石榴
石榴
版主： kazaawang， wh
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datoumao（大头猫）楼主
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datoumao（大头猫）楼主
- 论坛元老
2023-24年度十大优秀网友
datoumao 的博客 - 帖子互动： 2345
- 帖子： 14240
- 注册时间： 2022年 10月 22日 01:42
Re: 有升级Win11的同学吗？
啥时候会结石榴？
你的pixel拍的照真是色彩鲜艳！
我google mitbbs.com 石榴 和你的id，只找到两篇可能是术版的帖子，里面有你的回帖，可不是你写的石榴。
2021年某一天集中营生活记事 (转载)
https://kantie.org/topics/mitbbs/34201877
根据姐的观察分析，愚公就是一件华丽的袍子LOL (转载)
https://kantie.org/topics/mitbbs/34236267
x1
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datoumao（大头猫）楼主
- 论坛元老
2023-24年度十大优秀网友
datoumao 的博客 - 帖子互动： 2345
- 帖子： 14240
- 注册时间： 2022年 10月 22日 01:42
Re: 有升级Win11的同学吗？
八九月才能吃，我这是软籽石榴，籽也是可以吃的wh 写了： 2025年 5月 28日 22:23 啥时候会结石榴？
你的pixel拍的照真是色彩鲜艳！
我google mitbbs.com 石榴 和你的id，只找到两篇可能是术版的帖子，里面有你的回帖，可不是你写的石榴。
2021年某一天集中营生活记事 (转载)
https://kantie.org/topics/mitbbs/34201877
根据姐的观察分析，愚公就是一件华丽的袍子LOL (转载)
https://kantie.org/topics/mitbbs/34236267
-
datoumao（大头猫）楼主
- 论坛元老
2023-24年度十大优秀网友
datoumao 的博客 - 帖子互动： 2345
- 帖子： 14240
- 注册时间： 2022年 10月 22日 01:42
Re: 石榴
《路边那棵一闪而过的石榴树》
在我曾经每日通勤的高速路上，有一棵枝繁叶茂的石榴树，它总是一闪而过，像是车窗外短暂掠过的一抹红。
那棵石榴树大概是鸟儿随意播种，夹在高速隔离带长长的夹竹桃丛中，极易被忽视，我来回七八年也未曾注意到它。直到去年中秋节前的某个早晨，我才因前方堵车而缓缓驶过时发现了它，要不是当时它挂满了大红的果子，我想我还是极有可能依旧错过它的。
那瞬间像是一份从天而降的惊喜，让我整个人精神一振。此后每每路过，我都会特意放慢车速，多看它几眼。那是我第二次在北美看到石榴树。第一次是在八年前南加州赫斯特城堡，那里的石榴树颇有些年头，古朴而厚重，果实沉甸甸，快要炸裂般的殷红，自带古典庄重美。相比城堡里时不时遇到的那些“游客止步”的牌子，它们更像是他乡的故知，盈盈欢迎着远道而来的我，不禁让我想起了故乡，那个盛产大石榴的地方－临潼。
那是我记忆里初见石榴的地方，母亲带着我去参观兵马俑，回来时搬回两个大石榴，后来哥哥带着我在大雁塔也买过一个巨大的，迫不及待想吃，可一路都无法把它打开。
据说味觉的记忆总是最难磨灭。小时候吃过的东西，往往一生都忘不了，甚至在临终时还会怀念。对此我深以为然。前年回国时，我再次品尝到一种叫“拐枣”水果，也是临潼特产，那熟悉的味道一下把我拉回了童年时光。石榴对我来说，早已不仅是食物，它承载了更多的情感。
我自小对美好事物格外敏感。上小学时就知道班上谁最好看。那时我是三道杠大队委员，心中的“小女神”是班长，眉如柳叶，说是从小在新疆长大，自小就修眉。我和她常一起放学，有时还会抄近道翻墙回家。我先跳下，再在墙下接她，那时的我，满心欢喜，两小有猜。她后来考入北广，成了电视台主播。想来，我对美的眼光还算不差。
少年的我除了对漂亮小姑娘感兴趣，同样也爱花。当年局机关大院的花圃就是我时常觊觎的场所，没办法，每当看到好看的花就抑制不住冲动特想据为己有，什么芍药，玫瑰，牡丹，腊梅，丁香就这样的一枝枝借我的小手被我请回家里，但也有遗憾，那棵最心仪的石榴树就始终没有得手。那树对于小小的我过于庞大，它的根扎得很深，我曾试图挖走些带根的侧枝均未成功，那需要时间，与折一支就溜之大吉完全不同，得时刻提防园丁突然从背后杀出来，所以最后只好无奈放弃。
