EFB Chapter 131 Weeding Before Farming
Chapter 131 Weeding Before Farming
This flowerbed was planted by Lin Ran after turning over the soil in early spring. The roses are in full bloom, the Chinese roses are climbing up the fence, a few clumps of daisies are huddled in a corner, and there is also a small patch of baby's breath and a few lavender plants. The morning light shines on these flowers, and the dewdrops on the petals reflect the light in tiny glints.
Su Peixue walked into the flowerbed carrying a bamboo basket. The basket was one she had woven herself not long ago, and the bottom still had some mud clinging to it from when she picked vegetables last time. She walked to a cluster of roses, bent down, gently lifted a blooming flower in her hand, and lowered her head to smell it.
The flower touched the tip of her nose, its petals cool to the touch. She let go of the flower, picked up the scissors, and the scissors made a series of crisp sounds as they cut the flower stems. As the flower fell into the basket, the petals collided with each other, making a soft sound.
Having picked enough flowers in the garden, she slung her bamboo basket over her shoulder and walked out of the yard onto the mountain path. On both sides of the path were hillsides overgrown with wild grass, wild berry bushes with red berries hanging by the roadside, and wild chrysanthemums blooming in the cracks of the rocks.
She picked a clump of wild chrysanthemums from a crack in the rock, and then gathered a few wild berries. The bamboo basket gradually filled with flowers: the dark red of roses, the pale yellow of daisies, the delicate white of baby's breath, the bright red of wild berries, and the deep purple of wild chrysanthemums—all colors huddled together.
Back in the courtyard, she sorted the flowers and arranged them on the wooden table. A clean white cotton cloth was laid on the table, and she placed each flower in its proper place. She cut hemp rope into sections, tied them to the base of the flower stems, bound them tightly, and then hung them upside down under the eaves.
The sound of tying the flower branches was very soft, with each tightening of the hemp rope. A whole row of upside-down flowers covered the eaves, the bouquets hanging neatly in a row, swaying gently in the wind.
A week later, the upside-down flowers dried. The colors were a bit darker than before; the roses had turned from bright red to dark red, and the daisies from pale yellow to brownish-yellow, but every petal was intact, only more brittle.
She used a bamboo sieve to collect all the dried flowers, and the dried petals made a crisp clinking sound when she took them out.
She picked some flexible branches from the woods, soaked them in water to soften them, and then bent them into a loop. The loop was just the right size to hang on the wall. She secured the joint with hemp rope.
The branches make a crisp sound when they bend, and branches that have been soaked in water will not break, but will only bend into an arc.
She picked up a dried rose and inserted the stem into the gap in the stem ring. The dried flower stem made a very soft sound as it went into the ring, like a pencil being inserted into a pen holder.
She picked up a daisy and placed it next to the rose, then a sprig of baby's breath, and then a sprig of wild berries. She added them one by one, her fingers moving back and forth along the garland of branches, adjusting the position and angle of each flower.
The wreath gradually grew fuller, its colors varied. Next to the deep purple wild chrysanthemums were dark red roses, next to the roses were pale yellow daisies, next to the daisies were bright red wild berries, and the gaps were filled with tiny white baby's breath flowers and pale purple lavender.
Finally, she picked up a ribbon, tied it, and made a bow. The ribbon made a soft, smooth sound as it passed through the rattan ring, and the knot made a soft click as it tightened.
She hung the wreath on a nail on the wall inside the room, let go, and took two steps back to see the effect. The wreath hung quietly on the wall, and all the flowers had found their place.
She didn't waste the remaining dried flowers; she picked a few and placed them in a rough ceramic vase on the windowsill. Light from outside shone through the glass onto the vase and the dried flowers, casting their shadows on the wall like a painting. A breeze blew across the windowsill, causing the flower shadows to sway gently.
The screen gradually darkens. Subtitles appear on the black screen: "Spring has been hung on the wall."
On a clear early spring morning, the vegetable garden next to the yard was still withered and yellow.
The frost left over from last winter killed most of the weeds, and the withered branches and leaves were scattered haphazardly on the ground, like a ruined carpet.
The stems of the wild wormwood were completely dry, and when the wind blew, they collided with each other, making a hollow sound.
The broken tiles were buried in the soil, with only a corner of their bluish-gray edges showing. They were carelessly thrown away by the previous tenant when he renovated the house, and had been mixed in with the soil and washed away by the rain for who knows how many years.
A thin mist drifted down from the foot of the mountain, enveloping the ground and turning the entire vegetable garden into a hazy gray. The mist carried the scent of earth and dew, cool and refreshing, like drinking a mouthful of ice water when inhaled.
A few birds were chirping in the persimmon tree, their voices carrying far through the mist, as if seen through a thick layer of cotton cloth. The whole courtyard was still asleep.
Su Peixue walked out of the yard carrying a hoe. The hoe handle was new; she had just bought it from a farm tool shop in town a few days ago. It hadn't been worn smooth by hand yet, and the wood still had splinters, making it a bit rough to hold.
She leaned the hoe and sickle against the persimmon tree and placed the bamboo basket at her feet. The basket was one she had woven herself, and the bottom was still covered in mud from when she picked vegetables last time.
She stood with her hands on her hips and looked at the ground—it was covered with withered grass, broken stones and tiles, and a few clumps of wild wormwood that had been neglected last year had grown taller than a person, their withered yellow flower spikes swaying in the wind. She breathed into her palms, white mist dissipating from her lips, rubbed her hands together, and squatted down to start pulling weeds.
Holding a handful of withered grass by the roots, the rough stems and the edges of the withered leaves felt like sandpaper against my palm.
She pulled hard upwards—the grass root snapped along with the soil, the tearing sound muffled, like tearing a piece of waterlogged cloth.
The grass roots she pulled out were covered in mud, which fell off and shattered into powder on her canvas shoes. She tossed the handful of grass aside and pulled out another.
The short grass was pulled by hand, and the tall grass was cut with a sickle. Lin Ran bought the sickle from the blacksmith's shop; the blade was polished to a shine, and the wooden handle was blackened by hand sweat.
She gripped the sickle and swung it down, the dry grass stalks snapping beneath the blade, the rhythmic rustling of the sickle echoing. Each stroke was crisp and clean. She gathered the cut weeds into a pile, intending to dry them for firewood—dry grass was the best kindling for starting a fire in winter, igniting easily.
After weeding, she began picking up pebbles and broken tiles from the ground. This plot of land had probably been abandoned for several years, with many broken tiles, fist-sized pebbles, and broken bricks buried in the soil. They were probably thrown away by previous residents when they renovated their houses, or they might have been left behind by even earlier residents.
She squatted down and used her fingers to pick out the broken tiles one by one from the soil. The broken tiles were covered in wet mud and had sharp edges. She picked them up very carefully, pinching one corner of the tile between her thumb and forefinger and gently lifting it up. The tile made a very soft sucking sound as it was pulled out of the soil, like pulling a bottle cork out of the mud.
She picked up each piece and tossed it into the bamboo basket, the tiles clanging together with a crisp sound. Gradually, the bottom of the basket filled with broken tiles, pebbles, and broken bricks, the weight slowly pressing down on her arms.