My hometown nestled beside a small canal, its waters flowing gently, reluctant to leave the familiar banks lined with flowering trees. My maternal grandparents' house was at the end of the village, with a smooth, polished cement courtyard that my grandmother had paved, transforming it into a brilliant golden expanse each rice harvest season. That courtyard nurtured my sisters and me, bathed in scorching sun and swirling dust.
Every harvest season, the rice from the fields is brought home, spilling out onto the yard, glistening golden like gathered sunlight. Sometimes, after drying the rice from my grandmother's house or my house, we'd borrow the yard to dry the rice from our neighbor's house. The small yard carried the weight of the whole neighborhood. My grandmother said, "The land isn't big, my child, but if your heart is big, the rice will be happy too." I believe that, because the yard was never without laughter or the rustling sound of the rakes.
Rice drying yards of farmers in An Giang .
My maternal grandfather was a carpenter, so the rakes, bamboo handles, and rake blades were all made by his own hands. The wooden teeth were meticulously carved and sturdy. He made them not only for his own family but also for neighbors to borrow when needed. I remember him hunched over, sweat dripping down his faded shirt, a gentle smile on his face. In the countryside, people live together based on mutual kindness and lending, without needing to keep a ledger.
My favorite moments were sleeping outdoors in the yard, tending the rice with my grandmother. A makeshift mosquito net was hastily erected, its four corners tied to sacks of rice piled higher than a person's head. The moon hung obliquely over the roof, and the wind rustled through the rice stalks like someone telling a story. The scent of ripe rice mingled with the smell of the earth after a sunny day. My grandmother lay beside me, softly saying, "This year's harvest is bountiful; we won't have to worry about shortages." I heard those words as if they were a prayer.
My grandmother used to tell stories about the days when our village was still under bombardment. When the rice harvest season arrived, people didn't dare harvest during the day for fear of the planes. They harvested at night, under flickering lights, their hands trembling, but their hearts striving to keep the rice grains from falling into the mud. "Sometimes, even when bullets exploded in the distance, we still cut the rice, because abandoning the field meant starvation." I grew up amidst such stories, understanding that the rice I ate contained not only sweat, but also the fear and resilience of a bygone era.
Winter-spring rice only needs two or three days of sunshine for the grains to dry and be ready for sale. Summer-autumn rice is wetter, the grains are heavier with water, and two days of continuous rain means the price drops significantly. On days when it suddenly rains, the whole family rushes to gather the rice. What I fear most is scooping the rice with a sack. The dust flies everywhere, stinging my eyes. I have to stand firm, holding the mouth of the sack so my mother can pour the rice in quickly. The rice spills over my hands, burning hot. Every breath I take, I smell the pungent, earthy odor, and the rice dust clings to my hair and eyelashes.
One year, the summer-autumn rice crop was hit by incessant rain. The sky was gray for days, and the yard, barely dry, was wet again. The rice was spread out to dry, then hastily gathered back in. The grains began to sprout, turning white and tiny buds cracking. I was young then, and I only noticed the rice had changed; it was no longer golden but pale and limp.
Grandma sat in the yard, examining handfuls of rice stalks. The sprouted grains lay in her thin, bony hands. Her eyes were red and swollen. She didn't cry aloud, only sighed, her voice hoarse: "The value has dropped, my child."
It was the first time I'd seen an adult so sad about the rice grains. Not a random sadness, but a sadness as if they'd lost something connected to their upcoming meal. I stood beside them, not daring to ask. I just felt my heart sink. It turned out that even a prolonged rain shower could make an entire dry season feel precarious. At that moment, I told myself I had to study hard. I had to try to leave this yard, so that later I wouldn't have to carry sacks of rice, breathing in the dust until I choked, and wouldn't see those teary eyes because the price of rice had dropped. Thinking that, my heart ached, because I felt sorry for my mother and grandmother, who had spent their whole lives surrounded by the sun.
Then time passed like the stream in front of the house, silently and without waiting for anyone. Combine harvesters appeared. People no longer cut rice by hand, no longer carried heavy sacks of rice back to the yard. Rice was sold fresh right in the field. Mills had drying lines for fresh rice, so the rice grains no longer had to be exposed to the sun.
The courtyard at my grandmother's house gradually lost its days of vibrant yellow.
Now, each year, we only dry a small amount of rice for consumption at home. That courtyard is often silent, with only the sunlight stretching across it. When I return, standing in the middle of the courtyard, I feel a pang of longing, missing the sound of a rake, the voice of my grandmother. The rice paddies that once suffocated me now fill me with a lump in my throat. There are things we once wanted to leave behind, but when they're gone, they become warm memories.
My grandmother's rice drying yard was more than just a place to dry the rice grains. It taught me the value of a bowl of rice, the compassion for those whose shirts were soaked with sweat, and the appreciation of a well-timed sunny season. It also taught me that life is like a grain of rice: it must endure scorching sun, torrential rain, and near-loss of value before becoming the pure white rice in our evening meals.
The small stream in front of the house still flows. The cement yard is still there. Only Grandma no longer sits there tending the rice. But every time I pass by, I still catch a whiff of the fragrant scent of ripening rice somewhere in my memory. And I know that, even though machinery has made farming less arduous, a part of my life still lies on that rice drying yard, where dust flies everywhere, where makeshift mosquito nets provide a restless sleep, where a child once breathed in the dust of ripe rice, dreaming of the day they would grow up.
AN LAM
Source: https://baoangiang.com.vn/nho-san-phoi-lua-a478176.html
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