Twenty years ago, the wheat harvest season might last for about a month. During this period, it is neither long nor short, but it contains the joy of harvest, which has already diluted the fatigue and disappeared without a trace.
At that time, there were no harvesters and tractors, and it all depended on people's shoulders. Cattle, horses, mules and donkeys may only appear in remote rural areas now, but the new generation living in cities may never feel the same way. The night before the wheat harvest, every household will hear the sharp grinding sound, which is for tomorrow's wheat harvest. While grinding, they dipped in water, and then narrowed one eye to look carefully. At this time, they may have forgotten the surrounding environment, forgotten the numbness of their legs and shoulders when squatting, and only focused on grinding their sickles, fearing that there is something not to grind, but their faces are full of smiles and naturally happy.
In the early morning, when the sky has not yet revealed the morning glow, when the cuckoo has not yet made its first crow, and when the citizens are still asleep, they have already arrived at the wheat field to harvest. From a distance, the whole wheat field is full of black spots, and it is crawling slowly. It's farmers. They're bending down to harvest with a sickle. However, some came early, some came late and the wheat harvest was uneven. Standing on the top of the mountain, it looks like a piano created by nature, but it is quiet.
In the busy farming season, this phenomenon will occur. You're driving this momentum, for fear that my farm work will fall behind others. This kind of courage may only belong to those farmers, and it is also the spiritual outlook of that era. Now it seems to have almost disappeared, and that kind of scene can no longer be found. Because a family had several acres of land at that time, it took some time to harvest by hand and animal cart, and in order not to burn the ears of wheat in the field or be set on fire by other idle people, they would harvest in the scorching summer sun. At noon, except for the ticking sound, it is the sound of sickle during harvesting, so clear and clear, but no one understands it, leaving this sultry noon raging. Just as "the feet are full of rustic heat, and the back is burning." I don't know how hot I am, but I regret the long summer. "This kind of feeling can only be realized by myself. Some are hung on the waist, wrapped around the arms, wrapped around the neck, and wrapped in towels on their heads. They can wipe the sweat from their foreheads and corners of their eyes at any time. That action is so skillful and natural that it doesn't seem to affect them to continue at all. I don't care about the scar on my arm pierced by Maimanger, the burning pain mixed with sweat, the progress of catching up with the harvest, and the dust inhaled in my nose and the soaked clothes.
And this is just the beginning, and countless lives are waiting. It's been a month, bitter, tired and dirty, but the cart has already calmed them down. Looking back on the past wheat harvest, it is vivid and touching, and now it leaves endless aftertaste, followed by that eventful autumn.