The harvest seasons have passed…

September arrives, marking the beginning of the summer-autumn rice harvest in my hometown. Under the vast blue sky, with clouds resembling giant white cotton drifting lazily, the entire rice field, having passed the heading and milk-filling stages, is now covered in a golden hue of ripe, bending, and heavy-laden rice stalks. The rice stalks stretch out like a sea, rustling in the wind, sounding almost like waves. During these days, every household in the villages is bustling with harvesting, as the rainy season is approaching, and if the harvest isn't completed in time, the fields will be flooded. Flooding means the rice will rot and sprout, bringing imminent hunger. "One grain at home is worth three grains in the field," so in some fields, even a few ears of rice that aren't yet ripe are harvested. This isn't just true for the summer-autumn crop; the winter-spring crop is the same. When the rice reaches maturity, everyone must focus on harvesting, because although there's no flooding, the rice is easily damaged by the sun.

Photo: Cong Dinh

In the old days, there were no combine harvesters like today, so during harvest season, in my village, everyone relied on manual labor. Besides sickles, people carried all sorts of things: carrying poles, carrying yokes, twine, ropes for tying... For farmers, life depended on their gardens and fields, so there was nothing more joyful than a bountiful rice harvest. Throughout the fields, despite the hard work, there was a constant buzz of laughter and conversation. Here, people praised the rice variety for its abundant grains; there, they discussed choosing seeds for the next season. On the small roads leading to the village, many sections were bumpy and uneven, marked by buffalo footprints. Those carrying rice had to cautiously take small, uneven steps, their shoulders aching from calluses, but everyone was cheerful, greeting each other warmly and smiling happily.

They're busy not only in the fields but also at home. In many families, after harvesting the rice, some build threshing sheds, while others pile it up and let buffaloes trample on it. Not to mention the subsequent steps such as winnowing the rice, drying the rice, drying the straw, and drying the stubble.

For us children, harvest season meant many had to help our parents cut rice or do light chores like spreading straw to dry, turning the rice over to dry it, etc., but for the most part, it was a joyful time. In the fields that had just been harvested, while letting the buffalo graze, we would gather straw, stack it on dry branches to make houses, or play chase and war games. When we got tired of playing, sometimes we would wrap straw into bundles, burn them, create smoke, and use it to blow into frog burrows so they would jump out so we could catch them and take them home to cook porridge. In the fields that hadn't been harvested yet, grasshoppers would often gather in large numbers, all plump and round. We would happily catch them and then roast them over burning straw. This was a very delicious dish, because the grasshoppers were so plump and shiny that when roasted, they not only melted with fat but also emitted a very pleasant aroma, especially when that aroma mixed with the pungent smell of burning straw carried on the wind. Furthermore, sometimes in the newly harvested rice fields, we would come across baby rails that had lost their mothers and were wandering around. We would often bring them home, raise them until they grew bigger, and then release them into the bamboo groves…

One unforgettable image from that harvest season was the straw. Straw was scattered on the edges of the fields, on the paths. Straw covered the empty plots of land in the garden. Like many other families, after the harvest, if it was the summer or autumn crop, my father would often select some good straw to dry separately, saving it for thatching the pigsties and buffalo sheds. The rest was also dried thoroughly, piled into high mounds, and compacted tightly, like a giant mushroom, to be gradually pulled out for the buffalo and cattle to eat during the rainy and stormy winter days.

Harvest season is a time of hard work, whether it's winter-spring or summer-autumn, but for the villagers, it's a time of happiness. Nothing is more joyful than enjoying the fruits of their labor after months of diligent care, especially when the rice is dried and stored away. In the village, even the poorest families, who normally supplement their meals with potatoes or cassava, can now at least enjoy white rice for a few days. The freshly harvested rice is always fragrant and delicious, tasting good with anything. Moreover, with the new rice, everyone wants to treat themselves; some families grind it into flour for pancakes and rice cakes, others make rice dumplings. Even the livestock, like chickens, ducks, and geese, look fatter and more relaxed during harvest time than before.

In my hometown, we have a custom of offering new rice to our ancestors. Usually, after the rice in the fields has been harvested and brought home to dry, people prepare a feast to offer to their ancestors. After the offering, one family invites another. Although not as grand as anniversaries or Tet (Lunar New Year), just a simple meal, sometimes modest, the new rice offering ceremony is always solemn, organized sincerely, expressing gratitude to ancestors, and at the same time, the villagers want to strengthen the bonds of neighborly affection and community spirit.

Many Vietnamese people grow up carrying within them the image of a rural field with the vibrant colors of harvest seasons. This image has also become a shimmering realm of memory in many poetic works. The military poet Nguyen Huu Quy once wrote a beautiful poem titled "Returning to the Harvest Sunset," which includes a passage expressing his profound feelings: “Leaving behind the green and red lights / the gleaming, proud houses / the dusty, noisy streets / the bustling, swirling currents of life / We return to the harvest sunset / where the rice stalks are fragrant with memories / the sun of the countryside sets into the grains of rice / nine dreams ripen on the chest of the field / At the end of the day, bathing in the vast wind / the muddy dew soaking our feet / silently listening to the season's call / silently listening to the evening's departure…” Here is an excerpt from the poem "Harvest Season" by the poet Ho Bac: "Golden grains of rice spread across the fields above / Golden rice spreads across the fields below, then rises to the middle of the village / The poor village rejoices at the arrival of the harvest / Inside and outside, calls resound, footsteps fill the air / The scent of freshly harvested rice is fragrant / Fragrant from the kitchen smoke, fragrant from the distant lanes..."

HOANG NHAT TUYEN

Source: https://baokhanhhoa.vn/van-hoa/nhung-vung-ky-uc/202409/nhung-mua-gat-di-qua-0217703/