This season, chò seeds drift through the air, their tiny wings twirling in the wind before settling softly onto pathways. It feels as if someone, unseen, has scattered a handful of memories across the breeze. I watch from under the eaves as each chò wing tilts and dances. The sight takes me back to a courtyard echoing with the laughter of children, caught up in the games we knew by heart — nhảy dây, bịt mắt bắt dê, ô ăn quan, bắn bi. Summer, in those days, wasn’t only about the blazing sun. It lived in the whirl of chò seeds overhead, the humming cicadas at noon, and the tender chaos of our childhood.

The yard in those late afternoons would glow as pale sunlight filtered through the leaves, stretching across the damp earth still carrying the scent of rain. Cicadas buzzed in the green canopy above, mingling with dog barks and the bright chatter of children calling out to one another: “We're here, come out and play!”

Back then, our playground was nothing more than a patch of open ground in front of or behind the house, a bamboo fence, and an old guava tree that would drop its ripe, fragrant fruit now and then. But that was all we needed. Somehow, it was more than enough for the games to go on and on. Enough for us, a ragtag band of village kids, to live fully in those brilliant, fleeting afternoons.

Bắn bi (marbles).

The gatherings happened without much planning. No game was ever decided in advance — one kid might bring a rope for nhảy dây (jump rope), another an old milk can for tạt lon (a game where you throw objects to knock over cans). Someone would twist a dry banana leaf into a grasshopper, while another carried a jar filled with green and yellow marbles for bắn bi (marble shooting).

Once everyone had arrived, we’d vote on what to play first. When boredom crept in, we’d switch to something else. Some games didn’t need any tools at all — just our voices and feet — like rồng rắn lên mây (where members form a “dragon” by holding onto each other and try not to let the tail get caught) or trốn tìm (hide and seek). Before long, the whole gang was laughing, chasing each other through the yard, sometimes scattering all the way across the neighborhood.

Nhảy dây (skipping).

Our childhood games offer a glimpse into the simple life of rural Vietnam. They were as humble and unassuming as the countryside itself. No need for modern gadgets or fancy setups; our creativity shaped these pastimes into activities full of cultural identity and meaning. In them, you can see a small society where people lived in harmony with nature, using whatever was around to create joy.

A checkered scarf became a blindfold in bịt mắt bắt dê (blindman's bluff), a few stones scattered on the ground turned into a board for ô ăn quan (mancala), and even a short bamboo stick could transform into a mighty sword for fierce pretend battles. Each game carried traces of daily work, customs, and the spirit of the people.

Ô ăn quan (mancala).

Ô ăn quan, for example, challenged us kids to think hard, strategize carefully, and gather as many pieces as possible to capture the king quickly. Kéo co (tug of war) taught us the spirit of teamwork — without pulling together, the whole team would lose. That same spirit is what adults still carry into their fields, building homes, and tending to the levees.

No matter what game we played, we learned to be patient, to wait our turn, to follow the rules, and to never win at any cost. From these lessons grew discipline, honesty, and pure friendship. These simple folk games were more than just play, they were the most authentic environment for children to develop character.

Rồng rắn lên mây.

Folk games are tied to memory not just through images, but through sound — the nursery rhymes whose origins no one can quite trace, passed down orally through countless generations, known by every village child by heart. Each game seems bound to its own melody, its own rhythm of childhood. These rhymes, linked to the games, are simple and easy to remember by young minds.

I still remember the lines we all raced to shout when playing rồng rắn lên mây:

And when we were tired from running, we’d sit quietly under the banyan tree, hands open, playing úp lá khoai (slapjack):

No technology or phones, only the harsh midday sun, dusty yards, and a few simple things. Still, we played for hours without tiring. We grew up surrounded by laughter, dust, sweat, and scraped knees, and those moments made childhood genuine.

Úp lá khoai (slapjack).

Our society today has changed so much. Kids have new games, new tools, new ways to grow. But I still believe there are some things you can’t replace: real experiences; the feeling of being in the world around you. Those simple folk games were more than just play. They were the glue of the community, the first place where feelings, thinking, and values all began to take shape. Everything has its time, and these games had theirs. They were born from a life of simplicity, and as life changed, the space for them slowly disappeared. Now, some of those games only live on in books or pop up here and there during school festivals, like echoes from the past.

Bịt mắt bắt dê (blindman's bluff).

But I still hold on to hopes. Maybe one afternoon, under soft, golden sunlight, a child will look up from their screen, pick up a marble, and call a friend to play. Maybe someone will find an old rope, spin it around a few times, and laugh out loud as they jump in time. And just like that, we’ll remember that joy isn’t far away. It’s in the laughter that rings clear, the sweat that beads on our skin, and the little scrapes that come with a childhood fully lived.