In my impression, the bridges in Jiangnan are the most, the best and the most efficient. I have been to many famous bridges: Lugou Bridge is too domineering, Zhao Zhouqiao looks a bit vicissitudes, Yufeng Bridge is too elegant, and Flower Bridge is too delicate. Then the bridge in the south of the Yangtze River, simple and elegant, is fascinating without careful carving. This is like a woman in Jiangnan, petite and bright. No makeup, but radiant.
There are countless bridges in Jiangnan. It is common for people to walk on the bridge and water to flow under it. The bridge in the south of the Yangtze River is no longer as simple as a means of transportation. It has also become a symbol of beauty. The bridges in the south of the Yangtze River do not exist alone, but are in harmony with the surrounding buildings. "Spring City 370 Bridge, separated from Zhulou by Liupan". No wonder Chen Yifei, an American painter, is famous at home and abroad for his oil painting "Memories of My Hometown" painted by Shuangqiao in Zhouzhuang.
Jiangnan people are wise, and the bridge has become a handicraft in their hands. In Jiangnan, the combination of bridge and water, bridge and people, bridge and ship is beautiful and full of artistic conception. Although Lugou Xiaoyue is also beautiful, what about Jiangnan Bridge? "The bridge is quiet at night and people play the flute, and the ancient monk calls the boat." In Jiangnan, a bridge is a poem and a legend. Maple Bridge is poetic with the moon weeping, Broken Bridge has the love of Xu Xian, a white snake, and Buried Flower Bridge has the charm of Daiyu burying flowers.
Although the bridges in Jiangnan are colorful, I am a native of Jiangnan, but in my childhood memory, the bridges are monotonous, strange and inhuman.
I spent my childhood in my grandmother's house in the country. There is a river that is not too wide at the entrance of the village, and there is also a bridge in Zhaolie. It is a bamboo bridge, neither wide nor narrow, without any decoration, not to mention elegance and simplicity. In my memory, the bridge is almost peaceful, the bridge is connected with the road, and the road is connected with the bridge. At most, I spit in the river on the bridge fence when I am idle. On the other side of the bridge, there is a forest. I spent most of my childhood catching birds in the forest.
Every time I cross the bridge to play in the Woods, my grandmother always calls my birth name by the bridge, waiting for me to go back for dinner. Grandma has never walked across this bamboo bridge. I don't know why, but I heard from my parents that grandma hasn't crossed this bamboo bridge since grandpa died. So every time I come back from playing, I always see my grandmother waiting by the bridge with mirth.
It was not until later that I learned from my friends why my grandmother didn't cross the bridge. It turns out that in the village customs, widowed women can't cross this bamboo bridge, otherwise the whole village will suffer. Grandma married here from the other side of the bridge when she was young. My grandfather died of illness a year before I was born, leaving my grandmother an old house and this ancient custom. After grandpa died, grandma really never crossed the bamboo bridge again. Although grandma's house is just across the bridge.
Grandma's firmness also won the praise of her neighbors. Their respect for grandma is like that of an ancient martyr. I think if the tree chastity memorial arch was still popular at that time, grandma would definitely be famous in the village. Neighbors are friendly and selfish. They imposed this custom on grandma for their own psychological happiness. And grandma seems willing to abide by and accept it. It's just that I can often see my grandmother standing by the bridge looking into the distance, and I can often hear her crying in the dark room. I know my grandmother, and I always want to cross the bridge in my grandmother's mind.
Nowadays, the bamboo bridge in front of the village has long been demolished and replaced by a modern viaduct, with traffic flowing from south to north. The customs in the village have long since died out, and young widows can come and go freely. However, grandma has left me. My dear grandma, you will never walk out of this bridge in your life.
In fact, my grandmother is as hardworking, simple and kind as thousands of ordinary peasant women in Qian Qian, China. I still can't know my grandmother's name, just as I still can't recall the name of Zhuqiao.