The price of the spring rice crop has been re-evaluated.

Having endured the harsh and bitterness of fate, the people of my village truly appreciated the sweet taste, imbued with human kindness, in the spirit of reciprocal labor exchange to obtain rice from the replanted rice crop after that flood…

The song "My homeland is in the midland, with lush green rice paddies and streams," composed by musician Nguyen Duc Toan in 1949, resonated with me from childhood as I hummed along to the songs of the young people. My village was in the highlands, without the "rice fields" of the lowlands, only "rice streams." These were strips of land nestled between two hills or low mountains, with lush green and golden rice during the two main harvest seasons. But in many summers, these strips of land dried up and cracked, and during the rainy season, water from the streams on Mount Sang poured down, submerging the rice paddies that were just beginning to sprout in the early spring. The villagers were heartbroken, but they couldn't stand by and watch the heavens lash out. The head of the labor exchange group hurriedly informed the villagers to hold a meeting to discuss replanting "re-harvested rice." Many people objected, saying that planting too late would cause a missed harvest, and that they might have rice but no grain; it was better to let the land rest and plant other crops. But eating corn, potatoes, and cassava all the time was tiresome; they needed at least some rice. The whole group unanimously agreed to replant the rice seedlings. Seedlings were crucial, but without rice seeds, how could there be seedlings? Each household gathered whatever rice they could find in their granaries and contributed it to sow seedlings in their yards. A few brick yards belonging to the wealthier families in the group, like those of Group Leader Kim, Mr. Ý, and Mr. Thiềng, turned into "muddy fields" in just one day. Everyone, from old to young, with pots, trays, and lacquered baskets, went to the flooded rice paddies to collect fresh mud and pour it onto the yards, waiting for the seedlings to be ready.

The courtyards where the children used to play ball on banana leaves, jump rope, or hold their moonlit youth group activities have given way to rice seedlings. "Damp weather is good for seedlings, cold weather is good for vegetables." How many lunar cycles does it take from seed to sprout? Just two lunar cycles, from the moment the rice seed germinates, it produces the yellow-green color of seedlings. Mr. Kim said the worst fear was the rats; if they didn't enclose the area, they would eat the seedlings, leaving not enough for everyone in the village. So, the cassava plants, piled up for firewood, now stand tall and interlock to form a protective fence around the seedling courtyard. "Potatoes prefer unfamiliar soil, seedlings prefer familiarity." Although the seedlings grow slowly because of the unfamiliar soil and the shade of the fence, receiving less sunlight, they gradually become stronger, changing from yellow-green to green, occasionally rippling as the autumn winds swirl through the cassava fence, waiting for the day of liberation to take root in the fields.

The mutual aid group met again, scheduling assignments for tomorrow, the day after tomorrow, the day after that… The group would help each family with their rice planting, aiming to complete all the replanting within three days. I also got to help with the seedling wrapping. The field seedlings didn't need to be pulled up like those sown in the fields; they just separated into individual bundles, gently rolled them up, and placed them in two sieves for the adults to carry to the fields. Once in the fields, they divided the seedlings, a few bundles at the beginning of the field and a few in the middle, so that the mothers and sisters could plant one bundle and then turn around, to the right or left, and there would be seedlings ready to plant. The mothers and sisters always reminded each other, "Plant with your hands facing up, not down." Because the field seedlings were short, if you planted them with your hands facing down, they would be buried deep in the mud and might not be able to emerge.

The old days were spent planting rice with outstretched hands, and now everyone looks up at the sky, gazing at the clouds… The spring rice crop is usually planted at the end of October, while the second rice crop is harvested later, in May or June of the following year. That's a time of unpredictable weather; you never know what will happen. Every farmer knows the saying: "When hungry, eat wild yams and sweet potatoes / Don't rejoice at the sight of rice flowering in February." February (lunar calendar) brings thunderstorms and heavy rains; the spring rice is just beginning to sprout, but then it can be hit by severe cold, causing the rice to "hold its panicles and stand still." The panicles remain stuck in the green husk, unable to emerge and produce ears of grain. Even when they do sprout, by harvest time, the rice may only yield empty grains.

