The last process completed by an axe is quenching.
Father's habit is to clamp a new axe that has just been quenched, aim it at the sharp corner behind the anvil, and chew it hard on it to see how the steel mouth of the axe is and whether it can handle the iron.
Because of this, the sharp axe of that chopping block is full of marks, and the new marks just shaved are silvery white. And the axe that my father just tried and threw on the ground was still very hot, and the new axe glowed blue.
At this moment, my father glanced at the axe lying in front of him, stepped on the anvil, picked up the hookah pot and began to smoke. At this time, I can rest my hands, leave the blacksmith shop quickly and run outside the gate. I always want to leave this tinkling day and run to the outside world. At that time, I was like a newly built axe, ready to sharpen the blade, wait for the opportunity, and severely chop the two axes of life.
once, during the summer vacation, my father asked me to help him build a batch of sickles. Crops all over the mountains are yellow, waiting for the sickle to harvest. People need sickles, crops need sickles more, and the golden wheat has opened its mouth and almost cried out. Father was in a hurry. I don't care about this, I think about my business.
I said to my father, I don't want to have a sickle, I want to collect medicine. I imagined picking up a big sack of medicine. At that time, Gentiana macrophylla was selling at a good price, and I wanted to earn my own tuition. I think it's a lot of trouble to fight a sickle.
my father didn't object to my taking medicine. He said, go ahead and do what you love.
actually, I don't know what I love to do. For example, father, hit an axe, hit a sickle, then smoke a pot of hookah and drink two or two shochu before going to bed. He certainly loves to do all these things, and he takes everything in his stride. What about me? As of that autumn, nothing had been done. I always like to dream.
I made up my mind to collect herbs. I lost my patience after wandering around the mountain 2 miles away from home for three days. Others are always working with their heads down, but I can't find any medicine. Those herbs that grow in bushes always pass me by.
twenty miles away, I seem to hear my father forging a sickle. I think those just-made sickles are being sharpened by their owners, and sickles are reaching out to mature wheat.
My father finished the sickle, and then he began to build an axe. Father's axe is always in short supply.
I stood dejectedly in front of my father, who didn't say a word. He picked up a freshly quenched axe and chewed it hard on the chopping block twice.
at this time, I really should be ashamed of myself. I can't watch my freshly baked axe rust away in vain and then dispose of it as waste. I have to make good use of it and cut out two new marks. My father built an axe with a hard steel mouth for most of his life, and he can't be defeated by my axe.