Kenobi
Member
Hello there!
Today, Im going to share something different. As a third generation of carpenters, I have a strong respect toward the wood. Where other see a piece of wood, I see a story. So I decided to share one. Here it goes,hope you like it...
An apple tree from the meadow
Somewhere in the middle of the Haná plain ( Hana is one of historic provinces of Moravia,now part of Czech Republic), on a flat and wide area between a picturesque town and a quiet village, an old road led for generations. It was an ordinary dirt path that served people when they went to the market, to the fields or just to visit relatives. The road wound through a landscape that had its own rhythm every spring - as the snow melted on the mountains, the Morava River swelled and flooded the whole area around it. The meadows turned into shallow lakes, the water spilling over regardless of the boundaries of fields, roads or pastures.
It was 1932 when people decided to put an end to this eternal flooding once and for all. Engineers and workers from all around came to reshape the landscape. A network of drainage ditches, canals and dykes was created, which changed the landscape in a matter of months. The water was tamed and the meadows became dry, flat and fertile. Once the work was completed, the old road was also paved and young fruit trees were planted along it - especially apple trees, planted at regular intervals as a lively accompaniment to the pilgrims' every step.
And it was one of these apple trees, then still thin and fragile, that became a silent witness to the changes that the landscape and the people around it were experiencing. Planted right by the roadside, it took deep roots in the new, drained soil and began to grow slowly. At first its leaves rustled slightly in the wind, but each year it grew stronger, its branches spreading out in all directions and its crown becoming wider and denser. In the summer it offered cool shade to travellers and in autumn its branches sagged under the weight of red, juicy apples. People knew it, stopped by, stroked its trunk, sat in the grass beneath it, chased away wasps and nibbled its sweet fruit.
But time passes and nothing lasts forever.
After many years of progress and modernization, a new road was built between the town and the village. It was faster, straighter, and took a different route. People stopped taking the old road. The apple orchard, once so popular and surrounded by the bustle of life, remained deserted. The grass around it grew taller, the bushes grew larger, and more trees and plants began to sprout along the road, creating a dense, green tunnel in which one felt as if one had entered another world.
Without human movement, animals took up residence here. Rabbits, deer, hedgehogs and foxes. Birds nested in the branches of the bushes and their songs echoed from spring to autumn. And our apple tree also became home - thrushes, finches and sometimes even jays nested in it and brought food here.
Only rarely did anyone pass by - perhaps an old man and his dog, a young couple looking for peace, or a mushroom picker from a nearby village. Otherwise, peace and nature reigned here.
As the years passed, the apple tree slowly grew older. Its branches didn't rise to the sky as much, the bark began to crack, and when the clogged drainage ditches stopped working, the ground around it turned to mud again in the spring. One year, in the spring, the Morava swelled up as it had done in the past. The water flooded the meadows, waterlogged the soil and split the roots of the old apple tree. Then came strong winds - and what the water had started, the wind finished. With a painful crack, the apple tree toppled over and fell with a muffled groan across the old, almost invisible road. It lay there silently, as if asleep.
Her story seemed to end. But no.
As the wind died down and night enveloped the landscape, a low, rhythmic sound began to come from the distance - the creaking, grinding of wheels. And two figures emerged from the darkness - a father and a son. The younger one was pushing an old wooden cart whose wheel had long since lost its smooth running. They reached the fallen apple tree, stood silently for a moment, looking around, and then began to talk softly. At last the sound of a chainsaw was heard. The air was filled with the smell of freshly cut wood. In a few minutes it was done. The trunk was cut, the branches were flattened and loaded onto the cart. All that was left of the apple tree by the roadside was a stump and a few leaves that drifted away in the wind.
The next day the wood was cut into smaller pieces, split in half and stacked under the barn roof. And then weeks passed. Maybe months. The wood dried, aged, smelled. Occasionally a younger man would come to look, knock on it, poke it with an awl, test its hardness. He shook his head for a long time, left without a word.
Only once did he smile. For the first time since the apple tree fell.
