Courtyard House: After disbanding the Elderly Care Gang, I went to the countryside to cultivate immo

By the end of the sixth lunar month, even in Northeast China, the weather starts to get hot.

The air in Heisonggou Village was filled with a dry heat wave, mixed with the smell of soil and ripe grains.

In the wheat field, nearly 300 acres of spring wheat have shed their last greenness and donned a dazzling golden coat. The ears of wheat are so full that they almost fall down, creating ripples in the breeze.

"Harvest when the wheat is nine-tenths ripe, lest it fall to the ground when it's ten-tenths ripe." Grandpa Hu squatted on his doorstep, puffing on his long-extinguished pipe, his cloudy eyes gazing at the golden expanse on the south slope, muttering an old saying that had been passed down for generations.

"The dog days of summer are just around the corner. The weather during this period is like a child's face, changing in an instant. Today the sun is blazing, but who knows, tomorrow afternoon a cloud might come and bring some rain. Our spring wheat has a thin husk, and once it's fully ripe, a good rain will make the ears of wheat sprout!"

His words were like a pebble thrown into a calm pond, and ripples quickly spread throughout the village.

The elderly nodded in agreement, their faces, which had witnessed famine, filled with deep conviction.

Team leader Hu Guangming went to the fields to take a look, then convened a short meeting with the team leaders and several veteran farmers. After smoking half a pack of cigarettes, they unanimously decided: start harvesting tomorrow! We can't wait another day!

It's not because of the rain, but to "prevent" the rain that might come any day.

Farming season is like military orders, and grain is lifeline. Only by seizing it and storing it in the granary can we feel at ease.

When it was time to leave work that day, Hu Guangming called everyone to the brigade headquarters. Once everyone had arrived, Hu Guangming shouted a few times to quiet them down.

"I went to check the wheat field today, and the spring wheat is ready to be harvested this year. Everyone went to get their sickles and went back to sharpen them. We'll start work at six o'clock tomorrow morning to officially begin harvesting."

The villagers below erupted in a commotion and began to discuss the matter. Led by the village officials, everyone went to collect their sickles.

Hu Guangming kept Lin Shengli behind and instructed him, "Shengli, when you go to work tomorrow, pack some hemostatic medicine and bandages and take them with you. Every year, there are always a few clumsy people who get minor injuries during the harvest."

Lin Shengli nodded, said goodbye to Hu Guangming, and returned to Grandma Hu Liu's house.

He asked Grandma Hu for a whetstone, then took some water and sat down at the door to start sharpening his sickle.

This is also a technical job. Fortunately, Lin Shengli did this job when he was a child, otherwise he would either have worn the blade down or not been able to sharpen it properly.

Tomorrow is the wheat harvest, and he's one of the able-bodied laborers.

Grandma Hu usually works with the women in the village doing some lighter jobs. Tomorrow she doesn't need to harvest wheat; instead, she will work with the older folks and younger children to transport the wheat from the fields to the threshing ground.

Despite his young age, Shuanzi works part-time, though it's usually just cutting pig feed with the other kids. Yadan, on the other hand, is still too young to work right now.

But tomorrow these two little ones will also go to the fields to follow the adults and pick up the leftover ears of wheat.

The next day, before dawn, what woke Heisonggou Village was not the crowing of roosters, but Hu Guangming's loud shouts from the village committee's loudspeaker.

"Get up, everyone! Grab your weapons! Harvest on the south slope!" Hu Guangming's roar, with its metallic quality, echoed over the village.

There was no panic, only a heavy, poised sense of urgency.

Doors opened quickly, and people assembled rapidly and silently, like soldiers who had practiced countless times.

The men inspected their sickles, testing the blades with their thumbs, and gave them a final "snap-snap" on the whetstone, making them gleam coldly.

The women quickly wrapped their hair in headscarves, changed into their most durable clothes, and slung earthenware pots filled with cooled boiled water and cloth bags containing dry food over their arms.

Even the older children, rubbing their eyes, were lifted up and distributed into small baskets and rakes, their task being to "bring the grains to the granary."

Lin Shengli put on his straw hat, slung his medicine box over his shoulder, and in addition to the usual iodine and gauze, he also had several packets of herbal powder for preventing heatstroke and ointment for preventing wheat awns and mosquito bites.

He glanced at the steamed buns and water bottle that Grandma Hu Liu handed him, quickly stuffed them into his arms, and then strode into the crowd.

