In my hometown Wumeng Mountain, the wheat was harvested in front of Grain Rain, and then planted jade wheat. If you can't finish the harvest after Grain Rain, you will miss the season, and if you plant jade wheat, it will not be easy to mature and affect the harvest.
After the harvest of jade wheat in August, we began to plant the next season of wheat, which is different from that in the north. June wheat yellow, refers to the north. Bai Juyi "watching the wheat harvest": the Tian family has less leisure months, and people are very busy in May. When the wind blows from the south at night, wheat is covered with Longhuang. It also refers to the north.
I still remember that every March of the lunar calendar, the blue sky and white clouds, rural wheat fields, swaying in the wind, wheat waves rolling, enjoy the charm of the color. The fresh green has already evolved into golden yellow all over the ground, emitting the faint fragrance of wheat. At this time, the school has a holiday to harvest wheat. In every village, drums and gongs are played, wheat fields are in the wild, men and women, old and young, are busy cutting wheat. Wherever you go to the village, there is a hot wheat harvest scene.
Wheat field, left me a lot of memories, that scene, like a black-and-white old movie, flashing in front of my eyes.
I grew up in the countryside. I am familiar with every plant and tree in the countryside. I know how to plant and harvest grain. When I was a child, I was very poor at that time. As long as I could fill my stomach, it was good food, especially for wheat. Those attractive words: roasted wheat ears, wheat milling, fried noodles, hanging noodles, steamed buns, steamed buns, noodles, wheat rice, that is called a fragrant, even if I think about it today, I will drool.
When I was a child, roasting ears of wheat was the most satisfying. I like it best when it's cooked. At that time, I was in junior high school in the brigade, and the school was on a hillside, surrounded by wheat fields, and the wheat waves were whirling in the wind. When the green and yellow transition, the wheat ears are more and more abundant, the wheat grains are gradually full, in the sun, it seems to be jumping gold. At this time, it can not be harvested, but it is the prime time to gather the ears of wheat and roast them. I remember that my deskmate was a female classmate. The teacher called her Ah Hua Mei, who was several years older than me. She doesn't like reading and can't do her homework. She copies me when she takes exams. She is often absent from class. After an absence from class, when the class was over, she came, called me to the back of the school and waved her hand at me. Little stone, I baked it for you. I had already smelled wheat and my mouth was full of saliva. In the paper bag she handed me was a handful of roasted ears of wheat.
I skipped class and secretly went to the wheat field, looking for the biggest and fullest ears, one by one, and took advantage of my mother's absence to roast it and bring it to you. A Hua Mei said to me with a smile. At this time, I think her smiling face is more beautiful than the wavy bowl flowers on the ridge of the wheat field.
It's funny. I was in a two-year junior high school at that time. I don't know how many times I ate the ears of wheat she baked for me in the past two years. What is even more unexpected is that when I came home from college, she unexpectedly married a young man from our village. According to the male family, she was suddenly promoted to two generations and became my grandmother. She seems embarrassed every time she sees me.
I like to eat roasted wheat ears and wheat mills. Whenever I think of wheat mill, I can't help but feel a stream of saliva overflowing between my lips and teeth. Ripe and sun-dried wheat can never be made into wheat mill. That is, the wheat that can be baked and eaten is suitable for wheat milling. I remember that my mother cut the ears of wheat from the ground, washed them clean, and boiled them in an iron pot, sometimes steaming them with wood steams. When the heat was about the same, he scooped it into a large basin, carried it to the stone mill in the wing room, poured the cooked wheat grain on top of the stone mill, and began to push with the mill. In the buzzing sound of the stone mill, the wheat grain above fell from the hole in the middle of the stone mill into between the two grinding fans, and the wheat mill fell quietly as his mother pushed the stone mill around. There was a grinding groove under the stone mill, and the wheat mill fell into it. The wheat mill is the size of a small worm, with the attractive fragrance of wheat. I couldn't stand it. I reached into the grinder, grabbed it, put it in my mouth, and chewed it heartily. Seeing that I was so satisfied, my mother, with a happy look on her face, kept telling me that my son should not hurry, eat slowly and don't choke.
Besides the two things mentioned above, fried noodles, hanging noodles, steamed buns, noodles and wheat rice are also my favorite delicacies. Even in today's rich era, my favorite food for breakfast is pasta, especially hanging noodles, which I never get tired of.