Then it was its time to come alive again.
Today, Im going to share something different. As a third generation of carpenters, I have a strong respect toward the wood. Where other see a piece of wood, I see a story. So I decided to share one. Here it goes,hope you like it...
An apple tree from the meadow
Somewhere in the middle of the Haná plain ( Hana is one of historic provinces of Moravia,now part of Czech Republic), on a flat and wide area between a picturesque town and a quiet village, an old road led for generations. It was an ordinary dirt path that served people when they went to the market, to the fields or just to visit relatives. The road wound through a landscape that had its own rhythm every spring - as the snow melted on the mountains, the Morava River swelled and flooded the whole area around it. The meadows turned into shallow lakes, the water spilling over regardless of the boundaries of fields, roads or pastures.
It was 1932 when people decided to put an end to this eternal flooding once and for all. Engineers and workers from all around came to reshape the landscape. A network of drainage ditches, canals and dykes was created, which changed the landscape in a matter of months. The water was tamed and the meadows became dry, flat and fertile. Once the work was completed, the old road was also paved and young fruit trees were planted along it - especially apple trees, planted at regular intervals as a lively accompaniment to the pilgrims' every step.
And it was one of these apple trees, then still thin and fragile, that became a silent witness to the changes that the landscape and the people around it were experiencing. Planted right by the roadside, it took deep roots in the new, drained soil and began to grow slowly. At first its leaves rustled slightly in the wind, but each year it grew stronger, its branches spreading out in all directions and its crown becoming wider and denser. In the summer it offered cool shade to travellers and in autumn its branches sagged under the weight of red, juicy apples. People knew it, stopped by, stroked its trunk, sat in the grass beneath it, chased away wasps and nibbled its sweet fruit.
But time passes and nothing lasts forever.
After many years of progress and modernization, a new road was built between the town and the village. It was faster, straighter, and took a different route. People stopped taking the old road. The apple orchard, once so popular and surrounded by the bustle of life, remained deserted. The grass around it grew taller, the bushes grew larger, and more trees and plants began to sprout along the road, creating a dense, green tunnel in which one felt as if one had entered another world.
Without human movement, animals took up residence here. Rabbits, deer, hedgehogs and foxes. Birds nested in the branches of the bushes and their songs echoed from spring to autumn. And our apple tree also became home - thrushes, finches and sometimes even jays nested in it and brought food here.
Only rarely did anyone pass by - perhaps an old man and his dog, a young couple looking for peace, or a mushroom picker from a nearby village. Otherwise, peace and nature reigned here.
As the years passed, the apple tree slowly grew older. Its branches didn't rise to the sky as much, the bark began to crack, and when the clogged drainage ditches stopped working, the ground around it turned to mud again in the spring. One year, in the spring, the Morava swelled up as it had done in the past. The water flooded the meadows, waterlogged the soil and split the roots of the old apple tree. Then came strong winds - and what the water had started, the wind finished. With a painful crack, the apple tree toppled over and fell with a muffled groan across the old, almost invisible road. It lay there silently, as if asleep.
Her story seemed to end. But no.
As the wind died down and night enveloped the landscape, a low, rhythmic sound began to come from the distance - the creaking, grinding of wheels. And two figures emerged from the darkness - a father and a son. The younger one was pushing an old wooden cart whose wheel had long since lost its smooth running. They reached the fallen apple tree, stood silently for a moment, looking around, and then began to talk softly. At last the sound of a chainsaw was heard. The air was filled with the smell of freshly cut wood. In a few minutes it was done. The trunk was cut, the branches were flattened and loaded onto the cart. All that was left of the apple tree by the roadside was a stump and a few leaves that drifted away in the wind.
The next day the wood was cut into smaller pieces, split in half and stacked under the barn roof. And then weeks passed. Maybe months. The wood dried, aged, smelled. Occasionally a younger man would come to look, knock on it, poke it with an awl, test its hardness. He shook his head for a long time, left without a word.
Only once did he smile. For the first time since the apple tree fell.
Then it was its time to come alive again.
