Chapter 5: Autumn Harvest

The real speed is invisible, just like you don't know when the leaves turn yellow, when you start to hear Qiu Chan chirping, and when you put on long-sleeved clothes. The sky in the orchid is very high, high and wide, blue and clear, and occasionally there are white clouds, as soft as duck down, swaying softly in your heart. Autumn is the most beautiful season in the countryside. The heavy fruit in the field symbolizes the joy of harvest. Needless to say, the fragrance of osmanthus trees all over the mountains is completely dyed. Just because the harvest season is busy but full of joy, as well as the autumn harvest scene of the grain returning to the warehouse, it is enough to sigh the vitality and magic of this season.

The main items of autumn harvest include picking yam, cutting millet, cutting wheat, cutting hemp seeds, beating soybeans, beating sunflowers and harvesting corn. "Starting Yam" is a project that all our children can participate in. At that time, the whole family, old and young, went into battle together, and many kinds of families also asked relatives and friends for help.

When the cock crows for the first time, grandma gets up to cook. The creaking of the door called me back from Duke Zhou. Soon, the meal was almost ready and everyone got up. After breakfast, grandpa fed the animals, sorted out and put agricultural tools such as sacks, shoulder poles, and feet pheasants (the main tool for planing yam, the front end of a long wooden stick is embedded with a flat and slightly thick iron plate, and the front end of the iron plate is polished with a sharp blade) on the animals. Grandpa led the animals, dad pushed the flatbed, and the family went to the yam field talking and laughing.

It takes about half an hour to get to the yam field from home. On the way, I passed the river and my ancestral grave, and walked along the river beach to the mountains. The slope near the deep mountain is my yam field. Grandma said that yams are generally not grown in depressions. In the rainy season, it will rot due to soaking. On the edge of my yam field, the wild thorns are so thick that they are about to break the branches. The particles are big and juicy, which makes people drool at first sight. Besides, "Sister" (a common plant in our village, with round fruit, slightly smaller than cherry, and deep red when ripe) is also my favorite. Although I often get stuck in my fingers when picking fruit, I still can't help but dig out my pockets one after another. When I got home at night, my grandmother strung me up with a needle and thread and put it around my wrist and neck.

If "fighting yam" is a big battle, then men are the vanguard troops rushing ahead. They first planed yam with their feet. Although it is handmade, they should also pay attention to technology. If they use too much power, they will waste their power. If they use too little force, they will have to plan again. If the depth is too deep, they will waste their energy. If it is too shallow, they will shovel the big yam at the bottom in half. And after planing a yam, you should expose it outside to avoid stepping on the soil when planing the next one. Who says farmers don't need technology? Pushing too hard, neither too deep nor too shallow is a technical job. Can't practice. You can only practice once a year, and every time you finish practicing, you must continue to the next year. Grandpa and dad's skills are above average in the village, so we yam pickers don't have to stick rotten yam on the tape all the time. The men planed for about half an hour, and the crystal clear, plump and lovely yam appeared in the ground, and our women and children went on stage. The younger brother is responsible for throwing yams, with a yam in the middle of the ground as the center and the throwing distance as the radius, and all the yams in the circle area are thrown at the dots. My grandmother sits on a dot, and the little white hat that can't be taken off all year round is like the mark of the center of the circle, which makes me want to laugh. Throwing yam is also a technical activity, which requires the same strength. If you throw it too far, your grandmother can't reach it. If you throw it too close, you will hit your grandmother. I am not a qualified cultivator. I always scold my grandmother for not knowing anything, and then sigh that the children in my neighbor's house are much better than me. If I nag too much, I can't help but say, "Red is good, then let her be your granddaughter, and you should be lucky yourself." Grandma's angry face has changed, and she will scold me for "playing right back horizontally and playing right back vertically." It doesn't matter if the shit egg is still hanging on the donkey (ass). " The past is vivid. Now, my grandmother has passed her seventy-year-old tail and entered the threshold of her thirties. Her hearing has dropped so badly that she can hardly hear clearly even if she is called. I wish I could be scolded by her again. Now she is the same as when I was a child. How attached was I to her when I was a child? Alas, how dependent she is on me now.

Time flies when we are working. It will be noon in the blink of an eye. We don't have time to go home for dinner, so lunch will be settled in other places. This kind of lunch is my favorite and I look forward to it most in a year. Its name is "Shayam". Burning yam is also very particular. In the choice of wood, it is best to choose dead wild thorn branches. If you can't find them, you will find dead wood nearby. It is said that the yam baked by the two tastes different. There are ready-made materials near my home. My father found them and piled them up. He picked a few yams of the right size, threw them in, and lit them for baking. When the fragrance diffuses and spreads, the yam will be baked. We drink our own boiled water, then take out pickled pickles and try to eat yam. At this time, grandpa always craned his neck, carefully searched whether there was a job nearby, and if there was, he ordered a baked yam.

After lunch, we had a rest. Grandpa sat in the field smoking a cigarette, dad sat beside him chatting, and I ate vinegar pears with my grandmother, mother and brother. In our team, grandpa is the leader, and he has the final say when to work and rest. I listen to him the most when I am most disobedient. After a while, grandpa looked up at the sun. According to the direction of the sun moving in the sky, grandpa can judge the time. We must go home before dark, so we will continue to work after a short rest.

The afterglow of the sunset began to cover Shan Ye, and my land was slowly covered with shadows. The sun went down and we finished the work on time. Many bags are too full to tie. Grandpa tried his best, squatted down, shook it, or picked out one or two bags to make the most of the limited space of the bags. Animals that take a day off are guilty. It must be transported back and forth several times to transport the yam in this area. My biggest loss is the welfare loss of sitting in a cage, because yam occupies my position. On the way home, grandpa led the animals and dad pushed the flatbed. I had to walk on the rugged mountain road of stone and loess for more than half an hour, because I was embarrassed to shout tired with my younger brother.

Farmers also have good days. Happy farmhouse, have a happy day.