The threshing floor was packed with people, all looking forward to this year's harvest.

On their sun-darkened faces, anticipation for a bountiful harvest was evident.

Hu Guangming jumped onto the stone mill, his gaze sweeping across the entire area. Without uttering a long speech, his voice was loud and clear: "Fellow villagers! Today we're officially starting the harvest. To prevent any changes in the weather, we want to get it done at the best time! Same old routine: strong laborers start the sickle, the elderly and women carry the threshing floor, and the children glean. Let's go!"

The crowd immediately split into several streams, like arrows shooting towards the south slope.

Men and strong women charged ahead, like vanguards rushing into battle.

Upon arriving at the field, without further orders, each person chose their "attack" position, bent down, and with their left hand forming a tiger's mouth to gather a heavy handful of wheat stalks, while their right hand held the sickle close to the ground, they exerted force with their wrists, and with a clean and crisp "snap," the golden wheat obediently fell into their arms.

With swift and rhythmic movements, the sickle swung, stripping away the "golden armor" to reveal the dark brown earth covered with only an inch of wheat stubble.

After the person in front cuts three or four bundles, they pull out a small section, split it in the middle, twist it head to head to form a straw "yaozi", place it in the center of the neatly arranged wheat, flip it over, and continue cutting forward, repeating this cycle.

The person following behind repeated the actions of the person in front, cutting the wheat to the side of the wheat bundle, placing the wheat they had cut on the bundle, holding the "key" that the person in front had placed in the middle with both hands, binding it tightly, and twisting it a few times with both hands to make a sturdy wheat bundle.

The elderly and women with weaker constitutions followed along, carrying the bundles of wheat onto the oxcart. Once loaded, the carts were pulled one by one to the threshing ground to stand up and dry.

The children were scattered at the back, heads down, carefully searching for every stray ear of wheat, their eyes as focused as if they were looking for gold.

The sun climbed higher and higher, scorching the earth without any shade. The wheat field became a giant oven, with waves of heat rising, mingling with flying wheat awns and dust, hitting our faces, making them itchy and painful.

Sweat streamed down everyone's foreheads, necks, and backs like little streams. Clothes were soaked and dried repeatedly, forming a layer of white alkali. The air was filled with a strong, sun-kissed aroma of wheat, along with the salty smell of sweat.

The sounds of slicing wheat, the rustling of binding, heavy breathing, and the occasional brief instructions or reminders constitute the main theme of this battle for agricultural season.

No one spoke; all their strength and energy were concentrated in the movements of their hands. Arms ached, so they swung them; backs were stiff, so they massaged them; sweat stung their eyes, so they wiped them with their elbows.

Their movements may have slowed slightly due to fatigue, but no one stopped.

At noon, the food was delivered directly to the field, but today it was steamed buns made from a mixture of wheat and vegetables, and there was a little too much oil in the dishes.

People squatted or sat on the ridges of the fields or in the shadows of the haystacks, swallowing their food in large gulps.

Meal time was compressed to the shortest possible time, and everyone's eyes kept glancing at the wheat field, which was still mostly unharvested, as they calculated the afternoon's progress.

As the sun began to set, the temperature finally started to drop slightly. But people's physical strength was also nearing its limit. The first day was the hardest to adapt to the high-intensity work. Many people began to rely on willpower to persevere, their movements becoming completely mechanical.

When the whistle finally blew to signal the end of the workday, many people almost staggered to a stop, collapsing onto the edge of the field, too weak even to lift their arms to wipe their sweat.

On the first day, they completed about 40% of the task, which was a good result, but at the cost of almost everyone having new aches and blisters.

Lin Shengli was also covered in dust and sweat, dragging his equally tired but still energetic body, and followed the crowd back.

The setting sun cast long shadows of them, like a group of tired but silent ants returning to their nest.

Hu Guangming left the laborers behind. The wheat couldn't be left directly on the threshing floor at night. If a thunderstorm came at night, all the hard work would be for nothing.

With the help of able-bodied men, the wheat bundles on the threshing floor were neatly stacked into sturdy stacks before everyone was allowed to go home.

The next day, the sky remained a clear, cloudless blue. But this brought no relief; instead, it felt like a silent urging—with such beautiful weather, we must make even greater progress!

When Hu Guangming's voice once again filled the village, the weariness on people's faces had not completely faded, but their eyes held a habitual determination.

