It was a mystical moment, in the half light of the evening. The tractors in the fields that in the sunlight had glowed golden, harvesting the wheat. It felt almost mesmerising in its beauty, and it took me back to a time way back in the past, when as a child I sat, with my grandparents and all the men from the village who had worked so hard in the scorching sun to get the harvest in. My grandmother had brought plates piled high with sandwiches and huge jugs of tea for the men. It was like a party. The happiest party of the year. Everyone was singing and laughing, and Shot, the dog, in his exuberance, tried to chase a stray rabbit down a rabbit hole to the sounds of
“STOP that, Shot.”
Shot reluctantly but duly obeyed. The men, however, became more and more unruly in their singing.
A few unharvested strands of wheat on the edge of the field caught my attention, and I started to try to stook them. My first ever attempt at stooking corn. It was a beautiful moment. How proud I was of my stook, standing there strong and proud in the field.
Those were golden days. Days that smiled. And I, as a child, drank from them.
(To be continued)