The factory area in the early morning exuded a hint of coolness, with each swaying figure busy under the rising sun's reflection.
Aunt Zhao, worthy of being a native farmer, understood the personality of farm women very well. So, under her calls and guidance, those originally drooping and listless women were now full of spirit.
The rice ears kept thrashing against the wall. Seeing the uniform actions of the women behind, Wenquan Xin, who grew up in the city, couldn't help but curiously asked, "What are they doing?"
"Winnowing rice," Old Zhao replied without turning his head, his eyes fixed on the ironing room ahead, "Normally, these tasks should be done by machines, but we have no electricity or equipment here, so we can only use the most primitive way."
In fact, the situation was worse than Zhao Yunhai described. Without specialized separation tools and not knowing when it might rain, the women simply laid out a layer of floral fabric at the edge of the factory building.
