【小故事】学会感恩小故事：爷爷的旧蒲扇

爷爷的蒲扇，摇了一整个夏天

我小时候最盼着停电。一停电，爷爷就会说：走，搬床。我们俩把竹床搬到院子里，水泥地还留着白天的热气，躺下去先烫一下，过了一会儿就凉了。爷爷把旧蒲扇放在枕头边，那把扇子的边已经磨毛了，扇面上有一道裂口，用米汤粘的布条补着。

那天夜里热，星星倒是很多。我翻来覆去睡不着，蚊子在耳朵边上飞。爷爷一句话没说，拿起蒲扇摇起来。风一下一下落在我脸上，有爷爷手上的汗味，混着白天他在门口熏蚊子烧的艾草香。我问他：爷爷你不热吗。他说：我这把老骨头，扇两下就凉了。

其实他摇了一整夜。我半夜醒过一回，看见月光底下蒲扇还在动，一下，一下，不快，但不停。他的胳膊抬得低低的，手腕翻得很轻，风就顺着我的凉席这边过来。蚊子全被赶到院子外头去了。

天亮的时候电来了，冰箱嗡嗡响起来。爷爷坐在床沿上收扇子，胳膊放下来的时候捶了两下肩膀。我装作没看见，心里记下了。

后来我上初中，家里再没停过电，空调一开，整个夏天都是凉的。爷爷来城里住过一阵，热了也不摇扇子，只坐在阳台上对着那把旧蒲扇打瞌睡。有一年夏天我放学路过文具店，看见有卖新蒲扇的，镶了蓝布边，我攒了两周的早饭钱买了一把，回家塞给爷爷。

爷爷摸了摸蓝布边，说：好看。然后他把新扇子放在桌上，手里还是摇那把旧的。我不高兴，问他为什么。他说：这把扇子摇了你十几年，我舍不得换。

我愣了一下。那天晚上我躺在空调房里，忽然想起院子里的竹床，想起米汤粘的补丁，想起半夜那一下一下不肯停的风。我走到爷爷房间，跟他说：爷爷，谢谢你那夏天的扇子。爷爷摇着旧蒲扇，说：傻孩子，谢啥。

那把新蒲扇一直挂在爷爷房间墙上。旧的那把，他摇到去年，裂口越来越长。我偷偷量了尺寸，在网上订了一把一模一样的，边也磨毛，裂口也补。爷爷收到的时候没说话，就是那天晚上，院子里的竹床上，他摇着新扇子，比平时多摇了一会儿。

Grandpa Palm-Leaf Fan Swept the Whole Summer

When I was little I secretly wished for a power cut. The moment the lights went out, Grandpa would say, Come on, let us move the bed. We carried the bamboo cot into the courtyard. The concrete floor still held the heat of the day; lying down felt hot at first, then cooled off. Grandpa set his old palm-leaf fan beside the pillow. The rim of that fan was worn fuzzy, and a crack across its face had been mended with a cloth strip glued on with rice water.

That night was hot, though the stars were thick. I tossed and could not sleep, mosquitoes flying at my ear. Grandpa said nothing, picked up the fan and began to sway it. The wind fell on my face stroke after stroke, carrying the salty smell of his hands mixed with the mugwort smoke he had burned at the gate at noon to drive off mosquitoes. I asked him, Grandpa, are you not hot. He said, This old body of mine, two waves of the fan and I am cool.

In truth he fanned all night. I woke once at midnight and saw, under the moonlight, the fan still moving, one stroke, another, not fast, but never stopping. His arm lifted low, his wrist turning lightly, and the wind came along my side of the mat. The mosquitoes were all driven out beyond the courtyard wall.

At dawn the power came back and the fridge hummed to life. Grandpa sat on the edge of the bed putting the fan away, and when he lowered his arm he punched his own shoulder twice. I pretended not to see, and filed it away in my heart.

Later I entered middle school, the power never cut again, and with the air conditioner on the whole summer was cool. Grandpa stayed with us in the city for a while. Even in heat he did not wave the fan; he just dozed on the balcony with that old fan in his lap. One summer, passing a stationery shop after school, I saw new palm-leaf fans with blue cloth binding, and I saved up two weeks of breakfast money to buy one and thrust it into his hands at home.

Grandpa stroked the blue binding and said, Handsome. Then he set the new fan on the table and kept waving the old one. I sulked and asked why. He said, This fan has fanned you for over ten years. I cannot bear to replace it.

I froze. That night, lying in the air-conditioned room, I suddenly remembered the bamboo cot in the courtyard, the patch glued with rice water, the wind at midnight that would not stop. I walked into his room and said, Grandpa, thank you for your fan that summer. He waved the old fan and said, Silly child, what is thanks for.

The new fan has hung on his wall ever since. He waved the old one until last year, the crack growing longer. I secretly measured it and ordered an identical one online, rim worn fuzzy, crack mended. When it arrived he said nothing. Only that night, on the bamboo cot in the courtyard, he waved the new fan a little longer than usual.

