Lixiang Leyuan High-Pressure Tubing Product Details

Children who grew up in farming families are probably all familiar with this bundle of "high-pressure hose" used for spraying pesticides. The little worker here also grew up helping out at home by "pulling the spray rope" (Taiwanese Hokkien), but facing this thing always felt like seeing the discipline master at school - not much fondness at all. After all, during the stop-and-go spraying process, you often got splashed all over with muddy water, and while waiting you had nothing to do and were bored out of your mind; in a daze, sometimes you would also hear your dad's somewhat garbled furious roars and curses, not to mention constantly having to dodge the poisonous mist coming at your face. But to lighten the burden of the person spraying, you had no choice but to be at their side.

The moment the spraying was done, all I wanted in my heart was to get away quickly, completely ignoring the high-pressure hose lying on the muddy ground that seemed to be exhausted as well. To a child still in the mischievous, playful stage, I suppose I would never have wanted to spend a day of my youth in this way.

Until many years later, the child from back then suddenly had to take charge of caring for nearly nine fen of pear trees, protecting the plants from pests and diseases, and making sure every pear received enough nutrients. If I wanted to finish these urgent tasks relying only on my own strength, it would surely be as delusional as an ant dreaming of moving a bicycle, unless I had a "high-pressure hose"! ORZ Only then did I realize that this bulky and unremarkable black hose was to the entire pear orchard like blood vessels extending throughout the human body, supporting the development of all human civilization.

Now the roles are reversed: a colleague pulls the rope while I spray the aqueous solution for nutrition and health care. After spraying in pitch darkness, the army of night immediately pressed in, so I had no choice but to hurry with my colleague and clumsily gather up the black hose lying all over the ground, barely alive. As one could imagine, the whole bundle of high-pressure hose on the frame had almost become a hostage tied up every which way, half-undressed. I could not help but guiltily ask myself why I had never learned how to treat this old friend kindly. Fortunately, Dad, who had come to help transport the equipment, arrived in time and smoothly rescued the situation.

Until this week, when spraying the whole orchard, I took advantage of Dad not having arrived yet and first tried patiently winding the rope myself. I discovered that before, my attention had all been on my left hand "guiding the rope," thinking that this way it would not get messy or stuck. This time, though, it suddenly dawned on me that the right hand turning the wheel to wind the rope was also crucial; while exerting force to turn the rope, it had to focus and control the stability of strength and speed. Once I grasped this point, winding the rope became much smoother and more beautiful. Like a solemn ritual, under my careful and reverent execution, the black rope finally regained its dashing form and dignity.

I deliberately asked Dad, who arrived shortly after, how I had done this time. He said lightly that it was okay, and that there was still room for improvement. I smiled inwardly. Dad did not know that as the black hose was coiled round after round, the little worker also seemed to leave his body and "follow the line" back to the me in the history of the past, quietly completing what that cheating child had not yet finished.