A Woodpile is a Thing of Beauty

It’s funny sometimes, isn’t it, how a task that might at first seem like just another chore to complete on a long list of others becomes more than that, takes on a certain depth and fullness, even gives new life?

Take wood-stacking, for instance.

Our neighbors down the road had what looked to be a wood-stacking party yesterday. A bunch of cars pulled in, and lots of people wearing gloves were moving about purposefully as I drove by in the morning, with a pile of wood the focal point. When I passed by again a few hot hours later, the activity was a little more desultory— I spotted some casual swinging going on in the backyard, and people scattered around the place, just chatting. By then, apparently, enough work had gotten done for them to kick back a bit.

I was especially interested in this scene because it was both similar and different to one happening on my driveway a few days before. Finally, on Memorial Day to be exact, my husband and I found that we were both free and could turn our attention to the wood that had been delivered a number of weeks before. It was just us—no kids were home yet, and we hadn’t thought to invite anyone over—but we got the job done. Pretty darn well, too, I might add.

Putting a lid on my pride, I suggest that you look at this and give yourselves a little credit for any minor or major feats you have recently completed around your homes. Pause.

We worked mostly in silence (I’ve learned there are benefits to this) and just kept at it, with my husband using the tractor‘s front loader to move and drop the chunks right by the growing pile. Such a satisfying sound that is, so definite, when the pieces fall, each one announcing its presence. My mind drifted to friends of ours, from our old neighborhood, who wisely, like our new neighbors, had an annual party for this occasion. I loved how they made use of their whole property; people roamed around, finding stuff to do, visiting with one another.

And then I went back further, remembering how often I saw my father sawing, carrying and otherwise working with wood in one way or another. We had split rail fences, and they were beautiful but sure took a lot of maintenance. “Pony’s out again,” he’d say, before heading out to find the gap.

This sweet picture, of Dad and my eldest brother, was taken well before I was born, but it has sifted into my memory, too. My father had been gone in the Pacific, in the Navy, during the first year of my brother’s life. Looks like here they were doing some re-bonding, with Mike trying to get the hang of the technique, putting his foot up in the same way even.

Memories of wood, in the life of my family, are always close to memories of hay. Later, when a few more boys came on the scene, plus lots of cousins and friends, there were abundant young workers to help get the fragrant, scratchy stuff into the barn. My job, when I was old enough to do anything useful, was generally to stay in the wagon, stomping it down. Here’s another picture taken before my arrival, with Dad looking up at members of his crew. It’s filmy, almost as if from a dream.

So when I’m stacking wood with my husband in the modern age, quietly except for the steady “clunk, clunk” sounds, I’m also re-discovering the gifts of my particular childhood and making contact with the past, in an organic way. But that’s not all.

Once the woodpile is finished, we rest for a while. Then, soon enough, it’s time to take stock of the array of other outdoor projects that need doing. One among them, down the field a ways, will be trying to bring a certain cluster of birch trees back more or less upright. The constant snow and ice of this past winter sure did a good job of bending them over, and they look kind of like they’re bowing over to confess their sins in church; or just leaning in to hear some really good story, perhaps. Robert Frost knew all about these birches.

Apparently, these graceful creatures with long hair need some assistance righting themselves. One day this summer, after choosing which other trees nearby can serve as supports, we’ll plan to go down there with a good long ladder, some rope pulled through pieces of hose, and the willingness to see the job through. I think we’ll also need a couple more helpers, probably ones who are related to us. Then it can be something they might remember, years hence, when they find themselves tending to newer trees.