My hometown, a small, unremarkable village nestled in the heart of the Songnen Plain, was where I grew up. At the start of each summer, the freshly plowed fields were dark and rich, with sparse green shoots appearing at the edges. The wind carried the fresh scent of soil, along with an inescapable sense of hardship—this was the farmers' season of scarcity, known locally as the "bitter summer."
This was during the 1960s and 70s. As winter approached, every household would dig a vegetable cellar to store cabbage, radishes, potatoes, and other produce for the long winter. By the time spring arrived, the cellar was nearly empty, and the large vat of pickled cabbage was also running low. During this season, there were often no fresh vegetables to eat, and meals consisted of pickled radish strips with cornbread. The small garden in the yard had only just sprouted, its tender shoots barely breaking through the soil. With the winter vegetables gone and the new crops not yet ready, farming families had to endure this long, "bitter" stretch of summer.
I was only about ten years old then, and I often crouched by the fence of our family garden, staring blankly at the tiny seedlings. The little cabbages, lettuces, and greens had only just unfurled a few leaves, and it would be some time before they were ready to eat. My mother would always say, "Just wait a little longer. After a few more sunny days and a few spring rains, they'll be ready." But I was impatient. Meal after meal of pickles and cornbread left my mouth feeling bland and bitter, and I lost my appetite entirely. Pushing the food around in my bowl, I would gaze out at the empty little garden, my heart filled with a longing for fresh greens.
A mother understands her child best. Seeing my restlessness, my mother took me to dig for wild herbs by the northern school grounds. The dandelion greens, with just a few new leaves, were the only fresh taste available during that lean season. I followed behind her, squatting in the damp earth, carefully digging with a small knife blade. My fingers were stained with black soil, but my eyes were full of joy. The dandelions we brought home were washed clean and served with a dab of fermented soybean paste, becoming the most precious vegetable on our table. They tasted slightly bitter, yet held a unique freshness that belonged only to that "bitter summer."
By late morning, we had filled half a basket. Carrying our harvest of dandelions, we headed home. The early summer breeze was growing warm. Sitting by our garden with my mother, we cleaned the dandelions while watching the little plot. The tender seedlings in the garden swayed in the wind, their leaves slowly unfurling. How I wished they would grow overnight, for the garden to be filled with lush, green vegetables, for those difficult days to pass quickly. My mother repeated her familiar refrain: just endure a few more days, and the vegetables in the little garden would be ready to eat.
Now, I have long since left my hometown and have lived in the city for over fifty years. The supermarkets in my neighborhood are stocked with a full variety of fresh vegetables year-round. The days of digging for wild herbs to stave off hunger are gone, and I no longer experience the hardship of that seasonal scarcity. Yet, whenever the early summer wind blows, I am reminded of that time—the "bitter summer," the empty little garden, the image of my mother and me gathering herbs, and the distinctive, slightly bitter taste of those dandelion greens.
In truth, the "bitter summer" in my heart is not a complaint about past poverty. It is a deep-rooted nostalgia, long since fused into my very bones and blood. Those days of scarcity have settled slowly over the years. No matter how far I travel, whenever I think of them, I can always see that vast expanse of black earth and find my way home. It is the native soil I can never truly leave behind.
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