Winter has now become a season of fashion, when many people are eagerly awaiting its arrival to showcase their style and brand. This is a profound change after nearly sixty years of hardship to finally achieve it.

The awareness of seasons is often not as clear as the perception of weather—rain and sunshine—although everyone knows that spring brings flowers, summer is hot and sweltering, autumn has clouds stretching across the sky, and winter is damp and cold. Photo: Tuong Hong Duong

 The awareness of seasons is often not as clear as the perception of weather—rain and sunshine—although everyone knows that spring brings flowers, summer is hot and sweltering, autumn has clouds stretching across the sky, and winter is damp and cold. Depending on the region and standard of living, each person has a different impression of winter.

1. There are many things that seem simple, but it’s only at a certain point that we truly understand them. When I lived in the North, I learned to distinguish between different types of rain: drizzle and heavy rain; cold and chill, which I only later realized the difference between, especially when cold air swept in, and how the intense cold was different from the bitter cold... When I was young, in my poetry notebook, I carefully wrote, “Today is cold, the sun goes to sleep early,” without much attention, as it was merely an excuse to express the more important sentiment, “I miss you so much, my love,” from the brilliant poet Xuan Dieu. That was poetry, but in real life, most of my childhood winter days were filled with sad memories.

When I was little, my family was very poor. Before the rainy season arrived, the most worrying task for my father was repairing the roof. A leaking house was considered one of the most exhausting problems in life, and the sight of collecting rainwater in tin cans was almost haunting. It's strange how, even at the age of seven or eight, there are so many memories that are still so vivid. In winter, the sky was gloomy and it rained for many days. From home to the village school, I had to pass through several fields, and the path to school was muddy and slippery, as if it had been greased. My mother often reminded me to wear sandals and "dig" my toes into the ground, as slipping and getting covered in mud was a common occurrence. My first school was a thatched-roof hut under a bamboo grove, with the bell made from half of an old railway tie hanging from a tree at the gate. The elderly teacher, wrapped in a woolen scarf during the rains, carefully gave us writing assignments, and we, the students, would "grade" our own work, correcting the thickness or lightness of the strokes—something I will remember for the rest of my life.

There were three siblings in my family. My eldest brother was eight years older than me, and my sister was four years older. Both of them worked far away in Han (now Da Nang), leaving me alone at home most of the time, and only occasionally did the whole family reunite. I remember that at dusk, just before dinner, my sister would often make me stand on a large stone slab—once the base of an old house pillar. She would scoop water and carefully scrub the mud from between my toes. Later in life, I traveled countless roads, but those windy nights when I stood still while my sister washed the mud from my feet remain etched in my memory forever.

Back in the day, we didn’t have any blankets. To keep us warm, my father would lay two layers of straw mats under the bed, serving as the very first “mattress” of my life, while a single reed mat was used as a cover. The mat was too short, so there was always a silent competition between my head and feet—if I covered the upper part, my feet would be left cold. My mother would tell me to rub lime on the soles of my feet before bed to ward off the chill. I don’t know if it was the lime or the warmth of my father beside me, but somehow I made it through those freezing winters.

2. In October, the rain would drizzle endlessly throughout the month, and flooding the house became an annual occurrence when winter arrived. The rain and cold pierced to the bone, and on my way to school, my teeth would chatter uncontrollably. Just thinking of October brings back a flood of chills and shivers. My heart aches most for my mother, who still went out to the fields every day, planting rice or pulling weeds—her life spent with her face to the earth and her back to the sky. It wasn’t until I grew older that I truly understood the hardship she endured. Whether it was summer or winter, I never once saw my mother wear a new shirt. She was always dressed in the same simple blouse and pants, one leg rolled up higher than the other, always busy, always on the move. Yet, no matter how hard life was, she always cared for and looked after her youngest son—me. I love my mother more than anyone else in the world.

