Remembering the Countryside Smoke: With a Devout Heart, We Shall Sing and Dance Lightly, and Show Our Reverence

For many years, every time I sat with familiar friends, I would mention hometown matters, whether intentionally or unintentionally.

Or, when alone, I would carefully recall one by one the bits and pieces of life in the countryside. Besides the memories of some people and things, more is the winding and turning lanes in the fields; birds singing, chickens clucking, the sounds of all things in the wilderness.

Apart from this, there are mountains surrounding, well-arranged red bricks and gray tiles, or white-painted beautiful and dazzling yards. In the yard, chickens, ducks, pigs, dogs and horses were still kept; outside, cows and sheep were tied.

Before and after the house, surrounding the head mountain and hillside is a dense, lush forest; in the forest, there are mostly locust trees, willows, peach trees, walnuts, and also the children's favorite sour and sweet corn, wild peaches, grandma's pears, and wild chestnuts.

However,I condense my thoughts into a small and concentrated cognition, and can't shake off the dream of hometown nights and the endless longing for my hometown, even after a long time. The (naturally rising smoke) still lingers and cannot be shaken off.

The smoke carries with it the fragrant aroma of cooking, accompanied by the breeze from the countryside, dancing playfully, and the enticing fragrance spreads everywhere.

At this time, the village is entirely wrapped in smoke, indulging in the happy and hot emotions of the farmers.

The yellow earth plateau countryside is lively and harmonious all year round. In the spring, people are busy with land surveying and transporting fertilizer, planting and weeding; in the summer, they wield sickles to harvest grain and pull the tram track; in the autumn, they diligently tend the land, harvest corn and potatoes; and in the winter, they planted winter wheat early, and several snows came, and the fields were everywhere white, at this time the village seemed desolate and deep, quiet and silent.

In the endless cycle of the seasons, the farmers' busy figures constantly shuttle between the mountains and fields, the courtyards and streets, and the smoke that floats above the fields never ceases to rise and fall. What remains unchanged is the smoke that drifts above the fields and the fiery passion in people's eyes.

A village's history is accumulated by small elements, such as the honest and kind faces of the villagers and the friendly and harmonious local accents.

For the children born and raised in the countryside, besides the familiar taste of the kitchen, they are also familiar with the taste of smoke, because they all had the experience of hiding from their families and going to the mountains and fields to roast corn and potatoes. This is the direct interpretation of the second kind of smoke.

During my time in the countryside, especially during the summer and autumn vacations, and especially during the summer vacation, I was the happiest and most anticipated time. In August, the newly harvested wheat fields were still full of grains, and the corn stalks were growing taller and taller, and the ears of corn were ripening, but the corn cobs were already half-mature, and the sweetness and aroma of corn milk were delicious and palatable.

Sometimes, we would gather together in groups, dividing the tasks clearly, openly and brazenly coming to the hillside to roast things. Before we set out, we would agree on who would collect firewood, who would fetch corn, and who would bring seasonings.

When we arrived on the mountain, if there were few people, everyone worked together, dug the pit, built the fire, and then each held a corn cob, or knelt, sat, or stood, surrounding the fire, roasting things while smoky.

When the yams are ready to be harvested, we will also dig up the yams and bury them in the fire, and after the corn is finished, we continue to feast on roasted yams.

At this time, smoke rises on the hillside, if it encounters wet firewood or things are not cooked, everyone will blow at the charcoal, and the entire hillside and wilderness are filled with the smell of burnt yams, like smoke from the kitchen chimneys of each household.

Sometimes, if there are greedy companions, you chase me, and shout loudly to compete for each other's food, and the rough and loud laughter will embellish the picturesque fields, making them more lively and interesting.

For many years later, I often think about some things from my childhood. In that era when material was still scarce, we couldn't receive a good education like children today, and we couldn't spend on luxury goods. But we also had our unforgettable childhood, which could not be forgotten and longed for, and was engraved in our hearts.

The countryside is my roots, and the countryside is my lifelong longing. The drifting and scattered smoke and the smoke drifting over the fields wash away my longing and yearning for the beautiful moments of the past.

The rising smoke is the place where I want to open up my dreams. The taste of the smoke has become an emotional anchorage that cannot be shaken off.

People often say that hometown is a name for living, and it is also a spiritual food that a person can never exhaust in their lifetime.

For me, in addition to gratitude and nostalgia for my hometown, the scattered memories and trivial things of rural life, such as mountains, forests, fields, roads, and smoke that is always with gauze, are my final destination.

I miss that warm and familiar smoke, I miss that clear and distinct place, and I want to go to it with a sincere heart to sing and chant, to worship and pray.

Author/Editor: White Shangli

Original Title: 'Scattered Smoke in the Countryside'

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