lcionline Chapter 130 Crafts 2
Chapter 130 Crafts 2
When she was halfway through sawing, the tree trunk swayed slightly. She stopped, pulled out the saw, and started sawing again from a different angle. After sawing for a while, only a small piece of wood remained connecting the stump and the trunk.
Su Peixue put down the saw, her petite frame outstretched, and hugged the tree stump, pressing down on it—the sound of wood snapping echoed through the forest before being swallowed by the rustling of the pines. She picked up the tree stump, its weight pressing against her chest, sawdust still falling from the sawed surface.
She carried the tree stump back to the yard and placed it on the wooden table. The moment she put it down, it made a dull thud, and the tabletop shook. The stump was still covered with moss and bark, and the saw cut was rough and uneven, with rows of saw marks running across it.
She picked up the shovel and cut into the side of the tree stump. The blade slowly pushed down along the gap between the bark and the wood, peeling off the entire piece of bark with a sound like tearing cloth as it fell from the stump.
Beneath the bark lies off-white wood, smooth on the surface, with a faint scent of pine resin. Next comes the coarse sandpaper, which she holds and polishes back and forth on the saw face. The saw marks disappear inch by inch under the sandpaper, first becoming lighter, then flattening, until finally the entire saw face is smoothed out.
After finishing with the coarse sandpaper, she switched to fine sandpaper. She pressed her fingers against the back of the sandpaper and sanded in circles, applying much less pressure than before.
The tree rings begin to become clear—one dark ring, one light ring, alternating as they expand outwards. This is not a tree stump; it is the entire memory of a tree over several decades. Each ring represents a year; narrower rings indicate drought years, while wider rings indicate bountiful years.
The deepest ring was wider and darker than the others, probably indicating a summer with exceptionally abundant rainfall.
She trimmed the edges with an axe. The blade shaved away every burr along the outer edge of the stump, the wood shavings thin and curled, the wood grain clearly visible at the cut.
After finishing the repairs, she ran her fingers over the entire surface. The off-white wood had become smooth and delicate, and the growth rings had a very slight texture, like Braille.
She took a dry cloth from her toolbox and dipped it in vegetable oil. The oil was edible-grade mineral oil that Zhao Yining had given her, specifically for conditioning cutting boards. She pressed the oiled cloth onto the surface of the cutting board and applied it in circles, from the center to the edge, making sure every corner was coated. The oil seeped into the wood grain, darkening the color of the growth rings, changing from off-white to light brown, and then to dark brown.
After the oil was absorbed by the wood, the entire surface of the cutting board had a warm, matte finish. She left the oiled cutting board on the table.
The next morning, the cutting board appeared on the kitchen counter. The morning light slanted in through the window, falling precisely on the widest ring of the tree trunk in the center of the cutting board.
Su Peixue stood in front of the cutting board, laid out a bunch of greens, and picked up a knife. With each swift stroke, the knife cut into the greens with a crisp sound, the cutting board catching each cut steadily. She then gathered the chopped greens into a bamboo basket.
The screen dims. A line of text appears on the black screen: A fallen tree comes back to life in the kitchen.
Put away the camera.
The third thing was made a few days later. The hillside and wild ground were covered with broom grass. Broom grass is a very strange plant; it is green in spring and summer, and turns golden yellow in autumn and winter, growing in clumps, shaped like an upside-down broom.
When the wind blows, the whole hillside sways, and the golden grass ears rustle dryly in the wind.
Su Peixue walked up the hillside with a sickle, her steps echoing through the grass, the blades of grass rustling against her clothes.
She bent down, grasped the base of a clump of broom grass, and swung the sickle down. The sound of cutting the grass was crisp and dry, the stems snapping under the sickle. She set the cut broom grass aside and bent down again to cut the next clump.
Her movements as she cut the grass were rhythmic: grasping the roots, she swung the sickle, breaking the grass stems and setting them aside. The marks she left on the hillside slowly became a line, extending along the slope.
She gathered the cut broom grass into a large bundle, tied it in the middle with hemp rope, and carried the bundle down the mountain. The bundle was bigger than her; from behind, all you could see was the bundle moving. Back in the yard, she untied the rope and spread the broom grass out, covering half the yard.
A few days later, the grass was completely dry. The sun-dried broom grass was a deeper color than when it was freshly cut, turning from golden yellow to brownish yellow. Su Peixue sat on the doorstep, an old cloth spread on her lap, and picked up the dry grass, arranging it one by one.
She removed the stray leaves, pinched off the dry, fibrous roots, and picked out the deformed stems, tossing them aside. The neatly arranged broom grass was stacked at her feet, with one end aligned at the base and the other end of the grass heads fluffy.
She aligned the neatly arranged broom grass roots, held them by the root end with both hands, lifted them high, and slammed them hard on the ground several times. The grass roots hit the ground with a series of dull thuds. After slamming them, she straightened the roots again to make sure all the grass stems were aligned.
She tightly wrapped the hemp rope around the base of the hay. The rope cut into the hay, and she braced herself against the bundle with her knees, pulling hard on both ends of the rope. The rope creaked as it tightened, and the hay was pulled inward, the base forming a tight handle shape. She wrapped the rope around the handle twice and tied two knots.
The bamboo pole was picked from the bamboo grove yesterday; it was a thin, three-year-old bamboo, just the right thickness to hold in her hand. She sharpened one end with a machete and forcefully inserted it into the center of the broom grass root. The bamboo pole pierced through the tightly bound grass with a dull thud. It pushed forward a little, then stopped. She then used hemp rope to tie several more loops at the junction of the bamboo pole and the grass bundle, tightening these reinforcing ropes to completely secure the bamboo pole and the grass bundle together.
Finally, she picked up the shears and trimmed the edges of the broom. The shears sniped continuously for a while as she cut away the uneven blades of grass and shaped the edges into a curved shape. After finishing, she picked up the broom and walked to the center of the yard. Holding the bamboo pole, she pressed the broom to the ground and began sweeping.
The broom swept across the bluestone pavement, making a soft rustling sound. The dry grass blades rubbed against the stones, pushing the fallen leaves forward one by one. The swept ground was clean and tidy, and the fallen leaves were gradually gathered into a small pile in the corner of the yard.
After sweeping the entire yard, she stood in the middle of the yard, leaning on her broom, the broom bristles sticking out of the ground, the bamboo pole in her hand, looking at her broom and the clean yard.
The screen gradually darkens. Subtitles appear on the black screen: A broom, coming from the mountains.
The last thing I made was a dried flower wreath.
In the early morning, various flowers in the flowerbeds of the small courtyard awaken in the morning light.