那其实是棵用来观赏的石榴树，结的果子很小很酸，不好吃，但它的花要比食用石榴树大出许多，且花瓣层数很多。照理说它远没芍药好看，也不及玫瑰好闻，果子更是寒酸，可不知为何少年的心却偏偏好它，爱它，且让我无法释怀，这再次印证了那句老话，得不到的永远是最好的。
仔细想来，我对石榴的留恋并不只是来自童年与它的失之交臂，而是我与它之间天生就存在某种情感或心理上的纽带，就如同我对美女小姐姐欣赏的超前感知力，对石榴的特殊感觉亦是如此。石榴她就像是扎根于我心中的小美女，我喜欢它的一切，从头到脚，从花到实，那杨柳眉般的叶子，百褶红的裙子，和它蕴含着激情的胸怀。
如今，我更是发现了它前所未有的品格，那就是它不仅可以在故国的黄土地上展示卓越的风姿，亦可在太平洋沿岸的旱季酷暑里坚韧不拔，没有南橘北枳，始终坚守自己的本色。当你看到它既能与耐旱的黑橡树和夹竹桃为伍，又能在重围竞争中挣脱而出、开花结果，并最终抓住了匆匆过客的眼球，你不得不为之倾倒，彻底拜倒在她的裙下。
石榴树，我愿与你同行。愿每年的此刻，在异国的路边，在自家的庭院，我都能看见你那热烈的红颜。八月桂花香，中秋石榴红。
在我曾经每日通勤的高速路上，有一棵枝繁叶茂的石榴树，它总是一闪而过，像是车窗外短暂掠过的一抹红。
那棵石榴树大概是鸟儿随意播种，夹在高速隔离带长长的夹竹桃丛中，极易被忽视，我来回七八年也未曾注意到它。直到去年中秋节前的某个早晨，我才因前方堵车而缓缓驶过时发现了它，要不是当时它挂满了大红的果子，我想我还是极有可能依旧错过它的。
那瞬间像是一份从天而降的惊喜，让我整个人精神一振。此后每每路过，我都会特意放慢车速，多看它几眼。那是我第二次在北美看到石榴树。第一次是在八年前南加州赫斯特城堡，那里的石榴树颇有些年头，古朴而厚重，果实沉甸甸，快要炸裂般的殷红，自带古典庄重美。相比城堡里时不时遇到的那些“游客止步”的牌子，它们更像是他乡的故知，盈盈欢迎着远道而来的我，不禁让我想起了故乡，那个盛产大石榴的地方－临潼。
那是我记忆里初见石榴的地方，母亲带着我去参观兵马俑，回来时搬回两个大石榴，后来哥哥带着我在大雁塔也买过一个巨大的，迫不及待想吃，可一路都无法把它打开。
据说味觉的记忆总是最难磨灭。小时候吃过的东西，往往一生都忘不了，甚至在临终时还会怀念。对此我深以为然。前年回国时，我再次品尝到一种叫“拐枣”水果，也是临潼特产，那熟悉的味道一下把我拉回了童年时光。石榴对我来说，早已不仅是食物，它承载了更多的情感。
我自小对美好事物格外敏感。上小学时就知道班上谁最好看。那时我是三道杠大队委员，心中的“小女神”是班长，眉如柳叶，说是从小在新疆长大，自小就修眉。我和她常一起放学，有时还会抄近道翻墙回家。我先跳下，再在墙下接她，那时的我，满心欢喜，两小有猜。她后来考入北广，成了电视台主播。想来，我对美的眼光还算不差。
少年的我除了对漂亮小姑娘感兴趣，同样也爱花。当年局机关大院的花圃就是我时常觊觎的场所，没办法，每当看到好看的花就抑制不住冲动特想据为己有，什么芍药，玫瑰，牡丹，腊梅，丁香就这样的一枝枝借我的小手被我请回家里，但也有遗憾，那棵最心仪的石榴树就始终没有得手。那树对于小小的我过于庞大，它的根扎得很深，我曾试图挖走些带根的侧枝均未成功，那需要时间，与折一支就溜之大吉完全不同，得时刻提防园丁突然从背后杀出来，所以最后只好无奈放弃。
那其实是棵用来观赏的石榴树，结的果子很小很酸，不好吃，但它的花要比食用石榴树大出许多，且花瓣层数很多。照理说它远没芍药好看，也不及玫瑰好闻，果子更是寒酸，可不知为何少年的心却偏偏好它，爱它，且让我无法释怀，这再次印证了那句老话，得不到的永远是最好的。
仔细想来，我对石榴的留恋并不只是来自童年与它的失之交臂，而是我与它之间天生就存在某种情感或心理上的纽带，就如同我对美女小姐姐欣赏的超前感知力，对石榴的特殊感觉亦是如此。石榴她就像是扎根于我心中的小美女，我喜欢它的一切，从头到脚，从花到实，那杨柳眉般的叶子，百褶红的裙子，和它蕴含着激情的胸怀。
如今，我更是发现了它前所未有的品格，那就是它不仅可以在故国的黄土地上展示卓越的风姿，亦可在太平洋沿岸的旱季酷暑里坚韧不拔，没有南橘北枳，始终坚守自己的本色。当你看到它既能与耐旱的黑橡树和夹竹桃为伍，又能在重围竞争中挣脱而出、开花结果，并最终抓住了匆匆过客的眼球，你不得不为之倾倒，彻底拜倒在她的裙下。
石榴树，我愿与你同行。愿每年的此刻，在异国的路边，在自家的庭院，我都能看见你那热烈的红颜。八月桂花香，中秋石榴红。
+10.00 积分 [版主 wh 发放的奖励]
上次由 datoumao 在 2025年 6月 2日 17:49 修改。
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datoumao（大头猫）楼主
