Old earthen jar

Accidentally came across the image of a rice jar, inside were ripe, round custard apples, I suddenly felt nostalgic.

The earthenware jar, bearing the traces of time, containing pure white rice grains, along with the old, worn-out rice measuring can, rusted in some places, was so simple, so nostalgic, so nostalgic. These simple objects, nestled under the peaceful countryside sky for so many years, seemed so familiar that they were easily forgotten, but in fact, they were deeply entwined in my memory. In an instant, I returned to the vast memory, where my mother's earthenware jars were.

Back then, in the corner of the house, my mother placed an old, dark brown rice jar with a few small stones underneath. Every time she picked unripe guavas and custard apples, she would often put them in the rice jar. Sometimes there would be a bunch of green bananas and a few newly ripe mangoes. My siblings and I would open them and close the lid, anxiously waiting for the soft, sweet, ripe guavas and mangoes. The earthen jar silently retained the scent of our childhood. When the fruit was ripe, opening the lid of the rice jar would reveal a fragrant, heart-warming scent. It was as if inside the dusty earthen jar was a miracle, a sense of anticipation and sparkling childhood joy. We gradually grew up from those fragrant herbs, and deeper down, it was our mother’s sweet, intact heart.

Illustration: Tra My

In the old days, Mother used earthenware jars to filter water. She put clean pebbles halfway up the jar, and attached a bamboo tube with a pointed tip to the bottom. Then she scooped a bucket of well water and poured it into it, letting the water flow out of the bamboo tube in a clear stream. Mother boiled the filtered water and let it cool for the whole family to drink or poured it into a thermos for Father to make tea every morning.

I gently touched the water filter jar, always feeling cool and peaceful. After many months under the back porch, my mother's earthen jar was covered with moss. At the foot of the stone pedestal, there were sparse fern branches. The sound of trickling water echoed in my heart, a deep, peaceful sound, every time I was at peace in my mother's kitchen. The sweet water filtered from the earthen jar, since when did it infuse me with the taste of pure love.

In my small countryside, jars to collect rainwater are often placed in front of the house. After running around in the fields, or when villagers come to the house to give me a bunch of vegetables or fish, they will scoop up ladles of cool water to wash their hands and feet. Occasionally, I catch a thin ray of sunlight, leaning through the eaves, shining into the jar. Sometimes someone forgets to cover the jar, letting guava or frangipani petals flutter in the wind. At night, the moon shines brightly over the countryside, looking down at the jar of water, I suddenly feel my heart soften, because of the floating, light golden rays, as if blending into a folk song. Because of all that simplicity, I cannot bear to forget the gentle earthen jar, holding all four seasons, in front of the house.

Mother also used earthenware jars to pickle vegetables and fish sauce. The inside of the earthenware jars seemed to be coated with a layer of enamel over time, preserving the original taste of the vegetables and fish sauce, regardless of whether it was sunny or rainy outside. The jars bore the imprint of mother’s hard-working hands. In a small, humble corner, with shadows cast over the years, they silently kept a whole old, dear place. The jars retained the image of mother, grandmother, and many rural women who had a hard life, sending their dreams to the kitchen and garden.

My grandmother has gone to the land of white clouds. My mother's hair has turned the color of the mulberry sea. I returned home and was startled to realize that my childhood was far away. Now, modern water tanks and filters are available, and the kitchen in the countryside is gradually losing the jars of fish sauce and jars of eggplant. The old earthenware jar is gradually fading into the past, but why can I still hear the sound of laughter when the fruit in the jar is ripe, and the sound of water flowing on the back porch...

Source: https://baodaklak.vn/van-hoa-du-lich-van-hoc-nghe-thuat/van-hoc-nghe-thuat/202508/chum-dat-ngay-cu-0c20363/