Sound of harvest

(Baonghean) - The sun has dyed the heavy rice stalks ripe, signaling the arrival of a new harvest season. From the vast fields, the sound of joyful footsteps, the rumbling of tractors, the clattering of oxcarts, and the murmuring voices and laughter follow the south wind to every beloved village and alley. And to add a joyful note to that jubilant harmony of the harvest season, the rice threshing machine has played familiar, bustling sounds.

The busy but joyful harvest days in my childhood memories always appear vividly and harmoniously. And I don’t know why, among so many impressive images, I remember most the rice threshing machine that my father pooled money with some neighbors to buy.

Because before, people in my village often threshed rice by using a roller, which was very time-consuming and laborious. So, since having it, threshing rice has become much easier and more convenient. The sound of the machine roared loudly. Each person had a job, one specialized in serving gasoline, one removed each bundle of rice and put it into the machine door, one carried a basket to catch the rice flowing out, one cleaned up the surroundings neatly, everything happened very urgently. Through the small compartments under the machine, the rice flowed out like a stream.

One basket was filled, then another, and so on. The basket was so full that even with two people bent over carrying it, it still felt heavy. The heavier the basket, the more excited the farmers became. The joy of a bountiful harvest was mixed with the hot sweat that rolled down their backs.

Every day, after a quick bowl of rice with squash soup and shrimp, my father hurriedly pulled the machine to thresh the rice. The sunburned hands of the strong man seemed to never tire. In the middle of a hot summer afternoon, my father's shadow stretched out on the brick floor.

Following my mother's silent "instructions", I secretly ran after her, pushing the machine behind until my father noticed and sternly said: "Go home and take a nap now!"

Illustration: Nam Phong

I loved inviting my friends to watch my father threshing rice on moonlit nights. At that time, from the window at the end of the machine, straw was sprayed out like clouds. The smell of fresh straw was so strong and sweet that I wanted to turn into a little calf.

My friends kept exclaiming about my wonderful threshing machine, which made me very proud. And we happily rolled the straw into round balls and threw them at each other, jumping to the sound of the machine until our whole bodies were itchy and red, then we frantically ran home to take a bath. During the harvest season, the adults were happy, the children were even happier.

After a long season of hard work with my father, the threshing machine returned to its familiar corner of the yard to rest and relax. It was the whole business of my family and the neighbors. Therefore, my father cleaned it clean and shiny like a treasure. Then through the sun, rain, harsh times, through the harvest days when it was working at full capacity, the threshing machine gradually broke down, became worn out, and rusted.

Furthermore, my father, the once strong man, was now in poor health, so he decided to sell the machine to a recycling plant. The joyful sounds of that day now belong to more modern threshing machines…

One day, I will leave this city to return to my beloved poor hometown, to the vast fields, to the gentle potatoes and rice grains, to the soulful sound of the threshing machine singing a song about the dream of a prosperous life. In our lives, no matter how hard we try to reach lofty aspirations, there will come a time when we need to live with simple and small things like that! My beloved hometown, has the sun dyed the new rice golden yet?

Phan Duc Loc