The soreness from yesterday peaked when I woke up this morning. Every movement felt like being pricked by needles, but no one asked for leave. After a simple breakfast, we filled our water bottles and headed to the south slope again.

The golden area of ​​the wheat field has shrunk significantly, revealing the bare brown earth, which is steaming with heat.

Without any mobilization, people automatically found their positions from yesterday, silently bent down, and swung their sickles, only their movements were slower and heavier than yesterday, and with each bend they could hear the faint groans of their joints and muscles.

Lin Shengli maintained the same pace as yesterday; with his strength, this work did not tire him out.

In the morning, he also gave Li Kuiyong a kettle mixed with spiritual spring water.

In the afternoon, a young man, whose arm was sore, swerved his sickle and cut his calf.

Hu Guangming quickly called Lin Shengli over. Without saying a word, Lin Shengli quickly disinfected and bandaged the wound. After Lin Shengli finished bandaging the wound, the young man blushed and continued to harvest wheat.

After cutting off his own chaff, Lin Shengli stood up and told Hu Guangming that he would go and see the elderly and children in the village.

Hu Guangming nodded. Lin Shengli noticed that several older villagers looked very unwell and were breathing rapidly.

Lin Shengli picked some wild mint from the field, soaked it in water, added some spring water, and gave it to the elderly to drink. Gradually, the elderly's complexion improved, and they continued to work.

The sun set again. When the whistle blew to signal the end of the workday, many people didn't stop, but instead collapsed on their work sites, unable to move for a long time.

The next day, they had eaten nearly a third of the wheat field, but everyone looked like they had been pulled out of the water, soaked to the bone, pale, with new wounds on top of old ones, blisters bursting, and bloody messes on their hands.

On the morning of the last day, many people practically struggled to get out of bed, their bones screaming with every step they took.

But on the south slope, one last patch of golden yellow awaits—the dawn of victory, the final and most arduous hurdle.

When people stood by the field again, their eyes were filled with complex emotions as they looked at the still dazzling wheat field.

Exhaustion, anticipation—just one last push away!

Hu Guangming's eyes were bloodshot, and his voice was completely hoarse, making it almost impossible for him to speak. He could only wave his hand forcefully.

With no energy left to speak, people silently, almost staggering, rushed toward the last "position".

The movements have lost all skill and rhythm; they're nothing more than the simplest, most mechanical repetition: bend over, swing your arm, cut, then bend over again...

Extreme fatigue can give rise to a peculiar numbness and focus.

The pain seemed to have receded, and the world consisted only of the wheat stalks before my eyes, the sickle in my hand, and the obsession in my heart to "cut it all down."

The concept of time has become blurred; only the sun moves slowly and cruelly across the sky.

At noon, no one rested for long. They would nibble on some dry rations, gulp down some water, and some would even lie down on the cut wheat straw, close their eyes, catch their breath, and then get up again for the final sprint.

In the afternoon, the sun was still blazing, but a fire burned in everyone's heart—victory was just around the corner! As the last few rows of wheat narrowed in view, an almost tragic strength burst forth from the depths of their weary bodies. The harvesters swung their arms even faster; the tie-dryers' fingers seemed to become nimble again; even the children gleaning ears of wheat stared intently, not wanting to miss a single grain.

When Hu Guangming used his last bit of strength to swing his sickle and cut the last stalk of wheat, the entire southern slope fell into a brief, strange silence.

Nearly 300 acres of spring wheat were all felled, the golden sea disappeared, and in its place was a neat stack of golden wheat stacks and the bare, steaming brown earth.

They slowly straightened up, wiping the sweat and dirt from their faces. Several blisters appeared on their palms, and their arm muscles trembled slightly.

But looking at the scene before me, at the haystacks gleaming in the sunlight, I felt an unprecedented sense of peace and a profound sense of accomplishment.

Hu Guangming shouted in a hoarse, almost inaudible voice, "Take the last bundles of wheat from the field to the threshing ground and stack them into haystacks. If the weather is good tomorrow morning, everyone go to the threshing ground and spread the haystacks out to dry in the sun. You can rest tomorrow afternoon!"

People began to walk slowly towards the village in twos and threes, supporting each other.

Their steps were unsteady, their shadows stretched long by the setting sun, making them appear so weary, yet so resolute. The children followed behind, their small baskets filled with golden ears of wheat.