In my memory, apart from the delicious taste of wheat, the most unforgettable is the scene of wheat harvesting in the village during the wheat yellow season.
A panoramic view of the golden waves of wheat can be seen on the slopes around the village. Men and women, young and old, looked expectantly, and the older people looked at the wheat field from time to time and looked up at the sky from time to time in order to determine the time to open the sickle.
I will never forget that when I was 14 years old, my mother was sick and recuperated at home and could not go out to do heavy work. I helped my mother at home. My father won't be back until the weekend.
That day, the village finally decided on the time of wheat harvesting.
Captain Zhu blew his whistle, his neck bulged, and he cut the wheat. The loud voice was deep and distant, like a loudspeaker, spreading through every alley in the village. He is a demobilized soldier. A serious illness a few years ago made him look like this. He always walks with a stoop and a protruding back. The villagers later called him Zhu Bei pan.
His shout made the whole village boil. The barking of dogs, the crowing of chickens and the crowing of birds are as if they were going to harvest wheat, making more fun than people. I clamped on my back, removed my sickle from the ledge next to the ladder, and went out with one hand in each hand. My sick mother hurriedly came over, hung a military kettle on my shoulder, stuffed two potatoes in my pocket, and told me to eat at noon.
The morning sun was red, shining on the wheat field from the east ridge. Like other mountain villages in Wumeng Mountain, the wheat field in our village is also a hillside, seen from afar, like red blankets in the yellow. As soon as the wind blows, it is like the waves in the Cuihe in front of the village, one wave after another, very spectacular. Standing on the slope, his nose was filled with fresh wheat fragrance.
Zhu stepped on the pot on the first day and divided the wheat field according to the labor force of each family. With a tight face, he kept telling him what to do. Zhang Sanjia, today's task cut this piece; the Li family had a lot of labor, so they had to finish that piece of work and try their best to transport the cut wheat back to the village farm before the sun set. When he finished, he turned around and saw me, standing upright, waiting in line with the other villagers to follow him. I have a backclip on my back, a kettle on my shoulder, a canvas belt tied tightly around my waist, and a sickle in each hand, the edge of which sparkles in the sun. His brown wrinkled face suddenly blossomed, this little doll, didn't say your mother is ill, even forget it, deducting a few points will not affect your family to share the wheat. Your father gets paid in the city and can't starve you.
No, there are men in my house! The crisp sound was high in decibels and echoed on the hillside, startling a few birds on the wheat fields and flapping their wings.
Ha ha ha! The villagers laughed loudly.
Quickly divide the tasks of my family, do not waste my time, Lu Xun said, wasting other people's time is tantamount to murder. I didn't understand what they were laughing at, and said loudly again.
A look of surprise flashed across Zhu's face, and suddenly there was no laughter around him.
OK, Little Stone, your family is a labor force, so the piece covered with wavy bowls is smaller in area and must be cut today. Before Zhu finished speaking, I took a step and strode towards the wheat field.
My father works as a worker in the county seat and belongs to eating state grain, not counting the labor force in the village. According to the regulations in the village, people over the age of 16 are regarded as the labor force, and my mother is the only one in my family. These days, when she was sick, I volunteered to harvest wheat instead of her. she didn't allow it at first. I said, our school has a busy farm holiday just to help adults work. I can harvest wheat. My mother looked at me and sighed helplessly.
Through Zhu's youngest son, I had already got the news that I was going to cut the wheat with a sickle. The night before, I polished the sickle, like my father, blew the knife, listened to the voice, and then looked proud, fast enough. Sure enough, the sword came down with the hand, and the wheat straw was cut off from the root.
Hi! Small stone, young age, it is really not easy! The cut stubble is neat, the height is not prominent, the pile is not disorderly, like an adult. Without looking back, I knew it was the sound of Zhu's back pot.
I can't help being smug. Look at some of you bullying my family, thinking that my father is in the city, and my mother leads me and my young brothers and sisters at home, earning less than a few jobs and less than a few jin of wheat! How's it going? I did a good job, didn't I?
