Father, fields and new rice seasons

My father was a soldier who went to B, and was demobilized as soon as peace was restored. He left his youth on the battlefield, and only when he was old did he return to his hometown. Putting down his gun, my father became a plowman and a hoeman, cultivating a few fields to raise his children. My family was very poor at that time. It seemed like the whole village was poor. My childhood was closely linked to the fields, to the hard work and hardship of my parents. I remember the freezing cold winters, when he had just hastily removed a few rows of sweet potatoes to plant on the rice field, my father would rush to plow, clear the banks, hoe the corners, and prepare the soil to plant the rice before Tet. During the farming season, he was busy without rest, working day and night until it was finished. When my brothers and I came home from school, there would be a hot basket of rice mixed with sweet potatoes (cooked rice compressed and wrapped in an areca leaf), which my father wrapped in a blanket, along with a bowl of peanut salt and a pot of vegetable soup. After eating, we would voluntarily go to the fields, because our parents worked through the afternoon and did not come home.

Remembering the cold winter afternoons, going to the fields, teeth chattering, hands stiff from the cold, my father would light a fire right on the edge of the field for my siblings and I to warm up. Meanwhile, my parents were still working hard planting rice, their thin clothes covered in wet mud, their hands also had no feeling, their skin was pale from the cold, but they still tried to work, then chased the children to the edge to warm themselves by the fire and sent them home early. Every time I remember, the corners of my eyes sting...

Then came the hot summer days, the sun was scorching, the water was boiling, my father waded through the fields, plowed and harrowed, and continued to sow green seeds, continuing the dream of a bountiful harvest. My siblings and I had an enjoyable summer day, helping our parents with all the farm work, and after returning from planting rice, we would always have a cup of cool coconut water that my father had climbed up the tree, cut down, and tied a rope to let it cool down in the well. The cup of coconut water that day did not have a single grain of sugar or ice, but the sweetness penetrated deep into the heart, imprinted in our memories.

But perhaps the busiest and happiest time is the harvest season. Everywhere, from inside the house to the yard, the village roads are covered in straw and rice. I remember my father's thin, haggard figure and sweaty face as he threshed rice and threshed the straw. I remember the image of the whole family in the small yard, my parents busily using a threshing rack to thresh rice, my brothers and I shaking off the straw, the others using their feet to knead the threshed rice that still had grains attached. The rice had just been dried, my mother winnowed it, fanned it to remove all the broken grains and remaining straw, and my father would always carry a bag of rice to mill. My father said that rice from newly-milled rice was the best. New rice used less water and did not expand, but was sticky, and when boiled, it gave off an unforgettable aroma. It was a strong aroma that seemed to carry the sun, the acrid, bitter taste of bran residue, the salty taste of sweat, the scent of fields and wind. When eating, the more you chew, the sweeter it gets. The sweet taste lingers on the tip of the tongue, then permeates the entire mouth and spreads into the body.

It has been a long, long time since my family has been farming, but we still follow the old habit of measuring out new rice to cook and offer to my father every season. Even though the years may erase everything, the memory of my father will always be like a flame, enduring, warm and bright.

The new season has come again, in the eternal place, you must be thinking about our family, right dad?

Hello love, season 4, theme "Father" officially launched from December 27, 2024 on four types of press and digital infrastructure of Radio - Television and Binh Phuoc Newspaper (BPTV), promising to bring to the public the wonderful values of sacred and noble fatherly love.
Please send to BPTV your touching stories about Father by writing articles, writing feelings, poems, essays, video clips, songs (with recordings),... via email [email protected], Editorial Secretary Office, Binh Phuoc Radio - Television and Newspaper, No. 228, Tran Hung Dao, Tan Phu Ward, Dong Xoai City, Binh Phuoc Province, phone number: 0271.3870403. The time to receive articles is from now until August 30, 2025.
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Source: https://baobinhphuoc.com.vn/news/19/173356/cha-ruong-dong-va-nhung-mua-com-moi