Return to the countryside

Grandma still lovingly tends to the new harvests in her familiar garden. Photo: THANH TIEN

A place where memories are preserved.

I was fortunate to be born in My Duc, a land of sweet fruits and healthy trees. There, I spent my childhood days closely connected to the garden of my childhood. The humble thatched roof of my house stood on a high mound amidst a garden filled with all kinds of fruit trees. Because of this, my memories are as peaceful and simple as the place where I was born and raised. In those old recollections, I catch glimpses of my siblings and I huddled together under the old plum tree. When I was seven, the plum tree was already quite withered. My father said it had been planted when he was a child, and by the time I was born, it had been several decades.

Because the plum tree was old, the fruit was small, but there were a lot of them, and they weren't too sour. For my siblings and me, and our friends in the neighborhood, it was a favorite lunchtime snack. On school holidays, we'd all climb the tree to pick the fruit and then sit right under the plum tree to enjoy it. The spicy chili salt made everyone gasp for air as they ate. Right under that old tree, we played all sorts of games, from throwing cans and hide-and-seek to building little huts. Laughter and innocent arguments echoed through the peaceful afternoon garden.

Then the garden would bring guava and jackfruit seasons, and we'd constantly change our "menu." The only mango season we kids couldn't handle was the mango season, because the ancient mango trees bore fruit high up in the trees. The adults wouldn't let us pick them early, because these were the white and black Thanh Ca varieties, fragrant and delicious only when ripe; eating them raw was unripe and terribly sour. When the mangoes ripened, my father and Uncle Six would smear ash on themselves before climbing the trees to pick the fruit. Back then, there were a lot of yellow ants, and the adults said they did that to prevent them from biting. The harvested mangoes were piled into baskets, wrapped in paper for several days to ripen, then placed on the ancestral altar before being enjoyed by the children and grandchildren.

Perhaps, when my great-grandfather carried the soil to establish the garden, he intended for future generations to enjoy the fruits, so he planted all sorts of things, a few trees of each. There were even old bamboo groves, which my father used to build a house and a bridge during the flood season. From those bamboo groves, we made our makeshift blowpipes during the summer holidays, or lanterns and torches for the Mid-Autumn Festival. And so, my siblings and I spent our childhood playing in the fields after the winter rice harvest, mostly wandering around the garden. Then, as the days passed, the old garden became a memory. The garden was included in the residential development plan, and my family no longer lived there. All that remains is a distant memory.

A place that preserves the love for one's homeland.

On my wedding day, I was fortunate to meet a woman whose childhood was also immersed in the fragrance of longan orchards in Khanh Hoa . Therefore, whenever I have free time, I take my family back to visit my grandparents' garden. My grandparents' garden is located near Katampong, where it receives water from the Hau River, making it cool year-round. In the garden, there are several dozen longan trees, some over 15 years old. These tall trees, "holding hands," shade a vast area of land.

During my visits to my hometown, I often go to the garden with my grandfather. Although I am his son-in-law, we have a special bond. Over a cup of tea at noon, he tells me about the ups and downs of the times, and the things he has experienced in his life at the age of 90. “This area used to grow betel leaves, garden after garden. The people here prospered thanks to betel. As for me, besides growing betel leaves, I still keep the My Duc longan trees to offer to our ancestors and for my children and grandchildren to eat,” my grandfather recounted.

After the golden age of betel cultivation passed, my grandfather switched entirely to the longan orchard. During the season when the fruit ripened, the air was filled with its fragrant aroma; the grandchildren only needed to gather the fallen longans to satisfy their hunger. To my grandfather, this orchard was like family. He had traveled far and wide, from the orchards of Binh Thuy ( Can Tho City) to the coastal city of Rach Gia, but ultimately returned to the island of Khanh Hoa. Here, he carefully tended to each longan tree, nurturing a sacred bond with the land of his ancestors.

Now, his grandfather's figure is thin, his steps heavier with time. Although each visit to the garden has become more and more arduous, he still goes there regularly. Sometimes he prunes the longan branches, other times he weeds, and sometimes he sits quietly beside the grave of his long-deceased wife. Deeply attached to the garden, even when his children and grandchildren take him away for a few days, he insists on returning. He firmly states, "I can only rest easy knowing that I'm back to take care of the garden!"

Once, while taking my son to the garden with my grandmother, I saw her busily burning dry leaves in the sweltering midday heat. My heart suddenly yearned for the old garden. In the hazy smoke that seeped through the leaves, memories of childhood games flooded back. There, I heard the clear laughter of my childhood friends, and the loving call of my mother to come home for dinner. Those sounds, I will never hear again!

With trembling hands, Grandpa stroked his great-grandson's head and smiled kindly. He hoped that his descendants would continue to nurture the sacred feelings for their homeland. I will visit Grandpa many more times, so that this little one, who always follows me around, will also learn to love and cherish the spiritual values found in the shade of Grandpa's garden.

THANH TIEN

Source: https://baoangiang.com.vn/tro-lai-miet-vuon-a472861.html