At noon, I sat on the ridge, ready to have lunch. On the ridge, there are various colors of wave bowl flowers, red, white and yellow, one after another, really beautiful; there are small yellow flowers, pink flowers, Laver, bitter cauliflower, cinnamon, and a lot of wild flowers that I can't name. Flowers compete for beauty, attract bees to attract butterflies, and even attract a few dragonflies, flying around. In the distance, groups of sparrows spread the sky and go away. No matter where they landed, they were thrown away with clods. My stomach growled, so I didn't bother to appreciate it. I ate two yams, drank a few mouthfuls of water, picked up a section of wheat that had fallen on the ground, rubbed it in the palm of my hand, blew the wheat husk, chewed it in my mouth, and then stood up and looked at it, startling me. That's how I know what labor is! Those in a family with two or three workers slept on the ground in a neat and orderly manner, and most of them had been cut.
I panicked, quickly put down the kettle, bent down and continued to cut. At this time, my discomfort gradually showed. There were blisters in the right hand holding the sickle, and the left hand and arm grabbing the wheat straw were punctured in many places, and the whole body was itching painfully. After a few cuts, I felt a backache and longed to lie down on the wheat field to have a rest. I just found that the most unbearable thing about wheat harvesting is the waist.
The sickle has been cut bluntly, and I have to change it for a second one. Fortunately, I am prepared.
By this time, some people had finished cutting the wheat and were carrying it to the village. Holding back my uneasiness, I stood up and took a look at how much wheat I had left. there was not much left. My heart was horizontal, and I bent down and cut it desperately. When I cut the last handful of wheat, I shouted excitedly, "it's over!"
Suddenly there was a chuckle from behind. I looked back and found that it was an aunt from my mother's family who had been married in our village a few years ago. It is customary for me to sleep on the wedding bed the night before her wedding. She smiled, her face flushed by the sun, and two dimples on her cheeks, like swirls in the river. She boasted that the little stone was so powerful that it could help your mother do great things. As she spoke, she bundled the wheat straw into bundles of wheat, with the ears of wheat facing up and the straw facing down. Her voice is very sweet, go on, my family has been cut, only enough for a man's back, I am idle, help you tie up. Why don't you memorize it? what are you waiting for?
I untied the backclip and fastened bundles of wheat to the backclip with a rope. By the time I turned back, my aunt had already tied up all the wheat straw stacked on the ground. She said, let me recite it for you, too. I firmly disagree. She said, it's not good for me to clip it back empty. I'll turn it around for you, and the rest is yours. That's when I promised her. In fact, the aunt found a lot of reasons to accompany me, reciting again and again until I finished reciting all the wheat I had cut. I remember that later, in order to thank the aunt, the mother made a pair of cloth shoes for the aunt's child.
When my father came back at the weekend, he kept praising me when I heard about cutting wheat for my mother, and happily sang a song about the poor children in "the Red Light". As I sat in front of my mother, she put her hand around me and suddenly realized that something had landed on my face. Looking back, she was wiping her eyes.
Although these things have passed for decades, memories have been deeply rooted in my heart like iron forceps and grass roots.
Nowadays, roasting wheat ears and eating wheat mill can only be enjoyed in a dream! After the land was settled, fewer and fewer people grew wheat in their hometown, and the wheat in the field has become a rarity. I heard that Zhu Bei-pan later planted it for a few years, but now he is too old to walk, let alone grow wheat. His son said that buying high-quality wheat noodles is cheaper than growing it himself. Only a fool can grow it. Even the aunt said that growing wheat was bitter and tiring, so it was not as easy as me to grow vegetables, and I could make money. What is particularly speechless is that Ah Hua Mei's grandchildren do not know what baking wheat ear is! My daughter doesn't know what a wheat mill is. Farmers in their hometown go to the market to buy wheat noodles or directly buy ready-made food, such as hanging noodles, bread, steamed buns and even dumplings. From then on, roasted wheat ears and wheat mills disappeared in the countryside. What is even more frightening is that the post-90s in rural areas can't tell the difference between wheat and leek, let alone use a sickle to cut wheat.
During the busy farming season in my hometown, there is no longer the scene of a sea of people covered with gold, young and old bending over to harvest wheat, and there is no wheat fragrance in the air. The stone mill my mother used in her early years, she put it under the pear tree in the yard and sat on a stool, enjoying the cool and chatting with my father.
The attrition of the years can not erase the oblique stripes on the grinding fan. Every time I go back to my hometown, the twill lines on the grinding fan always evoke my dusty wheat memories and rich feelings of hometown. Young seedlings, ears of wheat, wheat straw, wheat fragrance, sickle, and the haystack under the moon, miss words one by one, tempt me, so that my memory river flows heartily, has been flowing into the distance.
Author: mountain area
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