If you talk about the winter of my hometown in Shandong, it is probably the appearance of Zhujiaxuan. The ice and snow melted the tiles. The smoke lingered. The old man leaned against the wall to bask in the sun. The next-door aunt called you home to eat. The pancakes on the dumplings were steaming and the crisp pancakes were hot. Every mouthful was warm and quiet. The afternoon was frozen. The river is slippery, sticky and mouthful, and the rhubarb is inseparable. I walk the streets and alleys to the schools of the Republic of China in Shanyin Elementary School. Langlang Books sound like the Ming Dynasty monuments in the winding path by the ear. The old and good smell of the farmhouse is more fragrant. The ancient dumpling wall overlooks this knotted human environment. Every time I come to Zhujiazhao, I feel like I have returned to my hometown to relive the sour childhood memories. Rural children in their hometown are the more grown up, the more easy to touch the scene. The nostalgia is never going back.