Every day, as a new farming season began, my friends and I would leave at dawn to feed the buffaloes their fill of grass, preparing for the day's work of the village farmers. They would sling the buffaloes, wielding bamboo whips, and plow the first furrows with a "tack, ri" sound (left, right) along the length of the field. At that time, we children would jump into the river to wash ourselves, then rush home for breakfast. Occasionally we would have a bowl of rice, mostly just potatoes or cassava to fill our stomachs. We would then play all sorts of games until the plowmen unshackled the buffaloes, led them down to the river to cool off, scrub off the mud, and then ride them to graze.
Sometimes, arriving a little earlier, I would stand by the edge of the field, watching the perfectly straight furrows. Each turn of the muddy soil would be flipped over, piled up and running from one bank to the other. Occasionally, I would overhear the plowmen praising or criticizing each other. They would say, "The furrows are so straight and beautiful," or "Some places are plowed unevenly (missing furrows, soil covering the unplowed areas), or "Other places are plowed crookedly (some areas are tilled, others are not." This was because each plowman had a hoe-wiper accompanying him, called a corner hoeer. The fields were usually square or rectangular, and the buffalo couldn't walk right up to the corners of the plow. The hoeers had to deal with these spots by turning over the furrows with their hoes or carefully searching for missed or crooked furrows to hoe and till them thoroughly. The work of the plowmen and hoeers was very coordinated, ensuring that when the plowing was finished, the field was free of any "unplowed" areas. Otherwise, when the harrow encounters hard soil, the harrow teeth will break, and the harrower will blame the previous plowers. Or, if the harrowing is repeated many times but the soil in the uneven furrows is not completely broken up, the rice planters will not be able to plant the seedlings.
When I became a young man and started plowing, my father would often advise me, "Don't plow haphazardly, son," or "Try to steer the buffalo to the right, so that the plowshare hooks as much as possible, making it easier for the person plowing." These two fundamental lessons, back then, I always considered sacred duties of a plowman!
Then, upon entering adulthood and taking up writing, every time I sat before a blank page, during sleepless nights, I would imagine those words as the furrows of my youth. How to write correctly, without spelling or grammatical errors, how to write beautifully so that my editors wouldn't have to work so hard, and how to submit a manuscript to the editorial office without criticism or reprimand. The constant agonizing over each word to ensure smooth and beautiful writing is the arduous task of a writer.
That's why back then, every week when I read through the "grass picker" column in several newspapers, which specialized in picking out misspelled titles, misspelled sentences, or grammatically incorrect ones to criticize and "satire" on, I learned a lot. Their writing was gentle, but whenever I didn't see my name in that column, I felt relieved. Then I thought, "How are those people so good at spotting errors, or how convincing their interpretations of each sentence or paragraph are?" The effort to read and point out writing mistakes to colleagues is also a form of professional ethics, dating back to the dawn of journalism. In the past and present, there have been many famous people in this field.
Sometimes I idly think that the furrows in the field and the lines of text on paper are no different!
Source: https://thanhnien.vn/nhan-dam-duong-cay-va-con-chu-185250621174950409.htm
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