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在我的家里,珍藏着一个金黄的泥火盆,它贮满了真情和依恋。每当我看见它,记忆的荧屏就会重现一幕幕的往事。那是1968年,母亲患了绝症,离开了年幼的我和妹妹。左邻右舍都说孩子小,让父亲再说个人,父亲怕我和妹妹受“后娘”的气,坚决不同意,从此他又当爹来又当娘。没妈的日子一天天地过去,虽然很苦,但有父亲的细心呵护,苦中有甜。转眼冬天就要到了,父亲给我们做完了棉衣,就忙着给我们兄妹俩打火盆了。他从脱过土坯的坑里,一锹一锹地挑选上好的黄土。这种黄土黏
In my house, there is a golden mud pitcher, full of truth and attachment. Whenever I see it, the memory of the screen will reproduce the scenes of the past. It was 1968, my mother was terminally ill and left young sister and me. Neighbors said that children are small, let the father say an individual, my father was afraid of me and my sister by the “” “Mother” gas, strongly disagreed, and since then he was a father and a mother. No mom day by day past, although very bitter, but with the careful care of his father, bitter sweet. Winter is coming soon, my father finished the cotton pad, we are busy bragging our siblings. He picked the good loess from a pit of adobe, a spade and a spade. This loess sticks