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*This article is a memoir by author Le Hong Lam, about Tet (Lunar New Year) in his childhood memories in the rural North of Vietnam.
Now, every year when I return home to celebrate Tet with my parents, on the first morning of the holiday, upon waking up, I still vividly remember the bustling sounds of people talking under the flickering firelight, the aroma of freshly cooked rice porridge mingled with the scent of incense wafting from someone's house in the early morning smoke, the squealing of pigs in the hazy morning mist of the distant past, the chopping and pounding of meat, the sound of a radio playing a lively spring song... All those smells and sounds blend together, creating an enchanting atmosphere imbued with warmth, comfort, and peace, a deeply unforgettable experience for those born and raised in the village.
When talking about Tet in the old days, two things are indispensable: incense sticks and firecrackers.
Speaking of Tet (Vietnamese New Year) in the old days, two things are indispensable: incense sticks and firecrackers. My house was near the Rang Hac mountain range, which has been immortalized in poetry. Every year, as Tet approached, a group of mischievous children would carry hoes up the mountain slopes to find "incense sticks" (I no longer remember what kind of tree they were), dig up the stems and roots, bring them back, chop them into small pieces, dry them, grind them up, and then use thin sheets of parchment paper—if there weren't any, they'd take some student notebook paper, tear it in half, and spread the powdered incense sticks in a way that fit perfectly into an incense stick. A thin, easily burned stick made from young bamboo (for easier burning) was placed in the middle, and the end of the "incense stick" was sealed with... a few grains of sticky rice to make it stick together. And just like that, an incense stick was formed. When lit, the fragrant scent of herbs, the countryside, and the mountains lingered in my mind until now.
There are many types of firecrackers: tiny firecrackers (as small as a river shrimp), large firecrackers (about the size of a modern fruit peeling knife handle), and mortar firecrackers. Tiny firecrackers are difficult to make at home, so they're usually bought from the Cooperative Store. We kids would take them apart and light them one by one, starting around the 24th or 25th of the twelfth lunar month. Large firecrackers come in two types: those with a top fuse (one end sealed, the other with the fuse inserted before being sealed again), and those with a middle fuse (both ends sealed, with a hole in the middle to insert the fuse before sealing again). The top-fuse type is usually the Binh Da style from the North, with a long string of firecrackers that are perfectly aligned, each one neatly arranged. The middle-fuse type is usually the Da Nang style, which explodes loudly, and the torn paper looks very appealing, but the whole string looks messy and disorganized, making it difficult to pack into a bundle or tie a complete firecracker because the middle fuse tends to come loose.
Firecrackers are difficult to make at home, so they are usually bought from the Cooperative Store.
Mortar firecrackers are usually the final projectile in a string of firecrackers, about the size of a wrist; some wealthy families roll them up to the size of a calf, or even a thermos flask. They crackle and pop, then explode in a long burst, until a loud, deep "boom" is heard, at which point the children rush to pick up the unexploded firecrackers.
Usually, firecrackers are set off in strings during Tet or weddings; otherwise, only a single firecracker is lit. The worst part is for the women, busy chopping meat, picking vegetables, slicing ham, and wrapping cakes, when their son or younger sibling impulsively takes a firecracker out into the yard and sets it off with a loud bang, startling them and sometimes causing them to spill the pot of fish stew. They get annoyed, but when the whole country stops setting off firecrackers, it seems the women are the ones who miss the Tet firecrackers of the past most intensely. Like my mother, every Tet she feels a pang of nostalgia: the sound of firecrackers makes it feel like Tet, that New Year's Eve is approaching…
Every Lunar New Year, mothers and grandmothers are busy with their work.
