Legacy: July 24th

We hired Garrett, a wiry, baby-faced sixteen-year-old neighbour, to help out with yardwork this summer. The first time he showed up, eight ay em sharp, I nearly wept to see this strong good boy working hard to dig out the stumps I didn't get last fall, haul branches to the brush pile, and concentrate so dilligently on making good earning his $6.00/hour. It was beautiful. I had the unmistakably adult desire to call his mother and tell her what a fine young man he is.

He was game for anything (except prolonged periods of weeding), so I told him we needed to stack some wood. Much of our "mature landscape" is not just mature but overripe, so there was a decent little mound of logs. No problem, he said. Half an hour later he knocked at the door and asked me to come make sure his pile looked good. His beautiful half-circle mound lasted but a day, alas. Garrett, see, hasn't yet been schooled in the fine art of woodpile architecture.

I, however, have been learning these lessons since I could pass wood along a chain of hands, indeed, since I was young enough to refuse to pass wood along a chain of hands becuase of the spiders harboured there.

While we were visiting my parents this past weekend, Andy spent most of Saturday morning with my Dad, cutting up logs stacked on sawhorses with a 24-inch chainsaw. Dad has an arrangement with an old neighbour who trims trees on the days he doesn't have class, and instead of hauling it all away to be chipped for compost, he brings it to Mum and Dad's driveway. Looks like it's been a good summer for him; there's barely space for cars now.

These piles are diverse, and the wood in them is old, I'd wager some of it pioneer wood: thick rounds of fruit woods--plum, apple, cherry--and ash, black locust, elm and sycamore, pine and spruce. Dad's plan is to cut and split it all by hand and sell it in bundles--kindling included--to people who just want to go have a campfire somewhere. An artisan campfire. He will also use it to heat his home this winter, and Rob will use it to heat Tryst.

Andy told me about their time together. "When people talk about 'coming into their living'? For your Dad that means wood. That's his heritage for his children. He'd pick up a piece and toss it aside, 'Ooh, look at this one. I'll save it for Rob.' 'Just look at this piece, Andy. Isn't this incredible?'"

This July 24th, while I sit here in Southern Idaho, warmed at fires I didn't light and celebrating my adopted heritage, I also honor those who have taught me how to pile the wood and dry it for use on a cold winter's afternoon--my heritage inherited.