- 论坛元老
2023-24年度十大优秀网友
datoumao 的博客 - 帖子互动： 2345
- 帖子： 14240
- 注册时间： 2022年 10月 22日 01:42
Re: 石榴
Chat GPT：以下是你最终定稿版《路边那棵一闪而过的石榴树》的**英文文学散文翻译**
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**The Pomegranate Tree That Flashed by the Roadside**
Along the highway I used to commute on every day, there was a pomegranate tree—lush, leafy, and full of life. It always flashed by, like a fleeting smear of red outside the car window.
The tree was probably planted by a bird, unintentionally, tucked among a long stretch of oleanders in the center divider. It was so easy to miss that I drove past it for seven or eight years without ever noticing. Then, one morning before the Mid-Autumn Festival last year, traffic came to a halt, and I finally caught sight of it. Its branches were laden with large, bright red fruit. If not for that striking color, I would have missed it yet again.
The moment felt like a gift from the sky—a sudden spark that lifted my spirit. After that day, every time I passed by, I’d deliberately slow down, just to get another glimpse. That was only the second pomegranate tree I had ever seen bearing fruit in North America. The first was eight years earlier, at Hearst Castle in Southern California. The trees there were aged and majestic, their fruit dark red and heavy, on the verge of bursting—carrying a classical, solemn beauty. Compared to the many unwelcoming “Visitors Keep Out” signs around the castle, those pomegranate trees felt like old friends from afar, quietly greeting a distant traveler. They reminded me, inevitably, of home—Lintong, the land of giant pomegranates.
That was the place where my memory first met the fruit. My mother once took me to visit the Terracotta Warriors, and on our way back, she brought home two large pomegranates. Later, my older brother bought me another massive one near the Big Wild Goose Pagoda. I couldn’t wait to eat it, but we never managed to get it open the entire trip.
