My father had been forging with my grandfather since he was young. Every year after the New Year, they would go out. Grandpa would set up a wheelbarrow, and my father would pull the cart in front. On the cart were the blacksmith furnace, forging tools, and bedding supplies.
When my father was young (before he was ten years old), he cared about his clothes. As long as it wasn't winter, he would pull the cart naked. When his waist was weak, he would twist wheat straws into straw ropes and tie them around his waist to increase his strength. Wherever he went, passers-by would laugh at him.
They went from village to village to collect work. Every time they went to a place, they would set up a blacksmith furnace in the open space at the entrance of the village. They would pull up the bellows and make the fire burn brightly. One of them would knock on the broken iron pot and shout," Kitchen knife, hoe, blacksmith work!"
Ploughshares, harrows, pickaxes, kitchen knives, and all the tools used by farmers to forge for a day or two. When they were done, they loaded the blacksmith's tools into the cart and continued to move forward. Just like that, they walked and worked all the way, slowly getting farther and farther away from home.
By the middle of the year, he would turn back and head home again. He would walk all the way like this and rush home before the new year.
The wages for doing work were to collect whatever the employer gave them, such as millet, cornmeal, wheat, soybeans, eggs, scrap iron, etc. If it was mealtime, the employer would bring a bowl of rice as compensation.
When they passed by a large village, Grandpa and the others would exchange the grain and sundries they had collected for coal and iron materials at the market, and the rest would be exchanged for cash.
He had been wandering outside for many years, living in the wind and sleeping in the open. When he was lucky, he would stay in the farmhouse at night. When he was out of the village and there was no shop, he would find a broken cave and sleep for the night.
His father knew how to make dog skin blankets. It was a simple matter of removing the sebum from the dog skin with quicklime, then washing it with hot water and drying it. Dog skin was very good at preventing moisture and cold, and the poor who wandered outside for many years needed it.
Grandpa had severe asthma and couldn't lie down to sleep at night. Once he lay down, he would cough until he couldn't breathe. He could only kneel and crawl forward to sleep.
Due to years of accumulated toil, Grandpa died on the road of wandering blacksmithing. He was less than sixty years old when he died (I was too young at that time and had no memory of Grandpa).
After my grandfather died, my father was very lonely outside. He discussed with my mother and decided to choose one of my brother and me to learn blacksmithing from my father and be his helper.
Father said that I had a good temper and was obedient, so he let me learn to forge. Mother asked me if I was willing, and I actually agreed. At that time, I was not even seven years old.
I started my days of wandering with my father. Originally, my grandfather was the one driving the wheelbarrow behind me, while my father was the one pulling the cart in front. Now, it was my father who was driving the wheelbarrow, and I was the one pulling the cart in front. Just like that, I inherited my father's business and repeated the fate of being a blacksmith. This fate pattern didn't change from my grandfather to my father, and then to me. It was just like a donkey on a grinding road, it continued humbly from generation to generation.
Poor people have bad tempers, and so does my father. From the first day I pulled a cart, he kept scolding me. I was originally weak and weak. Even if I followed him for a day, it would almost kill me, let alone pulling a cart. It was as if I had fallen into the abyss of suffering. I cried sadly all the way.
Father also made a smaller sledgehammer for me. Although it was lighter than a normal sledgehammer by more than half, I still had to use all my strength to lift it. When the hammer hit the side, the iron clamped by the pliers in Father's hand was shaken and flew out. Father immediately scolded fiercely.
The people who were watching from the side said sympathetically,"The child is so young and he's already forging iron. How pitiful!"”But what can I do? At such a young age, I have to learn to cry.
The red-hot ironware was thrown into the water. Before it was completely cold, my father fished it out and asked me to pick it up and send it to the owner's house. As soon as my hand touched the ironware, it was immediately scalded and retracted. My father came up and slapped my head. He grabbed the ironware that was still steaming and said," Is it still hot?"”，I stammered and didn't dare to answer. His hands were full of thick calluses, so of course he wasn't afraid of being scalded.
This is the life of a poor child. Father also endured this when he was young. He deserves to suffer, so Father will not pity me.
From then on, I no longer hoped to receive father's pity in this life.
It was not entirely true that my father was hard-hearted. Sometimes, when he was done with his work, his temper was much better. He no longer treated me fiercely. He would cook the eggs he exchanged from his employer on the stove and let me eat to my heart's content.
One evening, when I passed by a town, my father bought me a big red apple from the shop. It was the first time I got an apple since I came to this world. I held it in my hand as if it was a treasure. The beautiful appearance of the apple made me look at it again and again. The fragrance of the apple made me smell it again and again. I couldn't bear to take a bite.
In my father's entire life, I've never seen him eat an apple. Even after he became well-off, apples were already very common. He didn't eat them either. He firmly believed that " apples aren't something that poor people can easily afford."
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