My village is by the Cau River. The green bamboo banks sway in the wind and the waves. From the riverbank, bamboos stretch out to surround the village, weaving into every small alley. At noon, the bamboos cast their shadows on the poor thatched roofs with clusters of sunny flowers. At night, the bamboo fences are carved into the sky like ancient stone. My mother's lullaby beside the bamboo cradle sways in the storks' wings on those bamboo arches.
In my childhood dream, Saint Giong pulled up a bamboo clump to defeat the Yin invaders, stepping out of the legend to become a villager plowing, planting and harvesting. Many times lying on a bamboo bed reading the story, I secretly wished that there was a magic spell to make the bed fly up into the clouds and mountain winds.
People in my village have been attached to bamboo for generations. Bamboo is used to build houses, make utensils such as rice mills, cupboards, and even beds. Bamboo is used to carve shoulder poles, essential tools for farmers.
Bamboo is also used to weave rice bins, trays, winnowing trays, and winnowing trays. Beautiful bamboo baskets are indispensable. When sending the deceased to their ancestors, villagers cut bamboo to make poles and strips. During the off-season, many families gather to weave bamboo brooms to sell. Besides the village pond, many families have ponds for raising fish. In one corner of the pond bank is a small bamboo bridge made of three to four pieces of old bamboo for washing clothes, scooping duckweed, and cleaning farming tools.
I still remember one time my teacher gave me an assignment to list the uses of bamboo. I listed everything I had at home, including chopsticks, pot holders, and toothpicks. When checking my work, my teacher reminded me that bamboo is also used to make spikes, arrows for crossbows, and fences to fight enemies.
For many years now, my village has no more bamboo houses. Brick fences have replaced bamboo fences. There are few household appliances made of bamboo. The bamboo groves are thinning out.
The image of the old village fills my memory. Lying down at night listening to the wind blowing, I seem to hear the sound of bamboo in the wind...
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