They say that taste is the most persistent memory. What you eat as a child stays with you forever—sometimes even into your final days. I’ve always believed that. When I returned to China two years ago, I had the chance to taste *guaizao*, a wrinkly fruit also native to Lintong. That familiar flavor pulled me straight back to childhood. For me, the pomegranate has long since stopped being just a fruit—it holds far more than flavor. It holds emotion.
I’ve always had a keen eye for beauty. Even in elementary school, I could tell who the prettiest girl in class was. I was a three-stripe team leader, and my personal “little goddess” was our class monitor. Her eyebrows curved like willows—she said she was from Xinjiang, where girls learn to shape their brows from a young age. We often walked home together. Sometimes we’d take shortcuts, climbing over walls. I’d jump down first, then catch her as she came down. My heart was light with joy—puppy love in its purest form. She later got into the Communication University of China and became a television anchor. I guess my taste was pretty accurate.
Back then, it wasn’t just pretty girls I loved—I loved flowers too. The flowerbeds in the courtyard of my parents’ work unit were my secret garden of longing. I couldn’t help myself. Whenever I saw a beautiful bloom, I wanted to take it home. Peonies, roses, chrysanthemums, wintersweet, lilacs—one by one, I “borrowed” them with my tiny hands. But I always failed to take home my favorite: the pomegranate tree. It was too big, its roots too deep for a small boy like me. I tried several times to dig out a shoot with roots, but it took time and patience—very different from snapping off a flower and making a quick getaway. I had to constantly watch out for the gardener suddenly showing up behind me. In the end, I gave up, reluctantly.
That tree was ornamental, not edible. Its fruit was tiny and sour, but its flowers were large and layered—far bigger than those of common pomegranate trees. It wasn’t as dazzling as peonies, nor as fragrant as roses, and its fruit wasn’t even worth eating. But for some reason, my young heart was captivated. I liked it. Loved it. And I could never let it go. That, perhaps, proves the old saying true: what you can’t have is always the most desirable.
Looking back, my affection for pomegranates isn’t just about a missed childhood wish. It feels more like a built-in emotional bond—just as I had a precocious instinct for recognizing beauty, I had a special sensitivity to this tree. The pomegranate, to me, is like a delicate girl rooted deep in my heart. I love everything about her—from her willow-leaf-shaped foliage to her crimson pleated skirt, and the passionate fullness hidden in her fruit.
Now, I’ve come to admire a new quality in her: resilience. The pomegranate does not only flourish in the yellow earth of my homeland—it also thrives in the harsh, dry lands across the Pacific. No matter the soil, she never compromises her nature. She is no “southern orange turned sour in the north.” She stays true. When you see her in the heat of summer, holding her own beside drought-hardened black oaks, oleanders, and cacti—breaking through the crowd to bloom and bear fruit, still able to catch the eye of a passing stranger—you can’t help but be moved. You stop. You stare. And you fall, once again, under her spell.
Pomegranate tree, I wish to walk with you through life.
May I find you at this very time each year—
by the roadside in a foreign land, or blooming quietly in my own garden.
**As osmanthus scents the air in August, so the pomegranate burns red at Mid-Autumn.**
---
---
**The Pomegranate Tree That Flashed by the Roadside**
Along the highway I used to commute on every day, there was a pomegranate tree—lush, leafy, and full of life. It always flashed by, like a fleeting smear of red outside the car window.
The tree was probably planted by a bird, unintentionally, tucked among a long stretch of oleanders in the center divider. It was so easy to miss that I drove past it for seven or eight years without ever noticing. Then, one morning before the Mid-Autumn Festival last year, traffic came to a halt, and I finally caught sight of it. Its branches were laden with large, bright red fruit. If not for that striking color, I would have missed it yet again.
The moment felt like a gift from the sky—a sudden spark that lifted my spirit. After that day, every time I passed by, I’d deliberately slow down, just to get another glimpse. That was only the second pomegranate tree I had ever seen bearing fruit in North America. The first was eight years earlier, at Hearst Castle in Southern California. The trees there were aged and majestic, their fruit dark red and heavy, on the verge of bursting—carrying a classical, solemn beauty. Compared to the many unwelcoming “Visitors Keep Out” signs around the castle, those pomegranate trees felt like old friends from afar, quietly greeting a distant traveler. They reminded me, inevitably, of home—Lintong, the land of giant pomegranates.
