Small village, March…

March in the land of sun and wind is not as poetic as March in poems or songs. This season in this countryside is only present with cold wind and sunshine.

The sun burned everything to a yellow, dry color. Dusty. Now it can no longer be called "wading in the fields" but "running in the fields". The fields were dry, the grass was also burned dry, leaving only a layer of gray soil, and every time the wick swept through, dust flew everywhere. The children happily played with rocks and stones every afternoon. It seemed like they didn't get tired, weren't afraid of the sun, running from noon until evening, shouting, chasing each other endlessly. When it was almost dark, the mothers kept yelling at them but they didn't want to come in, so they had to drag out their whips, then the "troops" dispersed, each going home to bathe and eat.

There is no more farm work to do in this season. In the afternoon, women with no work get together to chat, hiding from the sun under someone's porch. When they get bored, they invite each other to sing karaoke to stir up the whole neighborhood. It seems that the singing is very attractive to the residents of the small neighborhood. To the point that when the men are done with their work, they call each other to gather to eat, drink and sing. Whenever they hear the lively singing, they know that the residents of the small neighborhood are unemployed that day. Even though they are served free music, the remaining residents of the neighborhood are not very happy, because they have to work all day long and are tired, and when they come back, they hear their neighbors "shouting" things like "orphaned white bird", "let me carry you, mother"... which is really haunting. But one thing that cannot be denied is that although the people of the small neighborhood are poor, their spirits are always cheerful, they never know sadness, they worry about today, why worry about tomorrow.

Optimistic to the point that there was no water to use, just a trickle of water to catch, just enough for cooking and bathing, the sun kept pouring down, trying to burn the remaining green to yellow, still gathering together to sing happily. The hamlet was small, only about ten houses, but every house had a karaoke system, so there were three or four free music venues a day to serve the people in the hamlet. The strong on the left sang, the strong on the right sang, the front sang jerk music, the back played bolero. I had to laugh because I had fallen into a music-loving hamlet, what could I do?

In addition to the free music, the small village has many other fun activities. This season, although the sun tries to burn all the remaining green leaves, the old acacia tree by the pond cannot be knocked down by the sun. It is the season of ripe acacia. The acacia fruits bend over, their backs crack open to reveal the smooth white kernel inside, just looking at it makes your mouth water. The children in the village invite each other to tie a high pole, hang the ripe acacia down, and then gather under the tamarind tree to eat and chat animatedly. They make those who have passed more than half of their lives suddenly remember their childhood, also skipping naps at noon to pick green guava, pick acacia, gather and chat endlessly, then when they are full, they gather to bathe in the pond, in the afternoon, covered in mud, they are hit painfully on the buttocks by their mothers. Oh, those carefree times have long since receded into the past. Now, looking at the children, I can only wish and reminisce.

Thanks to the sun and wind of March, the ponds in the village began to dry up. The men went to catch freshwater fish, a specialty that only appeared once a year. The fat snakehead fish, no matter how agile and strong, were all caught. Only the young fish were left for the next season. The catfish as big as a handcuff, with a throat as hard as a rock, had to lie still because of the numbing electric shock. They had to wade in the pond for about two hours to catch half a bucket of fish, each one with shiny black skin and plump, round bodies that were very enticing to look at. They pounded the fish for a few hours to release some mud, washed them, and grilled them. Grilled fish only needed to scrape off the black, charred skin to reveal the fragrant, white meat inside. They mixed it with green mango (in season for young mangoes), added some marigold shoots, coriander, and basil picked from the garden, and mixed with tamarind fish sauce, which was very painful. So the men had something to gather and enjoy to celebrate their achievements. The women were happy, working hard to make a batch of freshwater fish to store in the refrigerator to eat later. The freshwater fish braised with pepper went well with rice. If you were bored, you braised it with ginger leaves, or if you were bored, you fried it with tamarind fish sauce and rolled it in rice paper. These were all specialties of the countryside. Buying it at the market, the meat of the fish was not as delicious as the fish from the pond.

The family caught fish in the pond, the children and grandchildren gathered to cook and eat, more lively than at a death anniversary. The cousin who was skillful in making tubes caught a basket of eels with golden skin, stir-fried them with lemongrass and chili, giving off a fragrant aroma. The uncle lifted his glass of wine, laughed more heartily than the sun in the yard, telling stories about how back then they used to drain the pond, not use electric shocks like now. The children and grandchildren sat and listened, laughing out loud at his humorous stories.

Despite the wind and sun that burn the dark brown skin, the wrinkles on each person's forehead become thicker, the family reunion is still filled with laughter. In the future, some will be here and some will be gone, how many more times will we have to gather like this? So every time the pond dries up, the children and grandchildren gather at the temple, enjoying the blessings left by their ancestors, the older ones tell the younger ones stories of that time, the younger ones listen to know, to remember, to tell the younger generations the stories of their ancestors. The family bond is extended like that thanks to the seasons of draining the pond and fishing.

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