The sun is finally coming out. Almost time to take off my flannel shirt.
A horsefly noisily announces itself as it buzzes my ear. Tiny Dragonflies dance on the tall grass that is the un-manicured part of our yard. At the top of my line of vision is “Beaver Hollow” (as I call it), once a vibrant section of forest that is now a desolate acre of dead trees and beaver dams. The beavers provide some entertainment sometimes, but the damage is done. One perk of Beaver Hollow is the Bullfrogs and Herons. The Herons nest in there and are quite majestic when they come in from wherever they go each day and the bullfrogs often get my attention with their cacophony. Of course I can’t hear anything right now over the pounding in my head. I am sitting on a stack of pallets trying to get my wind again.
The woodpile and 15 pound mall (like an axe but heavier) call to me, I assure them that I will be back at it in a moment. I can’t help but notice that the pile is about half of what it was. That would explain the aching in my neck, the calloused hands and the pounding heart that I can feel thumping in my head like a marching band, This woodpile is my therapy, my rehab and one contribution to my mother by way of helping her out. This woodpile is the last tree that my dad took down before he died. She has been looking at it out of her kitchen window for the last 4 years. It needs to go for so many reasons. But it is no small project, the wood is old and very dry and splitting is a bitch. Despite having an industrial log splitter in the garage, I told Mom I am doing it by hand. She thinks I’m nuts and she’s probably right. But she noticed today how much I’ve gotten done.
I have been out of the hospital for 6 weeks now. When I first got here to convalesce I couldn’t navigate a flight of stairs without gasping for breath. I saw that woodpile and I knew that it would be my recovery. When I was a young boy I would split wood for our fireplace every afternoon in the fall. On a clear October or November day the wind would gust and the leaves would swirl around me as I hammered away. I was strong, lean and my lungs were full of clean air. Like a heroin addict looking for that first exhilarating high again I now hope that swinging an axe and stacking a pile will bring back the old me. And in a way it has. I may do three or four logs and then sit down on my pallets for a bit. I may go three days without doing any of it. Some days I might only do a couple and then quit for the day. But I’m doing it. And 6 weeks after not being able to climb stairs I am swinging away with strength and accuracy.
Before the snow falls this pile will be done. And I hope that my last grunting swing, the last splintering sound as the wedge drives through the log, the last echo of the strike bouncing off of the trees all around me reminds me of when I was that young man again. Wearing a tee shirt when everyone else was wearing jackets, working when they were playing, and feeling like I could move mountains. I miss that feeling and I want it back.
I’ve got 2 hours or daylight left let’s see what I can do with it.