To the wood lot we go This is my favorite time of year, hands down. Fall is in the air. The mornings are crisp and frosty, but the sun still has a little power later in the day to warm the concrete …
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To the wood lot we go
This is my favorite time of year, hands down. Fall is in the air. The mornings are crisp and frosty, but the sun still has a little power later in the day to warm the concrete and chase away the chill. The leaves are turning brilliant hues of red, gold and orange. Pumpkins and gourds dot roadside stands throughout the county. Football games dominate Friday nights and hunting fever is escalating (at least in my house). Ah, fall.
I love fall for many reasons. For one, I love cooler weather and the joy of snuggling in a warm blanket or sweater. I’ve never been a huge fan of summer’s temps; fall and winter are much more up my alley. I also enjoy many of fall’s activities, such as picking apples, carving pumpkins and buttoning things up before winter’s winds whip through the air.
But my number one reason for loving fall is the memories it brings of my time with Grandpa in the woods. I’ve written about him many times, and I know I’ve written a col- umn about cutting firewood with him, but I can’t help myself because it’s “wood-cutting weather.”
My grandpa, for as long as I can remem- ber, would cut cord after cord of firewood in the fall. As the weather turned cooler and the leaves slipped ou the trees, he'd get the itch, my grandma said. He’d get his two chainsaws ready (the Stihl and the Husqvarna), along with plenty of curse words when they wouldn’t cooperate. He’d make sure all the equipment was in working order, including the wood splitter and the International (the Allis Chalmers when I was little). And soon his days would be spent in the woods. He’d bring load and after load out until snow flew or he’d decided he’d cut enough that year. He had a good business and sold out every year. Dry, seasoned oak firewood was a hot com modity. He usually cut about 30 cords each fall.
When I was small, around 6 or 7, I started accompanying him to the woods. I wasn’t much help yet, but I spent hours building forts in the wood while Grandpa cut. I took great joy in having a chocolate chip cookie with him at break time and tried my first sips of couee. An addiction was born. I remem ber laying on the trailer looking up through the golden leaves, thinking I could never be happier than I was at that moment. That small slice of time has never left me.
As I grew older, I wanted to help Grandpa. He wouldn’t let me cut, but I was the master wood piler. We had a good system. He’d mark the dead trees in the summer with neon strips (it was very rare for a live tree to get cut). On the weekends when I could help, we’d get up before dark and eat our breakfast. By the time the sun was peeking over the horizon, we were on our way down the road to the wood lot; I stood on the tractor draw bar and hung onto Grandpa’s coat, the trailer clanking behind us.
We’d get our little camp set up and into the woods we’d go. Grandpa would choose a tree and the chainsaw would roar to life. When the tree went down, I’d run out with the chain and hook it around the trunk, attaching the other end to the draw bar. Grandpa would drag the tree out to our open “camp” area, and cut the branches ou. I scurried back and forth, drag ging the branches to the brush piles, making a game of getting back before the next branch was cut. Next, Grandpa would cut the trunk into stove lengths and the branches into longer sections. If he needed the trunk turned, I would bring the cant hook and turn it. It was my job to pile all the wood on the trailer in an orderly fashion; I was meticulous because I didn’t want a wood avalanche when the tractor lurched over gopher mounds on the way home. After the first tree of the day, I'd stay at the trailer and get all the wood onto it while Grandpa went after the next tree. It was my goal to have all the wood on the trailer before another tree came back, and I usually did it. I was in the best shape of my life back then. I was proud when my grandpa said I worked harder than any man he knew.
We’d usually get a full trailer load by lunchtime. The tractor and trailer would rumble down the road and once home, the wood splitter would roar to life, operated by a belt attached to the tractor. As Grandpa cut the longer chunks of wood into stove lengths, it was my job to catch the chunks as they came ou the splitter and pile them into cords. It was also my job to keep Grandpa supplied with wood to split. I ran back and forth like a skittish rabbit. Our record was splitting and piling one cord in half an hour. My grandpa was so proud.
After splitting, we’d head in for lunch and a well-deserved break. I’d gulp well water like it was going out of style and we’d tell Grandma about our morning. Soon, Grandpa would say “Well, I suppose,” stand up and put his jacket on, and away we’d head down the road for the next load. Toward late afternoon, we’d chug back home with a full trailer of wood behind us, me clinging to Grandpa’s jacket taking in the scents of sawdust and gasoline.
Those days will never leave me. What I wouldn’t give to cut wood with that great man one more time.