One more strip, then tea.
The Unusual Order
Grandpa Bamboo was weaving the rim of a basket when a girl came to his door.
“One more strip,” he told her, “and then I’ll put the kettle on.”
The girl waited while he drew a thin piece of bamboo over one upright strip and under the next. He tucked the end in and pressed it flat with his thumb.
“There,” he said.
He picked up another strip.
“Was that the one you meant?” the girl asked.
Grandpa Bamboo looked at the strip in his hand, then set it down.
“The kettle first.”
While he filled it, the girl placed a folded cloth on the floor beside her.
“My grandmother would like a basket,” she said.
“What will she use it for?”
“Her painting things.”
Grandpa Bamboo nodded. “A handle, then, so she can carry it?”
“Yes, please. And she would like a hole in the side.”
He turned from the kettle.
“A hole?”
“Near the top.”
Grandpa Bamboo looked at the basket in his lap. Its sides were woven closely enough to hold even his smallest tools.
“Did she say what the hole was for?”
The girl opened her hand. A length of blue ribbon lay across her palm.
“She gave me this.”
A Place for the Gap
Grandpa Bamboo held the ribbon against the side of the unfinished basket.
“Does she want to tie it through the hole?”
“I don’t think so. She tied it around my finger so I wouldn’t forget.”
“What were you meant to remember?”
“The hole.”
“Ah.”
The girl untied a small knot near the end of the ribbon.
“She made this to show me where it should go.”
Grandpa Bamboo set the ribbon along the rim, with the knot hanging down the side.
“About here?”
“I think so.”
“How large?”
The girl made a circle with her thumb and finger. Grandpa Bamboo found a bamboo strip and bent it into a circle of the same size.
She looked at it.
“Perhaps a little larger.”
He widened it.
“Not quite so large.”
He made it smaller. The girl leaned close.
“That looks right.”
Grandpa Bamboo held the circle against the basket. “What needs to fit through?”
“My grandmother’s brush.”
“A paintbrush?”
“A long one. It keeps rolling when she carries her things to the garden.”
“Did she give you the brush to bring?”
“She was using it.”
The kettle began to sing. Grandpa Bamboo poured hot water into the teapot and found a small cup for his visitor.
“I brought something else,” the girl said.
She unfolded the cloth. Inside was a narrow roll of fabric, tied with thread.
“Grandmother said it’s about as wide as the brush handle.”
Grandpa Bamboo held it across the opening they had measured.
The roll fit through, with a little room on either side.
“Now we can make a place for it,” he said.
One More Strip
Grandpa Bamboo brought out a basket he had begun that morning. Its base was finished, but the sides were only halfway up.
He worked slowly around it, drawing each strip over and under. The girl watched from the other side, her cup held carefully in both hands.
When he reached the place where the opening would go, he paused.
“Could you hold the roll here?”
She put down her cup and held it against the side.
“Like this?”
“A little higher.”
She raised it.
“That will do.”
He wove around the roll, leaving a gap near the rim. Then he took a narrower strip and worked it along the edge of the opening.
The girl watched him pass it through the weave.
“Is that so the hole doesn’t get bigger?”
“And so the strips beside it stay where they belong.”
She held the roll steady while he tucked in the last end. When he was satisfied, he lifted the basket and looked through the opening at her.
“Can you see me?” she asked.
“One eye.”
She moved to the side.
“Now?”
“The other one.”
The basket was ready for its handle, but Grandpa Bamboo first placed the cloth roll inside. He guided one end through the opening and rested the other against the opposite side.
The roll stayed in place when he gently tilted the basket.
The girl leaned close.
“If her brush is longer, will it still fit?”
“Let’s find out.”
He slid the roll farther through until more of it projected beyond the basket.
“There’s room,” he said. “And the bristles can stay inside.”
He finished the handle while the tea cooled. The girl counted the times he passed the last strip through the rim.
“Six,” she said.
“I thought it was five.”
“You stopped to drink.”
“That may have been when I lost count.”
At Last, Tea
When the basket was finished, the girl slipped the ribbon through the handle and tied it in a bow.
“For your grandmother?” Grandpa Bamboo asked.
“So she’ll know which one is hers.”
“Do you think she’ll be expecting another?”
“She said you might already have one ready.”
Grandpa Bamboo looked at the other baskets by the wall.
“Then I’m glad you told me about the hole.”
He handed the basket to her. She carried it a few steps, returned, and adjusted the bow.
“It leans a little,” she said.
“The bow?”
“The basket.”
Grandpa Bamboo looked inside. The cloth roll rested against one side. He shifted it closer to the middle, leaving its end through the opening.
The girl picked up the handle again.
“That’s better.”
She thanked him and went down the path, the basket swinging gently at her side.
Grandpa Bamboo sat down and reached for his teacup.
“There’s still one,” the girl called from the gate.
He looked at the basket she was carrying. Every strip appeared to be in place.
“Where?”
She pointed to his sleeve.
A long, narrow strip of bamboo had caught in the fabric and trailed behind his arm. He lifted it free and set it beside the others.
“Will you need it?” she asked.
“Not until after tea.”
She watched him take a sip before closing the gate.
Leave a Reply