American Farmers: Facing a Cutoff at the Start

Fett pushed open the door and entered the house. In the living room, old Frank and Roy were sitting around the coffee table.

The two of them didn't take any paper or pen; instead, they dipped their fingers in tea and sketched the area around the farm on the clean table.

Water stains seeped into the dark wood grain, outlining several crooked lines.

"Dad, Uncle Roy, how's it going? Any suspects?" Fett sat down on the sofa, his gaze sweeping over the simple sketch.

The two looked at each other and shook their heads in unison.

"We haven't offended anyone recently," old Frank said, his brow furrowed as he rubbed his rough hands on his knees. "This kind of thing has never happened before."

He sighed. "If that bastard comes again tonight, he'll definitely escalate things and create even bigger obstacles."

"If we're constantly on guard, it'll take up too much of our energy, and we won't be able to focus on doing business."

Roy also looked worried and said:

"Yes, and the forest is so big, we can't possibly send someone to guard it all night."

"He's in the shadows, we're in the open; this is such a humiliating loss."

Fett stared at the waterline on the table that represented the highway. Although the sinister face of old Johnny flashed through his mind, he thought that without real evidence, he should suppress his suspicion for the time being.

He pointed to the sharp bend in the road and pondered for a moment:

"Since he did this to disgust us and prevent our guests from entering our farm, he must have made his move on this only road."

"We don't have enough manpower, so we really can't patrol all night."

He looked up at the two elders:

"Every morning, we have to get up and move around before dawn."

"We'll patrol the area along the road, and if we find any fallen trees or blocked roads, we can clean them up before the first group of guests arrives."

Old Frank thought for a moment, then nodded. Although somewhat helpless, he knew this was the only solution at the moment.

"Okay, it's a clumsy method, but it's the most effective."

"As long as we get up early enough and solve the problem, he won't be able to block our path to wealth."

Roy agreed, then turned to old Frank and said:

"Then it's settled."

"Tomorrow morning, the two of us will make a trip, bringing a chainsaw and a tow rope. I refuse to believe it..."

"By the way, Dad, Uncle Roy, there are some things I need to let you know."

Fett cleared his throat and told the two elders all about the plans they had discussed that morning regarding upgrading the farm experience.

The two listened patiently, their furrowed brows slowly relaxing, their eyes showing surprise and approval.

After listening to Fett's account, the two men exchanged a glance, and old Frank's voice boomed:

"Good! It's a good thing that young people have ideas; they're much better than us old folks who only know how to do manual labor!"

"We fully support your idea. If there's any heavy work that needs to be done, just let us know!"

Roy smiled and nodded in agreement:

"That's right, especially the wool class. All those scraps of wool I was going to throw away can be turned into something useful. That's a great thing!"

"We'll take care of the scene setup you mentioned. You and Layla just need to prepare the wooden swords and wool stamps."

"Beep—beep—"

Just then, a car horn suddenly blared outside the door, followed by a man's shout:

"Excuse me, is this Carter's farm? We're here to buy trees!"

"A customer has arrived!"

Old Frank and Roy's eyes lit up. Like veterans hearing a bugle call, they jumped up and strode out to greet the guests.

Fett propped himself up on his knees and followed him out the door.

He glanced instinctively in the direction of old Johnny's house next door, and seeing that there was no movement, he looked away.

After greeting the passengers who had just gotten off the bus warmly, he pushed the small cart by the porch, its wheels creaking as it rolled over the gravel road toward the woodpile in the backyard.

For making wooden knives for children to play with, you don't need expensive mahogany or fancy burl wood; ordinary oak is sturdy and durable enough.

The woodpile was full of logs dragged back from the forest, simply cut into sections by a chainsaw and piled up haphazardly to dry in the shade, with moss and soil still clinging to the bark.

Fett bent down and rummaged through the woodpile for a while, picking out a few pieces of white oak with straight grain and no large knots. He threw them into the cart, picked up some spent cartridge cases from the ground, and pushed it toward the garage.

Once inside the garage, Fett expertly pressed the switch on the band saw.

"Buzz—"

The saw blade rotates at high speed.

He put on his goggles, steadily pushed the log with both hands, and cut along the grain of the wood.

Amidst the flying sawdust, the rough logs were quickly shaped into neat rectangular blocks.

Next, he took out a steel ruler and a pencil and quickly drew lines on the wooden block to determine the dimensions.

The wood was broken down into rectangular blocks, each about the size of a palm and slightly larger than the final blade.

The rough shaping began, and the rectangular wooden block was gradually shaped into the form of a knife, though it was very rough and thick.

Fett adjusted the back of the bandsaw to the appropriate thickness and sliced ​​the thick wooden blanks into slices about half an inch thick, like slicing toast.

This was the prototype of the wooden sword.

Fett walked up to the belt sander and changed to a coarse-grit sanding belt.

"Sizzle—"

He picked up a piece of wood and attached a spun sandpaper strip to the side.

Amidst the rough scraping sound, the excess material at the edge of the wood chip was quickly ground away, gradually revealing the outline of a curved blade tip and handle.

After the basic shape was finalized, he switched to fine sandpaper and began fine finishing.

Fett felt the wood grain with his fingers, patiently rounding the back of the knife, creating a safe bevel at the blade that wasn't actually sharp enough to hurt someone.

The basic shape of the wooden sword blade was complete; it was time to make the handle. Looking at the pile of .45 caliber pistol cartridge cases on the workbench, Fett felt that something was still missing.

How do you get this thing onto the knife handle?

It's too small; it's not conspicuous enough to be embedded in the knife handle, and if a child plays with it, they could easily pry it off and swallow it.

Fett's eyes lit up, and he turned around to rummage through the pile of junk, pulling out a tin bucket that old Frank had collected from his hunting. He rummaged around inside for a while and pulled out a handful of spent 12-gauge shotgun shell casings.

The red plastic shell was blackened by gunpowder, but the brass base at the bottom still gleamed, making it look quite impressive.

"This is good!"

Fett had an idea. He found some scissors and pliers and cut off the plastic parts of the spent red shotgun shells at the base, leaving only the heavy brass base.

Fett returned to the belt sander.

After rubbing the brass base on the polishing wheel a few times, the originally blackened brass surface instantly became shiny and golden, and the "12 GA" stamp on the bottom was clearly visible.

He picked up the wooden sword again, but this time he didn't sharpen the blade; instead, he worked on the end of the handle.

The sanding belt spun rapidly, gradually refining and rounding the smooth wooden handle.

Make the end of the handle thinner, apply glue, and then fit the golden brass base tightly onto the end of the wooden handle like a ring. Finally, gently tap it in place with a hammer.

"Perfect."

The simple white oak knife is instantly elevated several levels with the addition of this gold metal tip.

"So handsome!"

Two unanimous exclamations rang in my ears.

Fett subconsciously looked up.

A mother and child were standing at the garage entrance at some point.

The little boy in the windbreaker was clinging to the door frame, his eyes fixed on the wooden knife in Fett's hand, his eyes practically popping out of their sockets, his face clearly showing his desire.

The young and beautiful mother next to her, however, did not let her gaze linger on the knife.

She looked at Fett, whose sleeves were rolled up, whose arm muscles were clearly defined, and who was focused on sanding the wood. A hint of admiration flashed in her eyes, and a smile appeared on her lips.

"He's really handsome, much more handsome than he looks on TV."