Each season has its own unique characteristics. Therefore, each season evokes different emotions in people. In spring, we await the budding leaves and vibrant green foliage. In autumn, we await the rustling of golden leaves. When winter arrives, we huddle together, waiting for the biting cold wind. But summer is different; in summer, we await new sounds.
We wait to hear the summer chorus, the cicadas singing in the air. That chorus sings tirelessly. And also the folk song, the joyful sound of ripening rice. Perhaps, that is the perfect love song that nature has bestowed upon us. What do we feel when we immerse ourselves in that melody? A touch of wanderlust, a touch of dreaminess, and suddenly we find ourselves more optimistic about life.
On summer nights, we listen to the melodious symphony of insects, the gentle breeze carrying the faint scent of chestnut blossoms, and the rustling of bamboo stalks rubbing against each other. And sometimes, we hear the relentless, devouring sound of a foot-operated threshing machine, its rumbling echoing from afar in the tranquil space, like the joyful cry of a bountiful harvest.
But the sound I look forward to most every summer is the cry of the ice cream vendor: "Ice cream, ice cream, ice cream!" That cry evokes countless memories. Under a clear blue sky, with golden sunlight pouring down like honey, the corner of the sky ablaze with the red of flamboyant flowers and the deep purple of crape myrtle, the ice cream vendor bathes in the sun, their weariness and hardship clearly visible on their sweat-soaked clothes. Their rickety bicycle rolls along, heavy and sluggish, like the weary breath of an old person. That weariness is quickly dispelled by the cheerful laughter of children. Some eagerly buy ice cream with the small coins their grandmothers and mothers give them, their eyes sparkling with joy. Others diligently collect discarded bottles and cans, hoping to exchange them for a few ice cream cones at midday, a refreshing treat that cools the heart and melts away all the heat and stuffiness.
I remember back then, in the summer there was no air conditioning, electric fans were quite rare, only hand-held fans. On hot summer afternoons, children weren't in air-conditioned rooms or under fans, nor did they have smartphones for entertainment. Every sweltering summer afternoon, under the shade of ancient trees, we children would gather to play marbles, hopscotch, jump rope, and tug-of-war, regardless of the summer heat, the sweat dripping down, the soiled clothes, our laughter echoing across the sky.
"Ice cream popsicles, ice cream popsicles, ice cream popsicles!" The vendor's cry rang out, and all other sounds ceased. We stopped what we were playing, hurriedly gathering plastic bottles, glass bottles, broken pieces of pottery, and other items to trade for ice cream. The amount of ice cream we traded was never enough for each of us; sometimes three or four of us would share one popsicle. The cool, sweet, and fragrant taste of the ice cream was imbued with the friendships of childhood and the crisp laughter of children. At that time, happiness for us was simply enjoying a little cool ice cream on a hot summer afternoon.
"Ice cream popsicles, ice cream popsicles, ice cream popsicles!" – The sound of ice cream popsicles echoed, and I happily shouted, "Grandpa, the ice cream popsicles are here!" "Here, take this bottle and exchange it for two popsicles!" – Grandpa smiled. A little later, I trotted back in, stammering, "Grandma, they only gave me one!" Grandpa patted my head and laughed, saying, "Grandpa said you had to get two popsicles, didn't he? Come on, eat quickly before the ice cream melts!" I ate, smiling happily, and Grandpa watched me eat, his smile so gentle.
Decades have passed so quickly. Now I'm grown up, and my grandmother has passed away. But whenever summer comes, my heart always longs for the familiar sound of the ice cream vendor's call. Sometimes, lying in my room, I hear that call echoing through the air, and I jump up, run outside, chase after the vendor, and buy ice cream cones, even though they're nothing like the ones I used to eat as a child. But I still devour them, savoring the sweet taste on my tongue, feeling the coolness wash over me, and suddenly my soul feels as fresh and vibrant as in my childhood days. The longing for childhood, for my grandmother's warm voice, becomes more intense than ever. So many summers have passed, but every time summer arrives, my heart still awaits those sounds—perhaps those are the "sounds of nostalgia."
Article by: Tran Tu
Illustrative photo: Le Thang – Archival material
