The rice season was full of golden rice. All over the fields, chirping, tinkling, people were busy with sickles, picking to reap the fruits of hard working days. The rice paddies were layered, piled high on the carts of buffaloes. It was heavy, but the buffalos were still working hard under the hot sun, carrying rice in time for the next trip. Then quickly, the bright yellow rice covered the yard. Just recently, when being picked up, the rice stalk was still bent like a hook by the heavy golden seeds, now it was just a fibrous body of rice, which people still call straw.   

Harvesting season.

The piles of straw were raised in a corner of the yard, and Grandma and Mother quickly spreaded them on the village road in front of the house. At this time, the road wore a completely new and colorful shirt. It was the bright yellow color of the 2-3 sunny straw stalks, the apricot yellow color of the straw roads that have "eaten" a lot of sunshine and dew. It was the sweet aroma of new rice stalks or the pungent smell of steamed, moldy straw. In order for the straw to dry evenly, without moisture and mold underneath, about every 2 hours, people had to turn the straw backward and forward. Grandmother quickly dried the straw and said: During the rice harvest season, the work such as reaping, carrying or threshing rice belongs to young people and young men. More gentle than drying straw, turning the straw backward and forward belongs to the elderly.

Grandma just said that, because I knew, although it wa not too difficult and hard, but under the burning sun in the midsummer midday, drops of sweat still fell evenly on my grandmother's face.

In the rice harvesting season, the most fun still belongs to the "young adolescents". This time was also a temporary time away from school and friends, so from dawn to dusk, small footsteps were still bustling in the distant fields, bare head, bare feet, also bare thin back. Straw was dried, the street was like a giant mattress, and the black bodies rolled around. Well, so many games, banana tree planting, wrestling... but the most exciting and hectic game was still the fake battle game. The whole group chose two generals with reputation for health and agility. Then the two generals chose their troops. Blockhouses were large piles of straw that were quickly built, or someone's house had collected straw. According to the signal, the two teams hid in the bunker, with tactics that would "shoot" the opponent, the team that was quick to "shoot" more would win. The fake battle game also used "weapons" that were "bullets" of straw thrown over and over. In order to win must have health, high accuracy to hit and strong. Those straw "bullets" thrown at the body did not hurt, but only felt a burning sensation. That's all, but the idyllic and mischievous games resounded in the village.

Straw drying along the road, people passing through, the grains of rice left on the straw that fell on the road mixed with sandy soil. The children came up with a game to gather rice, the baskets at home were mobilized to the maximum. Flipping the layer of straw evenly, hands gently brushed the layer of rice mixed with a bit of soil and sand, then brought it to the ditch. Skillfully reaching out, shaking well, the grains of rice were like scattered golden grains. At this time, just gathered them with your hands and you would have a handful of bright yellow rice. Every time I gleaned rice, I rushed back to show off my grandmother as a feat. And then the chickens had a great party again. Maybe the new rice still smelled like milk, so the chickens kept rummaging around, it seemed like a lot of fun…

Just like that, we grew up by the seasons of drying straw, by the color, by the fragrance of rice, so that the past seasons were so gentle!

Now that the children have grown up, each of them is on their own, ones in the South, ones in the North, who is far, who is near, but they are always anxious and nostalgic for the countryside with the road filled with straw yellow. And then more heartwarming every harvesting season.