In a small Siberian village where I spent my childhood and adolescence, there were several mowers - real masters of their craft. It was often said about such craftsmen: "The scythe sings in his hands." Watching the work of the mowers, I dreamed of becoming just as skillful and agile. Real virtuosos learn the skill of mowing from childhood. I studied too.
Among all the mowers, grandfather Athanasius was especially distinguished. I don’t presume to judge how old he was, but I think he was over seventy. It would seem that the grandfather is too old for such hard work. But even young strong men could not compete with him in mowing.
No one, not even the most experienced mowers, had the mowed grass in such even rows like grandfather's. There was no equal to him in the quality and speed of mowing. We started all the work at the same time. And they all had the most ordinary braids - simple Lithuanians. However, quite quickly, the grandfather turned out to be ahead of everyone.
I could watch him work for hours. Seeing my interest, my grandfather during the breaks explained and showed the most rational ways of mowing: how to properly distribute forces. Sometimes he allowed him to mow. True, my diligence was usually assessed as follows:
- You are too small a sprout, and your strength is not enough. When you grow up and your strength will increase, you will probably be of use. Because you handle the scythe skillfully, and you grasp science on the fly.
I grew up, and my skill of mowing grew. Grandfather Afanasy more and more approved of my work. And then one day the old man asked me to come to his house. I, without delay, went to visit. Grandfather was sitting on the porch and holding a scythe. When we greeted, he gestured to sit next to us and said:
- That's it, Sasha, my time is up: I won't mow anymore. Health is not right.
He paused, then handed me a scythe:
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- I give you my very best, most beloved. It has no price, it is old work. This Lithuanian was used by my father and grandfather. Take care of it, and it will serve you for a long time and regularly.
From an excess of feelings, the grandfather even shed a tear, and when he calmed down, he warned:
- Just keep in mind, Sashok, that this braid has a temper. You need a special approach to it. If you don't get along with her, you will have one trouble.
Unfortunately, I didn’t immediately think to ask what this special approach to the braid was. So the relic of my grandfather Athanasius came to me. And soon the old man passed away.
Before the next haymaking, I prepared the presented scythe: I beat off the blade (the mowers call it a sting), corrected it with an emery bar. The first week went smoothly. But then the problems began. The sting of the scythe suddenly became dull for some reason. I decided, as always, to sharpen it with the same emery bar.
And although the mowers do this simple operation automatically (I have done it hundreds of times), this time in some incomprehensible way (for the first time in my life) the bar slipped out of my hand and I seriously injured my fingers on the blade. I even had to seek help from the first-aid post. Unfortunately, my troubles with the scythe did not end there.
The sting of the scythe was still quickly dull for no reason. Although the grass was in the juice itself and, it would seem, only mows and mows. But no! In addition, the sting began to stick into the ground every now and then. I tried it on in different ways and with great difficulty managed to cope with this problem by changing the usual grip angle.
Alas, my joy was very short-lived. Another completely unexpected trouble was waiting for me 10 days later. I knew the vast clearing away from roads, paths, paths, since I had mowed it several times. But this time the irreparable happened.
After another swing, I felt the blade of the scythe hit something hard. It turned out to be a cobblestone that had come from nowhere. The scythe snapped in half.
So the epic with the gift of grandfather Athanasius ended unsuccessfully. It remains only to guess what ruined the scythe: whether it was a chain of fatal accidents, or whether I was to blame, and who could not find the right approach to it …
Alexander NOSOV, St. Petersburg