当爷爷还是摇扇子的人

我这辈子有一把用了三十年的蒲扇，是我娘留下的。扇面上那道裂口，是孙子五岁那年摔的。他不肯承认，我第二天拿米汤粘布条补上了，没拆穿他。小孩嘛，总要留点脸面。

孙子怕热，一热就起痱子。那年夏天停电，他热得直哼哼，后背全是痱子。我把竹床搬到院子里，跟他说，院子里凉。其实院子里也热，可风比屋里活，蚊子也比屋里少——傍晚我在门口烧过一把干艾草，烟把蚊子熏走了大半。

他躺下以后还在动，我就摇扇子。扇子这个东西，摇快了风大，可是风硬，吹一宿人头疼；摇得慢，风软，一下一下的，人才睡得踏实。我手腕翻得轻，胳膊抬得低，这样摇一宿，肩膀第二天会酸，但当年我肩膀还经得住。

他半夜醒过一回，问我热不热。我说扇两下就凉了。这话也不算骗他，摇扇子的人确实比躺着的人不怕热，手上带风。我就是怕他看见我捶肩膀，小孩心细，看见了又要闹着不睡，让我去睡。

孙子小时候干过一件事，我记了很多年。有回我给他扇风，他忽然说：爷爷，我数你扇了多少下。他数到一百三就乱了，数错了，自己笑。我也笑。从那以后他每次睡不着，就说，爷爷你摇，我数着。数着数着就睡着了。他不知道，他数到多少下，我就摇到多少下，有时候他睡着了，我还多摇一阵，等他睡沉了才停。

后来他长大了，城里房子有空调，他不再需要我扇风。有一年他放学买了一把新蒲扇回来，蓝布边，好看。我嘴上说舍不得旧的，其实心里高兴，高兴得晚上多摇了一会儿。旧扇子陪了我三十年，新扇子是孙子的心意，两样我都宝贝。

前年孙子偷偷在网上订了一把跟我旧扇子一模一样的，连补丁都仿了一个。他递给我的时候装作随便。我没拆穿他——小孩嘛，总要留点脸面。那天夜里我把新扇子拿到院子里摇，竹床还是那领竹床。风一下一下的，跟三十年前一个味道。

人这一老，就爱记小事。我不求他谢我。他肯记得那个院子，记得那把扇子，记得半夜的风，我这辈子摇过的扇子，就都值了。

When Grandpa Was Still the One Who Fanned

In this lifetime I have owned one palm-leaf fan for thirty years; my own mother left it to me. The crack across its face was made the year my grandson was five and dropped it. He refused to admit it. The next day I mended it with a cloth strip glued on with rice water and did not expose him. Children, you know, must be allowed to keep some face.

My grandson is prone to heat; the moment it is hot he breaks out in prickly heat. That summer the power went out and he whimpered with heat, his back covered in the rash. I moved the bamboo cot into the courtyard and told him the yard is cooler. The yard was hot too, but the air moves better outside, and there are fewer mosquitoes than indoors — at dusk I had burned a handful of dry mugwort at the gate, and the smoke drove most of them off.

Once he lay down he still squirmed, so I began to fan. With a fan, fast strokes make a big wind, but a hard wind gives you a headache all night; slow strokes make a soft wind, one after another, and a person sleeps soundly. I turned my wrist lightly and kept my arm low. Fanning all night this way leaves the shoulder sore the next day, but in those years my shoulder could still take it.

He woke once at midnight and asked whether I was hot. I said two waves and I am cool. That was not exactly a lie: the one fanning really fears heat less than the one lying down, since the hand carries wind. I only hoped he would not see me punching my shoulder. Children are observant; if he saw it he would fuss and refuse to sleep and insist I sleep instead.

One thing my grandson did when small, I have remembered for years. Once while fanning him he suddenly said, Grandpa, I am counting how many strokes you make. He lost track at one hundred and thirty, counted wrong, and giggled at himself. I laughed too. After that, whenever he could not sleep, he would say, Grandpa, you fan and I will count. And he fell asleep counting. He did not know: however many strokes he counted, that is how many I made, and sometimes after he fell asleep I kept going a while longer, stopping only once his sleep was deep.

Then he grew up. The city apartment has air conditioning; he no longer needed my fanning. One year he came home from school with a new palm-leaf fan, blue cloth binding, handsome. My mouth said I cannot part with the old one, but my heart was glad, glad enough to wave it a little longer that night. The old fan has kept me company thirty years; the new one carries the heart of my grandson. I treasure both.

The year before last he secretly ordered online a fan identical to my old one, even imitating the patch. He handed it over pretending it was nothing. I did not expose him — children must keep some face. That night I took the new fan out to the courtyard to wave. The bamboo cot was still the same bamboo cot. The wind came one stroke after another, tasting exactly like thirty years ago.

When a person grows old, he keeps the small things. I do not ask him to thank me. If he remembers that courtyard, that fan, the wind at midnight, then every fan I ever waved in this life was worth it.