There are two events in the year 1966 that I will never forget. In August, my mother suffered a severe illness and lost all her hair. My father sent me to Binh Tri, the neighboring village, to fetch Mr. Tu Te, the village’s traditional herbal doctor. After examining her pulse, he prescribed several doses of herbal medicine. My mother was bedridden for an entire month, unable to speak. As I carried her clothes to wash, tears welled up in my eyes—I was terrified she would leave me. Watching her weakly sip the medicine I fed her spoon by spoon, I couldn’t help but fear she wouldn’t make it through.

The war reached my hometown with increasing intensity. Just as my mother was recovering from her severe illness, in October, she was struck by a bullet that broke her leg. Someone lent us a hammock, and the villagers carried her to the clinic in Vinh Dien, with me trailing behind. After fifteen days, her wounds healed, and she was able to walk slowly again, though she had become frail and thin. On the day we were discharged, the two of us excitedly headed home. Just outside the clinic’s gate, there was a tofu vendor. My mother stopped to rest and ordered a bowl of tofu. She bought only one bowl and told me, “You eat it, dear.” I didn’t realize then that she didn’t have enough money to buy two bowls, even though she was the one who needed the nourishment more than I did. For the rest of my life, I have never forgotten that bowl of tofu in Vinh Dien.

Did winters in the past feel colder than they do now? Perhaps it’s due to climate change or some phenomenon of the earth and sky, but I still believe it was because we didn’t have enough clothes to wear on those days. Amid the biting cold, we had to endure it with nothing more than a thin, worn-out shirt. That kind of chill cut deeper than the actual coldness of the weather itself, and on top of that there was a lack of food, often not enough to eat. People say the hungrier you are, the colder you feel, and the colder it gets, the hungrier you become. That vicious cycle of cold and hunger was a defining feature of life during wartime and those years of poverty.

Among all cravings in life, the craving for food is the most tormenting; the expression “ngo mieng”—to long for something you can’t have—feels so bitter and painful. That hunger marinated my childhood memories. Except for those rare winter days when my brother caught fish in the flooded fields—so many that we couldn’t finish them—most of the time, our meals consisted of rice mixed with dried sweet potato, eaten with fish sauce. Later, when we finally had monosodium glutamate (MSG), I remember my mother once said, “With this, even cooking bamboo leaves would taste good.” She likely said it in passing, never imagining that her words would become a source of encouragement for me—a gentle reminder of the ups and downs of life.

Another dish often fondly remembered by my children and grandchildren is pickled mustard greens, a staple food that helped stave off hunger in nearly every household. After the Lunar New Year, the mustard greens in the garden would grow tall and abundant. My mother would sun-dry them and pickle the entire plant. By winter, the green color would ripen into a beautiful golden hue. She would cut them into sections, squeeze out the water, and spread them on a plate. The pickled mustard greens, dipped in fish sauce with a dash of chili powder, were so delicious. I also recall those afternoons when I did not go to school. I’d head out to the fields with a long fishing rod. On lucky days, I’d catch a few gourami fish or snakehead fish and bring them home. My mother would grill the fish, mix them with fish sauce and ginger, and serve them. To me, no delicacy of land or sea could compare to the taste of those grilled field gourami from those winter days of the past.

Winter has now become a season of fashion, when many people are eagerly awaiting its arrival to showcase their style and brand. This is a profound change after nearly sixty years of hardship to finally achieve it. These days, few people still crave steamed mackerel scad with whole peppercorns, though pickled mustard greens remain crunchy and fragrant on family tables. Yet now, we have far more choices. A “good meal” today means a table filled with options, something to pick and choose from. In my wardrobe, there is no shortage of clothes, but I often find myself wearing the old ones. I still keep the first shirt I ever had tailored from my first month’s salary—Many times, as I stand before a hearty meal, I can’t help but think of my mother. When I taste something delicious, a pang of longing hits me: If only Mother were still here to enjoy this braised pork with me, to wear this new shirt I just bought for her.

Reporting by HUYNH DUC MINH – Translating by HONG VAN