Dad laying down the last tree a couple years ago. Wish we still had him and his saw around.
When we said our last good bye’s in Cookeville in the summer of 2013 I knew that was probably my last hug this side of eternity with my Dad. As usual Dad had led us in prayer. . . Not the once booming prayer but a simple prayer of a patriarch praying his prayer of blessing for his missionary son and family. Dad had several major values in life. One of those values was making sure every soul possible was won to Christ. At the top of this list was to witness the coming to Christ of his children and Grandchildren. But a second value on Dad’s radar was, “If you can save money by doing it yourself then you might as well do it up right.” In Dad’s view keeping 2 winters supply of split and well cured oak firewood in the shed was saving “tons” of money.
For as long as I can remember, which is more than 40 years, we Boyds have been stacking neat rows of good oak firewood. The house we built on the farm in 1983 was designed around two big fireplaces and one whole house wood burning furnace. Yes, sir we were ensuring that wood burning was going to be in the family for generations to come.
Each year dad always got desperate to cut wood along about the hottest week of the summer and the most humid one too. And another non-negotiable was we use to get stuck somewhere deep in the woods in some mud puddle and thus the tractor was purchased along about 1984 --primarily to get us unstuck. Now “we” could send Darron to run get the chains and the tractor to pull the over loaded 1976 blue and white half ton pick-up, that was loaded with about 2 tons of green oak wood. And we wonder why it was stuck?! Probably it had more to do with the fact that the leaf springs on the pick up were bent backwards and the front wheels were scarcely touch the ground, than the fact that we hit a mud puddle that was no problem going into the wood but now was way too big.
Back in those days I use to gaze in awe as my tall 5’ 10” dad swung the splitting maul with perfect accuracy making those billets of 30-inch-across oak-wood “slice like butter”. Try as I might when I was 12 I could not swing that 15 pound splitting maul with any kind of accuracy.
But then I grew. . . something like 6 inches in 14 months between 12 1/2 and 13 1/2. I grew so fast my bones hurt and dad began to really value my work ability. I began to notice along about that time in life that Dad’s back was not as straight as it use to be and we all knew he suffered from sever Asthma, and a bunch of Arthritis’ aunts and uncles. Perhaps it was the fact that when he wasn’t splitting wood by hand he was laying rocks on our house or pouring a cement drive by hand because of that value If you can save money by doing it yourself then do it with all your might. But dad always was certain his back problems weren’t because of a “little work”.
Even the 24 foot latter on the bank could reach the first limbs so we could place a cable around the tree to help guide it to the desired location.
As we left the farm in 2013 after Dad had prayed a beautiful prayer he said, “Well, I’m going to get stronger here soon so I can get out and fill the shed up with wood and help finish the gospel, too.” Deep in my heart I knew both were wishful thinking for a man who now stood scarcely 5’4’' due to scoliosis, arthritis, and much more. It didn’t surprise me but it still hurt deeply on the night of November 8 after I’d finished preaching the opening night of a Reaping Evangelism meetings in Wamena, Papua when I got an urgent message to call Ruth. I knew it was Dad even before I called her back. He had fallen asleep in Jesus during the night while I was preaching.
The shed hadn’t quite been full with two years supply of wood when dad passed away. So I knew this summer of 2014 it would be my honor to fill the shed.
It didn’t use to seem like an honor when I was a teen. But this summer those old scars gained while cutting wood came to mind. There was the one I received when I was fourteen when I stopped the 8 foot section of log with my knee from rolling down the mountainside. Then there was the one I received the summer of my 16th year of life. Just a 1/2inch long scar but how the memories roll with that scar.
It was 5:30 a.m. on a Sunday morning which for we Adventists means the working week is ready to go full blown. . . that is unless you’re a 16 year old boy who has arranged to sleep in until 9:00 a.m., which is late on a farm, and then go water skiing. Suddenly the lights came on in disco style (flicking the switch) and dad let out a “Yeeeeeeeee HOOOOOOO. It’s time to rise and shine” Somewhere I had missed the message that Sunday morning was a non-negotiable wood cutting day. Dad had received the offer of free wood.