Now, the spring rice crop has all kinds of long-day and short-day rice varieties… In the past, there was only one type, generally called "spring rice." I can't forget "Brother Mai, the regrouping worker." That's what everyone called him, but at my age, I should call him "Uncle Mai." He had a gold tooth, a booming laugh, and talked about rice like a teacher giving a lecture. He went to the North during the regrouping period in 1954, and came to my village in the early years of the "land reform" as a cadre reinforcing the Reform Team. When my village joined the labor exchange group, around 1960, when I was 10 years old, Brother Mai occasionally stopped by to meet with the villagers and explain the forms of "labor exchange." "Exchange" meant rotating; today the whole group would work together to help one household with planting, plowing, and harvesting, tomorrow they would help another. He encouraged everyone to reclaim and cultivate land, grow rice and other crops on barren fields and wasteland. Products from this land were exempt from agricultural tax. He said, "Southern spring rice, Northern harvest." In the past, the land from the northernmost to the southernmost part of Central Vietnam was often arid, so people only cultivated the "chiem" rice variety. This rice variety originated from the Champa people. This community traditionally cultivated rice from the provinces of Quang Binh, Quang Tri, Quang Nam, and Quang Ngai, like your hometown, before spreading to the northern provinces. The name "chiem rice" comes from that, because in the North, there was only the main crop season.

My hometown has two types of farmland – rice paddies and upland fields, but very little land can grow two rice crops. Families with many members might have a little over 4 sao (approximately 0.4 hectares), like mine, which is only about 3 sao. Land for upland fields, especially cassava, is vast, partly due to land allocation, but mostly acquired by reclaiming wasteland. But there's no song about cassava, only the song of rice. "The east wind brings forth the spring rice." Fortunately, heaven blessed us, and that year's second rice crop also bore ears. From the time it was just a seedling, it offered life and people a pristine, delicate scent; then, as a young rice plant, it had a fresh, delicate flavor; and when it bore ears, it created a uniquely intoxicating aroma, overpowering the smell of mud and earth… My mother reached out and plucked a young rice ear, still milky, and began to gently bite it. The sweet, earthy taste of the countryside seemed to permeate her tongue, melting in her veins, and then she prayed to heaven and Buddha, asking for a bountiful harvest for every family. And the children dream of harvest day, following the adults to glean fallen rice grains, chasing grasshoppers and crickets to feed the birds.

***

The rice fields turned a warm, golden hue, flocks of skylarks soared above the rippling rice stalks, catching mosquitoes, grasshoppers, and crickets… The harvest of the late-season rice crop arrived. That year's harvest was a month later than the previous one, but it still only took about two weeks to finish. The whole group helped each other harvest and thresh. My father and two other farmers in the group stood with their legs apart, their muscular arms gripping smooth bamboo threshing tools, with a section of rope tightly wrapped around the threshing mound, pounding against a makeshift wooden door that had been dismantled to serve as a makeshift table. Everyone's shoulders were damp with sweat, but they were happy, chatting animatedly about the ups and downs of the harvest as they threshed. Golden grains of rice poured down into the large winnowing basket. Soon, the harvested rice had become bundles of golden straw, which flew off the threshing mounds and piled up behind the threshers. The smell of fresh straw beckoned the children, who eagerly awaited the threshing to finish so they could rush in and break the straw bundles apart to roll around in them to their heart's content. The adults stopped working, and I used a broom to gather up the scattered grains of rice. My mother scooped the rice into baskets, waiting for the morning sun to spread it out to dry, winnow it clean, and then mill it so the whole family could enjoy a full bowl of rice.

***

The rice grains of the early-season crop are not as firm as those of the late-season crop, but the aroma of freshly cooked rice is no less fragrant. Even though the meal consists only of braised shrimp, jute leaf soup, and pickled vegetables, the pot of rice is almost empty in no time, requiring scraping off the burnt bits. “Here, a single grain of rice falls / Outside, countless drops of sweat soak the fields.” I picked up each grain of rice clinging to my chopsticks and savored it, the sweet taste lingering on my tongue – the flavor of heaven and earth permeating this precious meal. The simple meal was so warm and heartwarming! Perhaps, having experienced the harshness and bitterness of nature, people appreciate even more the sweet aftertaste, the deep human connection in the exchange of labor to obtain the rice from the late-season crop. The more sun, rain, mist, and wind there is, the more intensely and affectionately intertwined the labor of production among neighbors. I first heard this folk song and proverb from the village headman, Mr. Kim, during a meeting summarizing the late-season rice crop and discussing preparations for the new one, but I will always remember it: “A whole raft is better than a single bamboo pole.” "The gourd vines cling tightly to the trellis / The villagers hold tightly to their village, that's how it is."

Source: https://daidoanket.vn/vu-lua-chiem-tai-gia-10293807.html