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"The delicious delicacies are still tasteless, and I don't think about the people who wielded sickles in the past." In the 1990s, it had been more than ten years since the reform and opening up. While the country was getting rich step by step and the cities were building towards modern cities, the vast number of farmers were still swaying their sweat for the country and the city in obscurity, dedicating the wheat harvested with sickles. In today's prosperous and powerful society, in the life of wanton squandering, who will recall the hardships and efforts of farmers back then, and will cherish the hard-won happiness of today's life more and the recognition and reward of those who are getting older and leaving in a hurry. I went back to my hometown to visit relatives this year and saw the wheat turning yellow and the rapeseed ripening. I saw my 75-year-old father still holding a sickle to harvest the rapeseed. I saw his gray and sparse hair and curved back, skillfully harvesting the rapeseed in front of me. My eyes are moist. How many times have I said that when I get older, I should stop farming and it's time to take care of myself. Every time my father would say: "We can still work, we can't let the land go to waste. We support ourselves and don't need your money." This is a simple and stubborn old farmer. How many grain farmers back then were like my father, who did not cause trouble to their children and used their own hands to work hard for everything they wanted. Farmers are as thick as soil, as strong as weeds, and can never be burned by wildfires. They grow again when the spring breeze blows. They are like the sunshine in summer, and like the full wheat that gives you food and clothing when you are cold and hungry. Today I dedicate this article to the vast number of old farmers like my father.