My father spoiled me because I was his only son. For many years, he made my eldest sister spend an afternoon taking me to the "main road" (the town center of my hometown) to buy enough firecrackers for me. The number of firecrackers had to be just right: one string to be lit when welcoming the God of the Day (offering incense and prayers on the evening of the 30th – officially marking the start of Tet), one string to be lit at midnight on New Year's Eve, usually the best, longest, and most expensive one, with a sharp, clear sound, and the paper had to be torn off completely; if the firecrackers misfired or popped and the paper wasn't torn off, my mother would definitely complain, fearing it would bring bad luck in the new year. Another string to be lit on the morning of the first day of the new year, after my father had offered incense and prepared the New Year's feast, and one string to be lit when burning offerings (sending the ancestors back to their "homes," marking the end of Tet). In total, it was usually four strings of firecrackers, but we always had to buy one or two more, just in case our New Year's Eve firecrackers were already lit but the neighbors were still having a spectacular display, we could compete with them. I remember one year there was a really extravagant celebration. After the New Year's Eve celebrations were over, everyone was happily listening to the President's New Year's greetings and exchanging New Year's wishes when suddenly, firecrackers started exploding somewhere, each one a sharp, resounding, slow, and spectacular sound.
My father was the principal of the village's primary and secondary school, but according to the regulations at the time: children followed their mothers. So when it came time to distribute Tet gifts according to the standard, while the female teachers under his supervision received large and small packages, my father received almost nothing. Perhaps due to the quota for a leader, it wasn't until the afternoon of the 30th of Tet that he brought home a box of Kim Anh dried tea (I still remember the words "strong flavor, green tea" painted on the tin box) and a few packets of sesame candy. Back then, service providers had started to use English in their exams, so children whose parents were teachers would ask each other, "Have you got any Sesame candy yet?" The peach blossoms we used for Tet decorations were usually branches my father cut from the school garden. Some years they were withered and dry like firewood, other years they were tattered with leaves. Rarely did we have enough buds and beautiful flowers, but we children still puffed up balloons and hung them up, making them look quite cheerful and vibrant.
In the past, sweets and preserves were a great source of happiness during Tet (Lunar New Year).
Just before Tet (Lunar New Year), if the District Education Department managed to get a few bags of sugar delivered to teachers to share during the holiday, it was such a joyous occasion. The warehouse manager, who also acted as accountant, would direct them to deliver the sugar to my house and distribute it there. Since the homeowner was also the principal's, we would receive a few extra ounces. My sisters and I grew up observing the colors of the sugar our father received: when we were young, it was a deep black with bits of sugarcane pulp (this type of sugar was only used for making sweet soups), then it turned yellow, and finally, it became an off-white color.
Life is much more comfortable now. You can find anything you want at the market, and every day feels like Tet (Vietnamese New Year), so the traditional Tet atmosphere has faded considerably. For me, it's the traditional Tet cakes and sweets that have gradually disappeared: "banh quat" (made from glutinous rice flour mixed with turmeric, spread out like a paper fan, and then dropped into a pan of boiling lard), "banh gai" (similar to a specialty cake from Hai Duong, made from glutinous rice flour mixed with thorny leaves), "banh mat," "che lam," "banh day," and perhaps only "banh chung" (square sticky rice cake) remains indispensable. I remember that every year, as Tet approached, my sisters and I would ask our mother to make this or that cake, and she would frown and gently scold: "I'm too busy this year, I can't make it." But then, after the Kitchen God Festival, we'd see her preparing to make them, and those evenings would be filled with excitement, gathering around, wiping leaves, making and wrapping cakes, a joyful and passionate experience. In the old days, children wore worn, dirty clothes, but their faces were rosy, their eyes sparkling as they sat by the crackling fire, happily boiling rice cakes in the days leading up to Tet. How happy they looked!
Another Lunar New Year is approaching, and we eagerly await the day we can ride our bikes back to our parents, back to our hometown, and relive those bygone New Years, as we often say to each other: only with a hometown can we have a complete and fulfilling New Year.
Another Lunar New Year is approaching, and I'm eagerly waiting for the day I can finally ride my motorbike home to see my parents and grandparents.
