Small village, March…

March in this land of sun and wind is not as romantic as March in poems or songs. In this rural area, only the north wind and the sun are present.

The sun scorched everything, turning it a dry, withered yellow. Dust filled the air. It's no longer called "wading through the fields," but rather "running through the fields." The fields were parched, the grass burnt to a crisp, leaving behind a layer of gray earth that, when swept by the wind, sent dust flying everywhere. The children happily played kickball every afternoon. They seemed tireless, unafraid of the sun, running from midday until evening, shouting and chasing each other without getting tired. Only when dusk fell, and their mothers, still nagging them to come inside, reluctantly took out their whips, did the "army" disperse, each going home to bathe and eat dinner.

There's hardly any farm work left to do this season. The women, idle in the afternoons, gather to chat and escape the sun under someone's eaves. When they get bored, they'll sing karaoke, livening up the whole neighborhood. And it seems the singing is incredibly appealing to the residents of this small village. Even the men, when they're finished with work, call each other to gather, eat, drink, and sing. Whenever you hear the lively singing, you know the villagers are unemployed that day. Even though they get free music, the rest of the villagers aren't particularly happy, because after a long, tiring day at work, they come home to hear their neighbors "shouting" songs like "Orphan White Bird," "Let the Child Carry the Mother," etc., which is quite disturbing. But one thing is undeniable: the people of this small village, though poor, always have a cheerful and optimistic spirit. They never seem to be sad; they think, "We worry about today, why worry about tomorrow?"

They were so optimistic that even when there was hardly any water to use, just enough for cooking and bathing, and the sun beat down relentlessly, trying to scorch the last remnants of green, turning them yellow and withered, they still gathered together to sing and have fun. The neighborhood was small, with only about ten houses, but every house had a professional karaoke system, so there were three or four free music venues a day for the residents. The strongest on the left sang, the strongest on the right sang, while the front played upbeat music and the back played bolero. I could only smile wryly, knowing I'd unfortunately stumbled into a music- loving neighborhood; what could I do?

Besides the free musical performances, the small village had many other fun things to do. This season, even though the sun tried to scorch every remaining green leaf, the ancient acacia tree by the pond remained untouched. It was acacia season. The acacia fruits bent over, their backs cracking open to reveal the smooth white kernels inside – just looking at them made one's mouth water. The children in the village would tie tall poles together, hook the ripe acacia fruits down, and then gather under the tamarind tree to eat and chat merrily. They made me, someone who had lived more than half my life, suddenly remember my own childhood, the afternoons spent sneaking out to pick green guavas and acacia fruits, chatting endlessly, and after a hearty meal, swimming in the pond, returning home covered in mud and getting a few painful spankings from my mother. Oh, those carefree days have long since faded into the past. Now, looking at the children, I can only yearn and reminisce.

Thanks to the March sun and wind, the ponds in the village began to dry up. The men went fishing for freshwater fish, a once-a-year delicacy. Even the fattest, most agile, and strongest snakehead fish were caught. Only the smaller ones were left for the following season. Even the large catfish, as thick as a fist and with spines as hard as rock, lay still because they were numb from the electric shock. After wading in the pond for about two hours, they'd get nearly half a bucketful of fish, each one with shiny black skin and plump, appetizing bodies. They'd let the fish rest for a few hours to release the mud, then wash them clean and grill them – it was simply delicious. Grilled fish, you just need to scrape off the charred, black skin to reveal the white, fragrant flesh inside. Mix it with unripe mangoes (when young mangoes are in season), add some marigold shoots, sawtooth coriander, and basil picked from the garden, and dip it in tamarind fish sauce – it was amazing! And so the men gathered to celebrate their catch. The women were delighted, busily preparing the freshwater fish and storing them in the refrigerator for later consumption. Freshwater fish stewed with pepper is incredibly delicious with rice. If you're tired of the taste, you can stew it with ginger leaves; if you're even more tired of the taste, you can deep-fry it and dip it in tamarind sauce, then wrap it in rice paper. These are all specialties of the countryside. You can't easily find fish as tasty as the fish from the pond at the market.

The family gathered to catch fish in the pond, and the children and grandchildren cooked and ate together, creating a scene more lively than a memorial feast. My cousin, skillful with his fishing rod, caught a whole basket of golden-skinned eels, which he stir-fried with lemongrass and chili, giving off a mouthwatering aroma. My uncle, leisurely raising his glass of wine, laughed heartily, his laughter louder than the sunshine in the yard, recounting stories of how they drained the pond instead of using electric fishing like they do now. The children and grandchildren sat listening, laughing uncontrollably at his humorous tales.

Despite the wind and sun tanning their dark skin and adding more wrinkles to each person's forehead, the family reunion was still filled with laughter. Some will be gone, others will pass away; how many more gatherings like this will there be? Therefore, each time the pond dries up, the descendants gather at the ancestral home, enjoying the bounty left by their grandparents. The older generation recounts stories of the past to the younger, who listen to remember and share these stories with future generations. This bond of kinship is strengthened by the seasons of draining the pond and catching fish.

Source: https://baobinhthuan.com.vn/xom-nho-thang-ba-117631.html