More than 20 years of rural life, I have witnessed one crop after crop of wheat.
My love for wheat is better than rice. Not to mention the beauty of the green wheat and the wind and waves of wheat. The process of making buns, steamed buns, pancakes and noodles from wheat grains alone is just a poem. Birth.
In the fall of that year, the rice was harvested and put into warehouses, and the production team began to distribute fields to households. In the six buckets of land my family was allocated, my father intensively cultivated and planted wheat. Around the cold dew, the malt came out densely like a cone blade, waiting for a snowfall in the field in late autumn.
In that year, the sky was fulfilled, the snow was very heavy, and the wheat seedlings were well nourished in winter. The warm breeze in the beginning of spring blew, the winter snow melted, and the land was surging in spring. The wheat seedlings in the field woke up, their blue leaves stretched out like blue. The green of the wheat seedlings is the kind of rich green, softer than jasper, and more calm than jade. The wheat seedlings are green and sunny, allowing them to increase the jointing strength of the wheat seedlings in every cheerful jump. Mai Miao Qingqing is a beautiful article written by farmers on the earth.
The solar terms soon reached Xiaoman, and Tian Fanli became a slightly golden ocean. Father went to the wheat field every day, watching the growth of wheat, his eyes showed joy and infatuation. The grains of grain filling only owe a gust of wind. When the summer wind is scorched by the sun into a billowing heat wave, a meteoric field passes over the wheat field in strides, and the fragrance of grains of wheat drifts around with the wind, filling the whole village. The wheat is ripe.
The sickle hung on the wall of the barn, and waited quietly for winter and spring. I was uncomfortable, already gearing up and eager to try. The night before the sickle, my father drank a few glasses of homemade sorghum wine and his face was ruddy. The moon was bright that night, and my father sat on the small bamboo chair and poured some water on the whetstone. Under the moonlight, he held the sickle in both hands and placed it on the whetstone, bending and pushing and pulling, moving gracefully and smoothly.
Everyone got up very early on the day the sickle was opened. The wheat stalks in the morning are moistened with dew, so it is not easy to lose ears when cutting wheat early. In the golden field, the whole village seemed to have made an appointment. The adults and children went into battle. Everywhere there were people shouting in joy. The parents were sweating like rain in the field, and half a field of wheat was already lying in the wheat field in the middle of noon.
The parents finally rushed to cut all the wheat at noon. Rows of wheat lay neatly in the wheat field, calm and serene. The four seasons cycle, one stubble of wheat, like a wave of tide "crashing" receding, and a wave of "crashing" coming up again. On the earth, people are actually exactly the same as wheat.
Tie up the wheat in the ground, pick it up on the field, and let the sun shine on it, and it's about to fight. Pick a good day for wheat.
The life of wheat begins with a grain of old wheat and ends with a handful of new wheat. When the wheat grains are returned to the warehouse, the mother will first take a bag and grind it into fresh flour at the mill in the village. The white flour that exuded the fragrance of wheat magically turned into various foods between my mother's fingers, warming my stomach.
Nowadays, although I am far away from the village, every time when the wheat is ripe, I think of my father's wheat field and the story of the village that grows like wheat. Every bit is a warm memory.
