Coconut season

My family didn't have as many coconut trees as other families in the village. On the sand dunes behind our house, my grandfather only planted two coconut trees, one red coconut and one green coconut. The rest of the sand dunes were overgrown with bamboo, reeds, and various kinds of bushes.

I don't know if it's because of the soil, but the two coconut trees in my yard and the rows of coconut trees in the village all have large shells, each bunch laden with fruit. These summer days are when coconuts are at their best. The coconut flesh isn't too hard, and the coconut water is just the right sweetness—not too sour or too bland. Usually, the "fire" coconuts are sweeter than the "green" coconuts. But for my family at that time, every coconut was precious because it takes a full 12 months for a coconut tree to bear fruit.

My father meticulously twisted and braided dozens of dried banana leaves to create a satisfactory harness. Carefully testing its sturdiness, he fastened a sharp machete to his belt, nimbly twisted the harness into a loop around his leg, and swiftly climbed the towering coconut tree.

Down below, my brothers and I craned our necks, our heads spinning. We saw Dad chopping coconut fronds one moment, then coconut husks the next. He'd drop each item to the ground, and at the end of that strenuous climb, the clusters of coconuts laden with fruit were finally harvested. He'd split the coconut leaves in half and weave them beautifully to roof the melon watchtower. He'd soaked the pliable coconut husks in water, stripped them into thin strips, and used them to hang strings of tobacco. And of course, the sweetest, most delicious coconuts were for us.

Early-season coconuts have a glossy green shell and a fresh, vibrant stem. The coconut water is slightly cloudy, subtly sweet, with occasional hints of mild sourness. The coconut flesh isn't too hard; you can easily scrape it with a spoon like eating jelly. That's why my brothers and I ate them non-stop, and I, being the most gluttonous, was given two whole coconuts.

In my village, coconuts are rarely sold in bunches or with their shells intact. Most people trim them, using a sharp machete to peel off the outer shell, leaving only the coconut flesh and the slender stem, like a delicate flower. The peeled coconuts, when brought to market, are often placed alongside fresh watermelons still covered in their bloom.

My father is now very old, and his health is no longer sufficient to nimbly harvest coconuts. Even the makeshift coconut-picking hoes made of banana leaves have become a thing of the past, replaced by safer and more convenient tools for climbing coconut trees. Yet, every summer when I visit my village, I still often see piles of carefully peeled coconuts with fresh stems, like blossoming flowers, still present in the corner of the market. It turns out that, in one way or another, the beautiful memories of the coconut season still linger in my mind. Just seeing the familiar image of those coconuts brings back a whole world of childhood memories. And before my eyes appears the image of my father nimbly putting on his hoe and climbing up to harvest coconuts, the sturdy coconut trees planted by my grandfather swaying joyfully under the clear blue summer sky.

Source: https://baothuathienhue.vn/doi-song/mua-dua-128350.html