So in a foul mood I came out to breakfast and soon we were heading down the road with our 1976 pickup towing a 16 foot long flat bed trailer so we could put some of those tons of extra wood on the trailer instead of the pickup. We were loaded with Gator-aid and lunch so we could make a day of it. Since dad had his first back surgery and I had grown to my 5’11” height I was the designated maul swinger. A 15 pound maul hammer when your angry from missing the day on the lake with friends is a good thing. You can swing your anger away and you get a pick up and 16 foot long trailer filled sooner.
As I was swinging suddenly a searing pain hit my left bicep just above the elbow. I had just hit a splitting wedge when the pain seemed to deepen. Why? I looked and I could only see a small cut with scarcely a drop of blood. Apparently a hot sliver of metal shrapnel from off the wedge had cauterized its way deep into my left bicep leaving almost no trace. I had to look carefully to see the blood. Then the pain hit me all at once – like a bullet. Every heart beat throbbed with searing pain in my left bicep. I reached into the wound with my dirty finger nails and pulled out a 2 centimeter long razor sharp shard. As I gapped into this 1/2 inch wide wound I could see the large vein in my bicep had been narrowly missed. “If only I’d gone skiing on the lake this stupid shrapnel wound wouldn’t have happened,” I remember mumbling under my breath.
Jacob holds the cable before its attached to the longer cable. If you look very carefully you can see Andrews body climbing down the tree from where he helped get the cable around the limbs. Look below to see the close up of Andrew coming down.
Somehow this summer of 2014 I wished that I was 16 all over again or 15 or 14 and that I could split wood without complaining so my dad didn’t have to take it on his back. Dad bought a hydraulic splitter before that year over back when I was 16 and splitting became a bit easier.
This giant southern Red Oak that was just 92 years young had to come down. The insects has literally eaten the heart out of a lot of it which was slowly causing it to die.
This summer on furlough when my brother posted on Facebook that he was NOT looking forward to missing the warmth of wood heat when the shed was empty sometime mid winter coming up, Friends responded from Heritage Academy with a large tractor and help lay down the designated tree that was itself a teenager when Dad was born in 1934. So with the new Stihl chainsaw that was a bit on the under size, I cut and cut and cut and then came the splitting. Thankfully, I have 4 he-man offspring and my sisters have 5 he-man nephews so putting away the wood was a bit easier than days gone by.
Ever so thankful for all the help of those who came to help.
When the tree was almost fully put away and split my brother came wheeling into mom’s dining room one supper time with the news that he’s just found 2 free trees already cut into firewood size free for the taking. Oh man! Free Firewood to a Boyd who has managed to inherit the cheap-skate do-anything you- can-to-save-a-dime And do-it-with-ALL-your-might gene, means lets get to it. This translated into convincing my little older sister (she’s 5’2”) and her two oldest sons together with my two oldest to go lay claim before anyone else beats us to it. She has a cool red truck with a 16 foot car hauler trailer and we filled it in honor or the good old days.
This part of the tree was so big I had to split it in two first so I could cut the rest of the way through the tree.
He-Nephew Bryan and He-son Andrew learn how to love-hate wood splitting with a much easier method of hydraulic splitting.
The cool red truck with a cool load of free wood that no self-respecting Boyd could ever deny themselves of.
And now the shed is fuller than anytime I’ve ever seen it before. I guess the shed to have 8 foot high by 20 foot long by 14 foot deep full to the brim of split southern red oak. Mom kept saying, “Dad would have been proud.” Honestly, it’s funny how my hatred of wood cutting has turned a bit like a veteran returned from war that he hated to be fighting in, yet now relishes in the war stories of World War Wood of 1984.
We finally got smarter and put the splitter right at the shed door entrance so we could split it and then stack it directly. This was a few ricks short of what it was before we finished the job.
Mom, I know you’re worried you ruined my vacation but honestly it was a Great honor and now if I think long enough I can manufacture a good yarn about the slight mark from the scar that’s now on my left ankle that I have no-idea how it got there. But it’ll have a good story to go with it someday. “Yep let me tell you about that scar. It came while cutting wood way back in 2014. . . when we filled the shed fuller than its ever been filled before.” It’s an honor to be a veteran of the wood cutters league. It an honor to honor my Mother. Here’s to next furlough when I’m sure someone will let me borrow a slightly bigger chainsaw, pretty Please!
Cheers! Until the World War Wood of 2015 – Its an honor!
Exhausted!
