The haystack of childhood

Every time I return to my hometown, I make a habit of bringing my old camera to capture the peaceful moments and pristine beauty of the simple agricultural life in my small village, a place still filled with childhood memories. For generations, the lives of the villagers depended on rice and potatoes grown on the barren land inherited from their ancestors. In the last decade or so, my hometown has seen a surge in young people going abroad for work, transforming the village day by day. Dirt roads have been replaced with clean concrete roads, and simple tiled houses have been demolished and rebuilt in a new style, with sturdy Thai-style roofs becoming a trend. Every afternoon, young men and women ride their gleaming motorbikes, speeding to karaoke bars in the neighboring village for fun, leaving behind a faint scent of perfume that still cannot erase the smell of mud and the daily toil of the fields.

The overseas trips of the village's youth have brought about dramatic and positive changes in the material and spiritual lives of the people in my hometown. However, it has also diminished the pristine, gentle beauty of the banyan tree, the riverbank, and the village square. The image of mothers and sisters hurrying to the fields every morning with their carrying poles, and returning in the evenings carrying bundles of dry straw, their figures leaning in the afternoon sun like works of art amidst the vast rice paddies, is now almost gone. The use of buffaloes and oxen for plowing has been freed up, so people no longer need to stockpile straw for their herds during the winter. Therefore, finding straw is now incredibly difficult. Stepping outside the village gate, the fields remain the same, a lush green of rice paddies. Yet, the image of straw stacks in the village has almost completely disappeared. I tirelessly searched, solely to capture scenes of children playing around haystacks or buffaloes dozing in the shade beside golden haystacks at sunset. It seems simple, yet it's hard to find. In the past, this scene was commonplace, but owning a camera was a luxury. Now, with cameras and smartphones being indispensable, the image of a haystack in each family has become a rarity.

I remember the old days, when harvest season came, the rice fields in my village were bustling like a festival. The villagers utilized every part of the rice plant, from root to tip. Besides the rice grain – the precious source of livelihood for each family – the rest of the plant was also brought home and spread out to dry in the large courtyard in front of the house. Once the rice grains were dry, they were carefully stored in jars, and the remaining straw was also processed perfectly. A long wooden stake or a tall, sturdy bamboo pole was planted firmly in the corner of the garden, and straw was piled up around it. Building the straw mound wasn't strenuous, so we children were also involved. As the straw mound grew taller, a small ladder was placed, and a few children climbed up, clinging to the bamboo stake and walking in a circle, compacting the straw. When the straw mound was almost at the top of the stake, the building was complete. To prevent rainwater from seeping in and rotting the straw stacks, people would put a straw hat on top of each one, or tie several palm leaves tightly around the top. Some even carefully covered them with a plastic sheet and tied it shut. That was it. After months of rain and sun, the straw stacks would turn a moldy color on the outside, but the inside would remain a vibrant yellow. When the grass in the fields was gone, the main food for the buffaloes and cows in the village was straw. The straw was gradually removed from the base of the stack, creating hollows. After removing a full circle, the weight of the straw stack above would cause it to collapse. This process continued until only the stack remained. By then, winter had usually passed, and grass and plants began to grow again, allowing the buffaloes and cows to roam freely in the fields. The most enjoyable moments were when we children played hide-and-seek around the straw stacks on clear, moonlit summer nights; and when we braided straw tinder to keep the fire burning, warming ourselves while tending the buffaloes and cows in the freezing winter. The scent of straw is intertwined with my childhood memories, and even now, after traveling far and wide, I can never forget it.

HO ANH MAO

Source: https://baokhanhhoa.vn/van-hoa/sang-tac/202409/cay-rom-tuoi-tho-a4a30fb/