着一 顶厚厚的棉帽子。一边在寒风中咳嗽着，一边大声地劝着妈妈什么。他们一边向坡上走，一边回 头遥望着山下车站里刚刚启动的火车。一点二十五分，他们驻足在坡顶，把手搭在额前遥望着两 条亮晶晶的蜿蜒入山的轨道和疾驶的火车。一点二十九分，火车最后消失在绵延的山里，山谷里 只留下袅袅的乳白色蒸气。妈妈说，这次走，又不知什么时候回来了。爸爸说，这五年不也是一 晃？边说着，两个人慢慢地踱下坡来。回到屋里，他们看着嘀哒作响的座钟，心里想像着火车现 在大概到了宽沟站了。四点钟时，侄子侄女们放学回来了，是哥嫂嘱咐他们今天一定来陪陪爷爷 奶奶的。孩子们一进屋，就开始聊天争论，老屋里顿时热闹了起来。五点半钟时，哥嫂们下班后 买了些吃的也来了。一大家人分成两伙吃饭，父母和哥嫂们在炕上的桌子上，孩子们在地上的桌 子上。他们一边吃，一边议论老三已到了哪里。尽管知道海外的平安信需要两三个星期才能到， 可第二天的中午，妈妈就开始查看信箱。爸爸在院子里劈柴时，常常听到铁盖打在空空的信箱上 的声音。
一点二十二分，列车穿过通向山里的公路。蜿蜒的山路上积着厚厚的白雪，山路两边是一片片茂 密的树林。过了这些树林后就能看到向阳山坡上那一片挺拔的桦树林了。上车前听到小玉的问话 后，我一把紧紧地搂住了她，强忍的泪一下子涌了出来。是啊，父母都不在了，这故乡确实是少 了好多的挂念。但是小玉，你可知道，我又多了多少的思念？在这里，冰雪下埋藏着我多少春花 秋雨深情的故事？你可知道，这故乡的一草一木，我都记得它们的名字？走遍世界，何处能给予 我如此的厚爱？小玉，你难道不知道吗？若是苍天再让我从头选择一次，任尔高官厚禄，荣华富 贵, 我会仍回到我的老屋中，仍从我艰辛的童年重新开始；虽然仍会有无可奈何的遗憾，然而， 这漫长的岁月不必有一丝一毫的不同。 我忽然又想起了那个返家很晚的秋夜所见的景色。那个深夜里，雾越来越浓，老林中的月光慢慢 地被遮住了，二哥卡车的大灯照出的两个长长洁白的光柱也慢慢变短，最后车灯只能照出一两米 远。白雾把灯光折射到四面八方，最后耀眼的白光把车身团团笼罩了起来，成了一个发着白光的 半圆的球。我突然发现，路边的树木花草这一刹那竟然变得洁白透明。车摸索着缓缓前行，象是 漂移在晶莹剔透的玉树银花之间，又象是游荡在海底的洁白珊瑚之中。慢慢地我感觉好象马上就 会有一群群闪着鳞光的鱼儿在车窗前游过。不知在蜿蜒的山路上爬行了多久，雾淡了下来，明月 也依稀可见，原来车终于走出了深谷。雾少，是因为我们快到山顶了。又走了一会儿，我感到从 后面反射过来的耀眼白光，回头一看，我急忙让二哥停车。二哥说开了一天车十分的累了，正好 打个盹，于是我一个人跳下车来。 从我身后几米的地方起，山谷里已铺满了洁白耀眼的浓雾。不但是这山，千山万岭的整个世界都 被一望无际的雾海覆盖着。巨大而明亮的月亮悬在雾海的边缘，雾海如明媚阳光下灿烂而平静的 雪原闪烁着耀眼的光芒。天空漆黑而深邃，没有一丝云彩和一颗星星，更使得满月明亮不可直 视，而似乎又伸手可触。我站的山峰恰好是最高的山峰之一，山尖只露出白雾几米。环视四周，白茫茫的雾海中，只有四五个若隐若现的峰尖象大海中的小岛一样，在遥远的地方零星地散布 着。周围寂静无声，没有一丝虫鸣，只听到雾珠碰撞在树叶上的若有若无的沙沙声。我四周转 着，一遍一遍地看着，突然间双眼里浸满了泪水，我心中问道，我是何人？我今去何方？
一点二十九分，火车驶进了白雪皑皑的山里。我使劲地把脸贴在冰冷的车窗玻璃上，向北望着， 现在又只能见到覆雪的山峦和天空中洁白如絮的云了。在家这十几日中，我曾无数次回想起那夜 深山老林中我所见的景色，每一次想起时我都感到恐慌，惊奇和震撼，并百思不得其解。难道那 美得令我颤慄的风景只是为我一人吗？我老三一介凡夫，单薄的双肩怎能承担得起如此沉重的爱 戴？我大概只能说声谢谢吧。只能说，妈妈，爸爸，亲人，故乡，感谢你们付于我的所有的厚 爱。除此之外我还能做什么呢？我也许只能做到，在阳光颇好，风又轻柔的时节，努力去回报我 得到的每一丝关怀；在坎坷的路上，善待我面对的每一次挑战。心藏无限的美景和爱戴，无论风 疏雨骤，我都带着最美丽的微笑，心怀感激地走下去。也许有时仍会踉踉跄跄，但我会满怀信心 地，坚定地，走下去。
《云之北 》
Beyond The Clouds 写给我的妈妈，爸爸，故乡的亲人们，和我最艰难的日子
2006 年 5 月 Back to English Translation
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