March 3rd (Spring Festival Tradition)
Spring morning, warm sunlight spills across the desk. Outside, a light mist lingers in the five-story building, with the magnolia vaguely visible.
Growing up, I had an obsession with March 3rd. As soon as March 3rd arrived, I could go to dig water chestnuts. A group of teenagers were out of town, carrying baskets and having fun. In the wild, there were countless water chestnuts, long and slender, clustered together, with a fresh green scent. Water chestnuts are good, with clearing heat and moisturizing properties, the best in March 3rd, back home to boil with eggs for the festival, the pale green soup like jade, alluring. Wrapping dumplings is even more fragrant, far better than frozen fresh ones. Dandelions are also fine, in full bloom, and you can bite into them for a taste of spring. This is similar to the mugwort before Mid-Spring Festival, you can pick it before the festival, and it loses its efficacy immediately after. The harvesting of Chinese medicinal herbs is very particular, and you can't be careless.
Elm flowers and plum blossoms are also loved by children and elders. Grab a handful and put it in your mouth, an unspeakable happiness. The common way to eat it is to steam it with flour, clean it and wrap it in flour, dip it in garlic sauce or chili sauce. The taste is no worse than that of Chinese toon. Winter wheat is gradually entering its flowering and budding period, you can't run around in the fields. Apricots, peaches, cherries and plums are nearing the end of their season, with fallen blossoms, resembling the red-tinged pink of apricots. Some also have 'lotus flowers in full bloom' – plum blossoms are gradually entering their prime.
March 3rd is for going out and enjoying the spring. Children remember it clearly. After February 2nd, you have to prepare for the spring outing. Of course, kites are indispensable. You don't want to spend money, so you make them yourself. As the date approaches, adults sometimes help too. Because the preparation was too early, it was mostly done secretly by themselves. This was a change from a sluggish and slow-paced lifestyle, finishing homework early, splitting bamboo into thin and long strips, repeatedly polishing them. I remember being around the age of twelve or thirteen. Now, seven or eight-year-old children probably don't even let their families touch knives. It's hard to learn these styles, you just learn 'the goldfish', stick paper on it, the scales and eyes are all painted with ink, black and red, it should be quite rustic. The paper is oiled paper, and you have to prepare it in advance. Everything else can be done by yourself, the rope needs to be bought, you've saved up money for a long time and haven't dared to spend it. A roll of thin, white nylon rope, very strong, kept it safe, and it can be used for several years.
Putting on a water bottle, bringing dry food, carrying the kite on your back, and queuing to set off. In the bustling crowd, all kinds of kites competed to show off their beauty, and your own kite, though simple, was much prouder than many that didn't have one. The destination was called Five-Mile Fortress. Across the bridge, 5 miles south, and you were there. It's a hilly area with shallow mountains and ridges, covered with wild grass, running up and down, covered in dust. In a short time, your shoes and clothes were covered in thick dust. Teachers also changed their past demeanor, letting go of their airs, cheering and shouting excitedly. Triangular, diamond, swallow, goldfish, butterfly, fairy kites soared in the sky, and even there were centipedes and dragons – large kites were provided by the school for the occasion.
After playing, one by one, they were all pale and exhausted, like defeated soldiers. The kite was still on their backs, most of it was left with just the frame, some clothes were torn, but still full of joy. Every year, making kites, except for not having successfully launched them, remains the same, unchanging and full of fun. A lot of childhood, being wasted little by little.
Once, when I was in college, I went back to visit during early spring. By the roadside, there was a tree with white, iron-grey old branches and thick trunks, supporting illusory and dreamy pear blossoms, blurring together into layers and layers of peaks and valleys, and orderly arrangements. The whole tree had no green leaves, bees hovered up and down, and petals fluttered in the wind. The long-distance bus sped by. These details in my mind can never be forgotten. This is the most beautiful spring in my memory.
The hometown of childhood is lively and quiet. The stories of childhood are in the light and shadow shining through the windows of the classroom and the surrounding fields. After so many years, these experiences have told us that we should never talk about hometowns at night, even if we talk, we pretend we don't care. Now I understand writers, when they talk about it, they use vivid language and describe everything in detail.
Long stems and leaves, green and tender, like a thousand hands reaching for the sun. They are all a shade of green, and they are full of life. They are like the children's eyes, full of hope and yearning. And the fragrance is intoxicating.
The most beautiful spring scenery is the most beautiful sight for a child's eyes, simple and pure, and full of imagination. After many years, I still remember those simple and beautiful scenes. This is the most beautiful spring scenery in my memory.
