Bamboo beds in those days

Although he wasn't a professional craftsman, as his main profession was teaching, he was meticulous in everything he did, so the items he made were very smooth and sturdy. Whenever he visited, he was always busy. After finishing the larger items, he would quickly make smaller ones. Sometimes it would be a dining table, a few small chairs, or some broom handles to keep for later. One time, during a heavy rain, he made a bamboo bed for my family. That bamboo bed, now polished by time, has become an item that reminds me of him the most whenever I see it.

Normally, my father would set up a bamboo cot in the corner of the side house. On hot summer afternoons, he would carry it out to the well in the yard, rinse it with water to cool it down, and then place it in the middle of the yard. After dinner, the whole family would gather to enjoy the cool breeze. The wind from the garden blew gently, the sugarcane leaves rustled, and the fragrant scent of flowers lingered. The scent of jasmine on the trellis by the well wafted through the air, the sweet, intoxicating fragrance of dragon's claw flowers... and my mother's stories mingled with the rustling leaves and the scent of flowers. Occasionally, the conversation would be interrupted by arguments over who would get the best spot on the cot. My mother would say, "When Grandpa comes down and has bamboo, we'll ask him to make another one." But for some reason, for all these years, our family has only had that one bamboo cot. I've never seen anyone else with two bamboo cots.

On those scorching midday suns, the whole village would gather under the bamboo grove at the end of the lane. The green shade of the bamboo and the mist rising from the pond acted like a giant air conditioner. Some people brought small mats to sit on, others hung creaky hammocks between two trees, and some sat on clean, worn-out palm fronds. The children would sit on the ground, regardless of the fading, white bottoms of their trousers at the end of the day. On days when my father carried his cot down to the bamboo grove, it was nothing short of paradise. Or, to put it in today's terms, it was an extremely "chill" retreat. How wonderful it was to lie with arms and legs outstretched on the cool, smooth mat, feeling the gentle breeze on my hair, gazing at the clear sky filtering through the layers of lush green leaves, casting a hazy, ethereal light; listening to the splashing of shrimp and water striders. And somewhere, the faint chirping of birds flitting from branch to branch among the aquatic plants. Time seemed to stand still, as if we had wandered into a fairytale land. Our neighbors were incredibly envious of that amazing view. The elders admired it, constantly exclaiming at the skill of the bed maker. The four legs were sturdy and evenly spaced, the joints perfectly aligned, the slatted floor smooth and flawless, its surface incredibly soft and smooth to the touch.

The wooden bed was a constant companion for my family for many years. In the summer, people slept on it; in the winter, we used it as a pillow. Much later, when we built a new house, it was left out in the rain and sun, causing it to rot and gradually fall apart. When we had to throw it away, my mother was heartbroken.

Later, whenever I saw a bamboo bed somewhere, I would remember my grandfather's hurried movements, the scent of jasmine on a summer night, and the sparkling sunlight behind the bamboo grove.

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