That was the place where my memory first met the fruit. My mother once took me to visit the Terracotta Warriors, and on our way back, she brought home two large pomegranates. Later, my older brother bought me another massive one near the Big Wild Goose Pagoda. I couldn’t wait to eat it, but we never managed to get it open the entire trip.
They say that taste is the most persistent memory. What you eat as a child stays with you forever—sometimes even into your final days. I’ve always believed that. When I returned to China two years ago, I had the chance to taste *guaizao*, a wrinkly fruit also native to Lintong. That familiar flavor pulled me straight back to childhood. For me, the pomegranate has long since stopped being just a fruit—it holds far more than flavor. It holds emotion.
I’ve always had a keen eye for beauty. Even in elementary school, I could tell who the prettiest girl in class was. I was a three-stripe team leader, and my personal “little goddess” was our class monitor. Her eyebrows curved like willows—she said she was from Xinjiang, where girls learn to shape their brows from a young age. We often walked home together. Sometimes we’d take shortcuts, climbing over walls. I’d jump down first, then catch her as she came down. My heart was light with joy—puppy love in its purest form. She later got into the Communication University of China and became a television anchor. I guess my taste was pretty accurate.
Back then, it wasn’t just pretty girls I loved—I loved flowers too. The flowerbeds in the courtyard of my parents’ work unit were my secret garden of longing. I couldn’t help myself. Whenever I saw a beautiful bloom, I wanted to take it home. Peonies, roses, chrysanthemums, wintersweet, lilacs—one by one, I “borrowed” them with my tiny hands. But I always failed to take home my favorite: the pomegranate tree. It was too big, its roots too deep for a small boy like me. I tried several times to dig out a shoot with roots, but it took time and patience—very different from snapping off a flower and making a quick getaway. I had to constantly watch out for the gardener suddenly showing up behind me. In the end, I gave up, reluctantly.
That tree was ornamental, not edible. Its fruit was tiny and sour, but its flowers were large and layered—far bigger than those of common pomegranate trees. It wasn’t as dazzling as peonies, nor as fragrant as roses, and its fruit wasn’t even worth eating. But for some reason, my young heart was captivated. I liked it. Loved it. And I could never let it go. That, perhaps, proves the old saying true: what you can’t have is always the most desirable.
Looking back, my affection for pomegranates isn’t just about a missed childhood wish. It feels more like a built-in emotional bond—just as I had a precocious instinct for recognizing beauty, I had a special sensitivity to this tree. The pomegranate, to me, is like a delicate girl rooted deep in my heart. I love everything about her—from her willow-leaf-shaped foliage to her crimson pleated skirt, and the passionate fullness hidden in her fruit.
Now, I’ve come to admire a new quality in her: resilience. The pomegranate does not only flourish in the yellow earth of my homeland—it also thrives in the harsh, dry lands across the Pacific. No matter the soil, she never compromises her nature. She is no “southern orange turned sour in the north.” She stays true. When you see her in the heat of summer, holding her own beside drought-hardened black oaks, oleanders, and cacti—breaking through the crowd to bloom and bear fruit, still able to catch the eye of a passing stranger—you can’t help but be moved. You stop. You stare. And you fall, once again, under her spell.
Pomegranate tree, I wish to walk with you through life.
May I find you at this very time each year—
by the roadside in a foreign land, or blooming quietly in my own garden.
