Cowbells

There is a small bronze bell hanging in my kitchen.  I can’t recall where and when I bought it.  I do remember the reason that I picked it up.

Our old house was near the intersection of two major roads in Taipei.  However, when I was little, there were rice paddies not far from our neighborhood.  One day, I was in the back of the house and heard some bells jingling.  Curiously, I opened the backdoor.  There was a water buffalo at the end of the alleyway with a string of bells hung on his neck.  As it trudged pass the alley, the bells jingled.

The buffalo must have passed the height of its maturity.  The skins around his neck gathered and draped.  Its steps were quiet but heavy.  The image of an old animal persevering with dignity impressed me.

On the other hand, the sounds of bells were gentle and mesmerizing.  Low pitched, they made short glissandi synchronized with the steps of the buffalo.  Contrasting the heavy image of the animal, the bell tones had an otherworldly tranquility.

I was very young. The image and the sounds stayed with me for all these years.  Whenever I saw sets of small bells, I would be reminded of that day and that old water buffalo.  I would also be reminded of a time when life was simple, when things moved slowly and when nature was much nearer to us.

Twice a year, farmers would start rice seedlings in flat wooden containers at the corners of the fields.  When seedlings were tall enough, they would be transplanted.  Rice paddies would be flooded.  Giant ploughs towed by buffaloes would be used to loosen the soil.  Then the farmers would line up across the field and, in steady rhythm, planting the seedlings down one by one in equal distance.  They would step backwards with their back bending low the entire time.

From time to time, we would be allowed to play in the muddy fields.  Deep down, there were always abundant mudfish.  They splashed and slipped.  We would get all muddy.  Sometimes, we would find river snails.  They were smaller than escargots but just as delicious.  I don’t remember ever bringing our daily catch home.  The fun of playing in cool muddy water was the best reward.

When the harvest time was near, the fields would be drained.  Rice panicles would turn golden.  Then the stalks would be cut with sickles.  The farmers would gather a handful of stalks and shake them with a machine to separate the grains from the straws.  The straws would be tied and piled up high.  Sparrows came in flocks as the scarecrow stood helplessly.

Agricultural machinery replaced manual labor.  Chemical fertilizer and herbicides made it possible to harvest three times a year.  The abundance of mudfish and river snails has become something for the history books.  I hang the cow bell on my wall for remembrance of a happier time.