Remember the days of catching fish in the countryside

Illustration photo (AI)

In those years, my village did not have many ponds with solid banks. After each harvest, when the water receded from the fields, people made an appointment to go to the fields. Adults brought hoes, shovels, baskets, nets, etc. We children only had bare backs and eyes as eager as the sun on a scorching hot day. Those were unforgettable days, with sun, wind, and laughter filling the ditch banks. Each person had a job, their hands quickly scooping water out of the puddles, each bucket of water scooped up seemed to scoop up all the anticipation. The mud stuck between the toes, the wind blew through the fields, the sunlight poured like honey down people's backs. All fatigue seemed to be dispelled by the joy in the chest.

When the water level was just low, the fish began to jump. Some shot out of the mud like little arrows, some crawled around looking for a way out, got caught in the grass roots and lay still, panting. We hid in the mounds of earth, holding baskets or rags, sometimes with just our bare hands, and when we saw the shadow of the fish, we rushed towards it. Sometimes we missed, our whole bodies fell, our faces covered in mud, but our laughter was as crisp as the first rain of the season. A catfish bit our hands, drawing blood. A snakehead fish jumped up and splashed water all over our faces. Yet no one felt any pain. Every time we caught a fish, our hands lifted up and our hearts felt light.

The stranded fish lay on their sides in the baskets, shining a copper color in the bright afternoon sun. Each species had its own appearance, a part of my hometown's land, of the erratic rainy and sunny seasons. Some of those fish were brought back to be braised with turmeric, some were grilled on the edge of the fields, the aroma filling the bamboo groves, the smoke rising and blending with the chirping of children telling stories. Those dishes, even if you try to find them in the city, you can't find the same taste again.

After catching fish, everyone was soaked, their faces, hands and feet were dirty. But no one was in a hurry to go home. The whole field was like a big playground, where adults rested on the grassy banks, children chased each other on the cracked rice fields, letting the afternoon pass slowly, letting the sunset dye the bamboo hedges red, spreading over the water and the tiny heads.

The old countryside has now been turned into flower beds. The ponds of my hometown are now rarely dry, catching fish has become an old memory, a thought in stories. The happy seasons in the fields have been deserted. No one sits waiting for the water to recede, no more country children cheer when they catch a perch deep in the thick mud. The laughter that resounded in the fields now only remains in the memory of those who lived in the innocent time that has passed like a ray of sunshine falling through the fingers.

Sometimes when passing by the fields, I crave to wade in the mud, splash around in the laughter of children, sit on the edge of the field grilling fish, inhale the strong aroma of the burnt fish and salivate. I crave the feeling of lifting the basket out of the puddle with my heart pounding because I don’t know if there are any fish in it or not. Those simple things are unforgettable for the rest of my life.

The old days of catching fish in the countryside fields are a world of memories for me, a part of the years when I was so small in the middle of the vast fields, a pure slice of life. And then, if one day the memories come back, I want to be that country child again, barefooted and covered in mud, running across the golden fields in the late afternoon sun, returning home to show my mother the still warm and slightly fishy catch of fish…/.

Nhat Pham

Source: https://baolongan.vn/nho-thuo-tat-ca-dong-que-a200295.html