**As osmanthus scents the air in August, so the pomegranate burns red at Mid-Autumn.**
---
Re: 石榴
哇，这是AI图还是真的照片？这么红艳艳的石榴！datoumao 写了： 2025年 6月 2日 02:17 《路边那棵一闪而过的石榴树》
在我曾经每日通勤的高速路上，有一棵枝繁叶茂的石榴树，它总是一闪而过，像是车窗外短暂掠过的一抹红。
那棵石榴树大概是鸟儿随意播种，夹在高速隔离带长长的夹竹桃丛中，极易被忽视，我来回七八年也未曾注意到它。直到去年中秋节前的某个早晨，我才因前方堵车而缓缓驶过时发现了它，要不是当时它挂满了大红的果子，我想我还是极有可能依旧错过它的。
那瞬间像是一份从天而降的惊喜，让我整个人精神一振。此后每每路过，我都会特意放慢车速，多看它几眼。那是我第二次在北美看到石榴树。第一次是在八年前南加州赫斯特城堡，那里的石榴树颇有些年头，古朴而厚重，果实沉甸甸，快要炸裂般的殷红，自带古典庄重美。相比城堡里时不时遇到的那些“游客止步”的牌子，它们更像是他乡的故知，盈盈欢迎着远道而来的我，不禁让我想起了故乡，那个盛产大石榴的地方－临潼。
那是我记忆里初见石榴的地方，母亲带着我去参观兵马俑，回来时搬回两个大石榴，后来哥哥带着我在大雁塔也买过一个巨大的，迫不及待想吃，可一路都无法把它打开。
据说味觉的记忆总是最难磨灭。小时候吃过的东西，往往一生都忘不了，甚至在临终时还会怀念。对此我深以为然。前年回国时，我再次品尝到一种叫“拐枣”水果，也是临潼特产，那熟悉的味道一下把我拉回了童年时光。石榴对我来说，早已不仅是食物，它承载了更多的情感。
我自小对美好事物格外敏感。上小学时就知道班上谁最好看。那时我是三道杠大队委员，心中的“小女神”是班长，眉如柳叶，说是从小在新疆长大，自小就修眉。我和她常一起放学，有时还会抄近道翻墙回家。我先跳下，再在墙下接她，那时的我，满心欢喜，两小有猜。她后来考入北广，成了电视台主播。想来，我对美的眼光还算不差。
少年的我除了对漂亮小姑娘感兴趣，同样也爱花。当年局机关大院的花圃就是我时常觊觎的场所，没办法，每当看到好看的花就抑制不住冲动特想据为己有，什么芍药，玫瑰，牡丹，腊梅，丁香就这样的一枝枝借我的小手被我请回家里，但也有遗憾，那棵最心仪的石榴树就始终没有得手。那树对于小小的我过于庞大，它的根扎得很深，我曾试图挖走些带根的侧枝均未成功，那需要时间，与折一支就溜之大吉完全不同，得时刻提防园丁突然从背后杀出来，所以最后只好无奈放弃。
那其实是棵用来观赏的石榴树，结的果子很小很酸，不好吃，但它的花要比食用石榴树大出许多，且花瓣层数很多。照理说它远没芍药好看，也不及玫瑰好闻，果子更是寒酸，可不知为何少年的心却偏偏好它，爱它，且让我无法释怀，这再次印证了那句老话，得不到的永远是最好的。
仔细想来，我对石榴的留恋并不只是来自童年与它的失之交臂，而是我与它之间天生就存在某种情感或心理上的纽带，就如同我对美女小姐姐欣赏的超前感知力，对石榴的特殊感觉亦是如此。石榴她就像是扎根于我心中的小美女，我喜欢它的一切，从头到脚，从花到实，那杨柳眉般的叶子，百褶红的裙子，和它蕴含着激情的胸怀。
如今，我更是发现了它前所未有的品格，那就是它不仅可以在故国的黄土地上展示卓越的风姿，同样可以在太平洋彼岸严酷的旱地坚韧不拔，没有南橘北枳，始终坚守自己的本色。当你看到它在炎炎夏日中，既能与耐旱的黑橡树、夹竹桃、仙人掌为伍，又能在重围中挣脱而出、开花结果，并最终抓住了匆匆过客的眼球…
石榴树，我愿与你同行。愿每年的此刻，在异国的路边，在自家的庭院，我都能看见你那热烈的红颜。八月桂花香，中秋石榴红。
我只记得拜倒在石榴裙下，匆匆一读好像没有，那我记错了
晚上再来仔细读。你现在还是很爱花啊！原来北广女神是班长，那你写的班主任帖子里也是她吗？ 你是大队长呀，厉害！一起翻墙很甜蜜 你应该追她呀…… -
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