Native Prose: Stack of Stacks

Stacks of wheat are stacks of wheat.

"Cuckoo, cuckoo..." When the cuckoo lingers and sings tirelessly and tirelessly over the endless golden hillside terraces, a silent, powerful and inspiring response - "Wheat yellow" Cut quickly”! It stirred up huge waves in the hearts of farmers: Harvesting wheat is like putting out fire! In a hurry!

As soon as the wheat harvest is finished, some plots of land must be planted with buckwheat stubble. Of course, the wheat bundles cannot be left to dry in the field for too long. The villagers sweat one load after another and go to the wheat field. Drying in the field.

People are afraid of growing buckwheat, and dogs are afraid of losing their hair. At this time, I didn't bother to grind them. After drying, I piled them into piles and grinded them again when I had some free time.

When I was working in an agricultural cooperative, I was just looking at stacks of things from a distance, completely unaware of the process. Because at that time, the captain would not let children enter the cordon at the gate. He was really afraid that a year's harvest would turn a match into ashes when the reckless man had fun, which would make the villagers cry without tears. My father taught me how to stack piles after the production contract system. People were full of energy, the wheat planting area increased significantly, and people's lives improved. Each family built a higher house and stacked piles higher than the next.

After burying manure with my father, I was very nimble on my feet and always arrived home before my father. After putting down the load, I picked up a bucket to fetch cold water. I knew that my father was going crazy with thirst and wanted to drink the cold water from the well flowers that had just been fetched from the well. If there is a mild drought year, there will still be enough water in the well for people to drink. I carried a bucket of water home, and my father scooped out more than half of the water in a big bowl, and then crushed the beige noodle buns in it. Before he could walk far, he poured it all in one breath by the stove door, put down the bowl, and sat on the threshold. Go up to the bar and smoke a pot of dry tobacco. The father bakes bricks, but the son never leaves the kiln door. Of course I also made a bowl of it. It was delicious and refreshing. After eating and drinking enough, my father would pile up the food.

God is tired from the sun, and a cool breeze blows. I put a horse spoon in the remaining half bucket of water and lifted it up. I know that my father stacked wheat for a while, sweated for a while, went to the sidelines to urinate against the wall, and then used cold water to replenish his fluids.

My father came to the scene, buttoned up his stained shirt, tightened his straw hat, and looked at the sky in the northwest. He knew that there had been no thunderstorms in the past few days, but he still had the habit of looking to the northwest whenever he stopped.

Stacking wheat stacks is hard work, but it is also technical work. The best is on a sunny day. The wheat stacks stacked like this are dry inside and are not susceptible to moisture, although it is uncomfortable to sweat when being burned by a fire! If the pile is not stacked well, not only will it collapse, but in autumn rainy weather, the rainwater will seep in, causing the wheat to sprout and become inedible, and the year's harvest will be ruined.

My father chose a place in the north where there was no stopping of water. (In fact, they were piled there year after year. On the one hand, the terrain was high, and more importantly, the people coming and going on the road in front looked clear. Because I know everyone praises my father’s wheat stacks for being more delicate than Tianshui’s Maijishan.) He pushed the wheat scissors away for drying, took a broom to sweep away the wheat grains, and then started to lay the foundation, first using a few bundles of wheat. Place the code in the middle, the wheat head cannot be too low, and then turn clockwise, one bundle is pressed half against the other, and one bundle is close to the other. The wheat bundles should be placed in an orderly manner: that is, the knotted side faces up. Estimate the size of the foundation based on the amount of wheat. It can't be too big, let alone too small. If it's too big, it won't fit in the pile. If it's too small, it won't be able to hold up the pile without the wheat sheaves. It'll be a big problem, so you have to use old grain stalks to make it bigger. Those who will be laughed at by others, look down upon and leave something to talk about are called "idiots". My father demonstrated and explained it several times before. Later, when I was old enough, he piled them up silently and stopped teaching me. He said that when he was a child, he also learned how to stack wheat in the style of Mr. Niu in Niujiapo while working as a part-time worker. When the pile is low, I hand it over to my father with the wheat scissors; when the pile is as high as one person, my father usually slips down, wipes his sweat, urinates, drinks some water, and goes around to look at the pattern, usually while stacking the pile. There is no smoking in the venue. Find a long piece of wood in the backyard, step on it, and continue stacking it. Stack it until it becomes dark, and when it is all dark, stop.

Generally, a big pile of things can’t be piled up in a day, but it can’t last too long. Who knows when God will raise a cloud and sprinkle a burst of rain? That would be terrible, having to unpack the piles to dry. Therefore, stacking stacks of eggs is very hard, and sometimes when I can spare it, my mother will cook a bowl of poached eggs for my father the next morning.

After the wheat is dried in the sun, it can be directly put into piles. When the stack reaches a certain height, it starts to be collected. At this time, the wheat scissors need to be buckled, that is, stuttering downwards. The wheat stacks were getting higher and higher, and I had to exert all my strength to throw the wheat scissors up. Sometimes the strength is not enough and the wheat scissors roll down again. My father didn't say a word and looked up at the sky. I had to use a long-handled iron fork to pick up the wheat scissors and throw them upward. After closing the top, my father grabbed the heel of the wheat and turned it around to clean up the floating wheat stalks and remove all the tassels, and then he slowly slipped down. Now that the wheat stacks are done, I have the task of picking up the wheat straws, wheat ears, and wheat grains that have fallen around the stacks.

I have been stacking wheat straws with my father for several years. My father never asked me to stack a big pile. He was always worried about using a year's harvest for me to learn the craft. Unless the remaining dozens of wheat shearers stacked the pile casually, I could show off my skills.

I remember the year when I was about to graduate from the normal school, I caught up with my father to make wheat and rice dumplings during the holidays. When the pile was finished and my father was cleaning up the floating broken wheat, I looked up from below and saw my father's hands and feet detaching themselves from the pile of wheat and sliding down from the tall pile of wheat. Then I slowly slid my father's feet down. He slid in front of me. In such close contact, his thin body had lost its former weight. The stains on his shirt exuded the smell of sweat and wheat soil. There is no sweat on the neck, it is black and dry, and full of wheat ash; the gray hair is stained with wheat dust, wheat clothes, and wheat leaves. Suddenly I felt sad, but my tears didn't come out.

"What's going on? There's no sweat on the soles of my feet. I can't hold on anymore!"

My father sat on the sidelines and rested for a while. From then on, my father made a long ladder and asked me to climb up and collect the hanging broken wheat.

Nowadays, apple trees are planted in many places, and people grow a small amount of wheat to eat for a year. It also saves effort and no longer piles of piles. If it rains, just cover it with a large plastic paper. Moreover, as soon as the threshing machine is turned on at the site, it will be cleaned up in a short time.

The wheat stacks disappeared before people’s eyes, and the scene of stacking wheat stacks with my father became a distant and simple painting, engraved in the depths of my heart, and became a memory that will never disappear.