The truck backed into our yard from
\nthe scrubby alley and dumped a load of
\nslabs: bark cull from the saw mill.
\nMainly eight feet long, rough sawn
\non one side, scabby jackpine bark
\non the other, waiting to be cross cut
\nsawn into foot-long firewood.<\/p>\n
It wasn’t long that both the helter-
\nskelter pile and Mother’s concern waited \u2014
\nat most a week before the jim-jim
\narrived: a hinged steel trough
\nintersected by a two-foot circular
\nsaw blade driven by a belt off a
\ntransverse-mounted gas engine
\nin the truck bed.<\/p>\n
Harley, the cussin’, tobaccy jawin’
\nprimitive hopped out of the truck
\nspat in the general direction of
\nthe clutter of jackpine junk,
\nand got to work, climbing onto
\nthe truckbed where he cranked
\nthe old ford engine to life
\nhopped down, with his remaining hand
\npulled the lever that engaged
\nthe drive belt, and started his task
\nof the next hour: piling variously
\ntwo or three lengths parallel
\nonto the v-trough and cutting
\nthem into manageable firewood.<\/p>\n
My task would be to pile it
\nin neatly ordered rows inside
\nour tired old garage\/shed,
\nas instructed by my father.
\nThe pile towered twice as tall as
\nI, who at age ten was barely
\nup to my father’s shoulder.
\nI was eager both to begin
\nand to finish, with little idea of
\nthe blisters, slivers and frustration
\nto come; I quickly discovered that
\nthe task included carrying the entire pile
\none clumsy armload at a time
\nforty paces around to the shed door
\nand ten paces therein to the back wall.
\nOf course I would be paid:
\ntwenty-five cents per row
\neach the width of the shed’s
\nsixteen feet. This was 1947.<\/p>\n
Whether I finished piling that
\nendless wood in 1947 or not
\nand was able presently to retire
\nto warm comfort in Miami
\nI do not recall.<\/p>\n
I do remember that our security for the winter was dependent
\non whether Junior would be able to store enough firewood
\nto keep the four of us warm against the minus forty cold
\nand the winds that blew down off James Bay to the north
\nfrom December to March, and could freeze hot water from
\nmy mother’s dishpan before it hit the ground.<\/p>\n
If I could keep the wood box full
\nthe fire could start and heat the place
\nand melt the frosty glaze that
\ncrept onto the windows overnight
\nand keep the stove hot enough
\nto ignite the large soft chunks of
\nbituminous coal that made our cellar
\nsuch a dirty place and dark
\nwhere carrot, turnip and potato
\nlay in baskets full of sawdust
\nhauled down from the pile
\nold Harley thoughtfully had spared
\nhis spitting wrath we hoped.<\/p>\n
And so I’d tread the mile to school then back
\nwith the sun that rose winter late set winter early
\nI walked enwrapped in the armour of the north:
\nknitted scarf and socks and woven winter pants
\nand ice-knobbed woollen mittens
\nand rigid parka and frost enshrouded face
\nand listened to the crisp harsh squeak
\nof deep cold snow against my leather bootsoles
\nand wondered if the coal would last til spring
\nand if that damned wood pile would ever end.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
The truck backed into our yard from the scrubby alley and dumped a load of slabs: bark cull from the saw mill. Mainly eight feet long, rough sawn on one side, scabby jackpine bark on the other, waiting to be … Continue reading