Sarah Nigbor

This is my favorite time of year, but a twinge of sadness sneaks in from time to time. As I’ve mentioned in past columns, the cold of fall is woodcutting weather. And it’s when I miss my grandpa Harlan the most.

Long into his 80s, my grandfather cut firewood every fall without fail. Using his trusty Husqvarna and Stihl chainsaws, he would cut and split about 30 cords per year. For those who aren’t familiar with the terminology, a cord is 4x4x8 feet, or 128 cubic feet. I began helping him when I was a little squirt and kept doing so until I started college. When the frost hit and the weather turned cold, that’s when woodcutting started in earnest.

He had many faithful customers who bought the seasoned, dry oak wood from him every year. My uncle often helped him with deliveries, though I went with a few times. I found out years later that Grandpa stored his “wood money” in the potato bin in the root cellar. I’m guessing that was a carryover from the Great Depression and mistrust of banks, but I’m not positive. I do know when he died Grandma showed me a stack of bills under her bed, in a shirt box of all things. It totaled $10,000! I made her take it to the bank that very day for fear someone would break in and take it.

When Grandpa cut wood, he did so on his land, which totaled about 27 acres, though it was mostly farmland. He had permission from the landowner next door to cut wood on his 40; Grandpa watched over that 40 for the owner, who lived in New York, and would visit about once a year. The land had belonged to his grandparents and was precious to him. His name was Marvin “John” Siebold. My grandpa and he had a special bond, an appreciation for the land and its resources.

When we were putting together our Salute to Service section honoring local veterans, a woman wrote to me from New York, wondering if we would like to publish the story of her father, a World War II veteran who will turn 100 on Nov. 18. That man is Marvin “John” Siebold, who grew up in River Falls/Prescott.

The name sounded familiar to me, but it didn’t dawn on me right away who he is. As I was taking out my dog and staring at my own woods, the light bulb blinked on. He is the man who owned the 40 next to us and where we cut wood for years. I spent hours on his land, building brush forts, picking wildflowers, deer hunting, exploring an old cabin that had collapsed (all that was left was a chimney and rock basement) and of course, cutting firewood with Grandpa. There was also a sandy area that my cousins and friends and I played in, too close to the road for the adults’ taste. But it made the perfect spot to play Matchbox cars.

Please read Mr. Siebold’s story in our Salute to Service section. What a remarkable life he has lived. Even though he doesn’t know who I am, I am so thankful to him for entrusting his property to my family to take care of and allowing us the use of it. I have so many memories of that 40, which was sold a couple years ago. Thank you, Mr. Seibold, not only for your service to our country, but for having a part in making my childhood very special.