The seasonal harvest of wheat in the plains of the countryside is a grand festival. The footsteps of men, women and children have become hurried. They rushed between the village and the wheat field, carrying their hands on their shoulders, and ox carts to transport various agricultural tools, including a stone mill that had been parked for a whole year. They were also awakened urgently. To greet the wheat harvest, each household must first hit a wheat field.
His father’s wheat field is a sample of the whole village. Those farmers who have been working in the field for a lifetime will come to the same place to observe and see how his father measures the land, how to harvest and sort out an empty space in advance; no matter how deep, leveling, driving the cattle and pulling the stone mill to drill out The venue comes. The flat land, like a flat mirror, was crushed to be solid and heavy. Sooner or later it would have to be sprinkled with water, and then rolled into an iron plate. Only when the wheat field passes the level, those wheats, even spikes with straw, can enter the field with peace of mind. The stone mill was pulled over and over again in a concentric circle movement until all the wheat grains were peeled off accurately and the grains returned to the warehouse.
If the wheat field is not qualified, the wheat will be ruined. They will be buried in the soil and thrown away pity. My father was like an expert in this area. All processes are meticulous and rigorously impeccable. Because of their extreme conscientiousness, experts tend to stretch their faces and devote their energy and energy to them. Father too. I often think that if my father is another expert in the laboratory, it will be scary and harsh. Because in the wheat field, my sister and brothers have been reprimanded for their irregular work. “Crop crops don’t need to be studied. People slap us.” This sentence, the father is the most intolerable. He believed that the person who said this was originally a second-rater in the countryside who could not become a weapon, and was not worthy of being a farmer.
From sowing seeds to fertilizing seedlings, from loose soil to weeding grass to cutting seedlings, almost every crop has been touched, comforted, encouraged and cared by farmers. Although the wheat field is only used for harvesting, threshing and drying, it is like a military training ground, which can best demonstrate the real strength and professional skills of the crop people.
Grain enters the warehouse, and cattle are placed by the river. The wheat field has to be restored to arable land, and the land that has been repeatedly rolled into road-like land is sometimes reluctant to be pulled open and destroyed by hand. Every time a nail is raked, there is always some inexplicable loss and sadness. Thinking about the nights that had been guarding the wheat grains in this wheat field. I snuggled beside my father, in his even breathing, looking up at the night sky to count stars, one, two, those stars, you carefully observe them and find that they actually move. The night breeze is cool, if the wheat fragrance is absent, the reed mat on the wheat field, with the warmth and special coolness of summer, accompanies you into your dreams unconsciously.
My father suffered a stroke when he was eighty-three years old, and I drove him to live in my city. The father in the co-pilot’s seat hangs old. He is resistant to the city. He is always worried that he will be dying at any time and will die from home. He loves that land, and those crop fields that he has ploughed deep and then flattened, and then repeatedly ploughed deep and deep are his home with temperature. He has already adapted to the breath there. Season is the season of wheat harvest, the breath of the Dragon Boat Festival is coming. Father kept looking away from the window. The car drove towards the highway. The toll station is at the border of Henan and Anhui, and it is very vast. His father looked straight at the asphalt road. He said to me: How good it is to make a wheat field!
I looked at my father. He was always dizzy, but when he saw this bright place, he suddenly seemed to have a deep vision. His father was an expert in the wheat field. In his heart and in his life, what he could never give up was a stubble crop growing on the land year after year. Father is old. He will eventually return to the deep love of the earth, turning into a piece of mud.
We are the children of our father. We were raised up one by one. We watched my father grow up lonely day by day, and we couldn’t take care of ourselves. Like a child, we used our eyes to ask for help from us, and our lives were powerless. No matter how hard his father had leveled the wheat field, after the farmer was busy, it would have to be restored to cultivate the land. This is a reincarnation, just like those stubble crops that will eventually return to that land.
Suddenly tearful eyes, the urge to cry out loud.