Mama and the Rooster

It happened a long time ago when I was a little boy. However, I recall it easily, especially since the story has been repeated numerous times at family gatherings. It is the kind of story that was best re-told while sitting around the dinner table when most of the damage had already been done to a great meal. There was usually an interim period after the meal and before my mother’s chocolate cake was cut, when stories would abound. And speaking of chocolate cake that delicious dessert was actually a bit of a catalyst that started the whole episode that became a story.

It was Saturday so my mother decided she would make a chocolate cake for dessert on Sunday. As she put together her ingredients she realized that she needed two more eggs. Wiping her hands on a kitchen towel, she headed out the backdoor toward the chicken coop, or as we most often called it, the hen house. She opened the gate and entered the chicken yard which was enclosed by a simple wire fence. Just about time she started up the short ramp to the nests, she felt pain and force between her shoulder blades.  Our rooster who was known for being mean had spurred her and scratched her with his nails. She threw him off, kicked him, and headed back through the gate, about as angry as I ever saw her. She was mad because she had been attacked but equally upset because she was in a hurry and didn’t take the normal precautions. There was an old tobacco stick for fending off the scoundrel that permanently leaned against the fence. She normally took it inside the chicken yard when she went to get eggs but in her haste to get back to her cake, she neglected it.

I’m standing there watching the whole thing and saw my mother disappear into the house. Inside she had gone to the bedroom closet, found my daddy’s double barrel shotgun, and loaded in two shells from off the shelf. She came back out and about half way to the gate she stopped, lodged the stock against her shoulder, and released two blasts toward the rooster who was over by the side of the coop. She peppered the side of the hen house with pellets but the rooster ran around the corner. Slowly, she walked to the steps, laid the gun on the porch, and sat down. She reached into her apron pocket, got out a pack of Lucky Strike cigarettes that she kept for “emergency” purposes and lit one up. Actually, I had never seen her smoke. So there we sat and then she looked at me and began to chuckle.

Daddy’s grocery store was only about forty yards from us and as soon as he heard the shotgun he asked one of the fellas sitting around inside to watch the store while he investigated what was going on. He had taught my mother how to use the gun in the event of seeing a snake or some other varmint and expected that was the reason she had fired it. Across the path from the store lived Mary and Zelma, two sisters, who also heard the report and were headed in our direction also. Miss Ada lived further down the path from us and was outside working in her garden. She wore a hearing aid but the noise was plenty loud to arouse her curiosity.

As this quartet converged on the two of us sitting there, they discovered my mother now in full-fledged laughter and wondered if she had lost her mind. She relayed the story to all of them and they too were laughing before the meeting broke up. Miss Ada even turned up her hearing aid to get all the details. She figured this story was worth a battery. Mother went in the hen house without confrontation, retrieved her two eggs, and went in to finish her cake.

It wasn’t until two days later that she realized she had made more of an impact upon the rooster than she realized. Again, she went out to get eggs and there he was leaning up against the hen house…minus his bill. Evidently one of the pellets had rendered him unable to eat and he was fading away. Quickly, my mother dispatched him the way country folks do, and he became dinner. Mama always told me that we reap what we sow. I guess that can go for roosters, too.

Sledding: Unfinished Business

People who live where there is a lot of snow get used to it, deal with it, and generally begin to despise it when they are so longing for Spring to come. I lived in Colorado for a few years and remember how we got "cabin fever" and hoped each snowfall would be the last until the next winter.  The photos and videos of skiers, people building snowmen, having snowball fights, or couples sitting drinking hot cocoa are picturesque and romantic. However, piles of dirty snow, cars coated with road salt, frozen pipes, automobiles that will not start, and slick spots on the sidewalk that wipe you out are a different story. It gets old and wears you down.

On the other hand, most of us who grew up in eastern North Carolina saw snow as an exciting and special treat. At least, that was our feeling as kids. We could go a year or two and not even see a flake so when it finally showed up we were overjoyed. Foremost in our minds was one activity: sledding. Of course, that is a generic term here because most of us did not have sleds.

Tommy Rose had one made out of wood that his dad built for him and it was pretty nice. There were a couple of kids that had those store-bought Radio Flyer sleds, but that was the exception, definitely not the rule. Most of us went sledding on big pieces of cardboard, trash can lids, and about anything else we could find to get us down the hill.We were kids growing up in the fifties and a high percentage of our parents worked at one of the several textile mills that were in our end of town. If they didn't work at a mill they usually did some other blue-collar work. With that being the case, there was never very much extra money. I actually thought about asking for one of those Radio Flyer sleds one Christmas but changed my mind. After all, what if it didn't snow? I could have that beautiful device packed away for a year or more before I ever got to use it. Still, there was nothing much more exciting than flying down that hill on the 700 block of Peachtree Street and feeling that cool wind whistling by your ears. The years passed, I grew up, and I sort of filed away the thought of ever owning a sled. Eventually, I ended up in Colorado but never lost the happy memories of riding that hill...even without a legitimate sled.

After service in the Navy, college, and a few years as a professional musician I returned to my hometown. I was working for the newspaper and the word was out...there was a winter storm approaching. As I made my rounds picking up ad copy from my clients for the Sunday paper, the storm was foremost in practically every conversation. And then it happened. I walked by Braswell Sporting Goods and there displayed on the sidewalk in front of the store were several shiny, new Radio Flyer sleds. I went in and bought one...not the short one...the long one...made so several kids could ride at once....or one good sized adult.

It started snowing Saturday afternoon and by Sunday morning there were several inches on the ground. It was perfect because as the storm came in the temperature dropped. It actually started as freezing rain, moved to sleet, and finally transitioned to snow. That meant there was a good layer of ice underneath the snow. Fantastic....a perfect scenario for a sledding aficionado.

When I got up that morning it was still dark and there was no movement in the neighborhood. I put on a couple of layers of clothes, boots, down-filled jacket, and my cowboy hat. I threw down the last few sips of my coffee and headed out the door with that sled tucked under my arm. The cold wind hit me in the face as I walked from our house on Mill Street over to Peachtree which was only a block away.

When I got to the top of the hill the street lights were still on, Quiet....cold...no movement....just me and that pristine, snow-covered hill. It was like a dream.  I began to run, threw the sled down into the snow, and fell on top of it....guiding it with the wooden cross piece that connected to the runners. It was magical as I flew down the 700 block of Peachtree Street. It was as if that 29-year-old man got a little younger with each foot that the sled traveled. I smiled all the way down.

I made several more trips down the hill before it got light and neighborhood kids began to show up to play. Surely, many must have been surprised to have seen so many trails from my sled runners.....especially since it was just me...the old guy, at least to them,.with no kid in tow.

The kid was actually there. He was inside of me...now walking back home pulling the sled behind. Finally, I had been able to do something I had held on to for years. I was as satisfied as a man can be who has been able to fulfill a childhood dream.  Probably all of us have something leftover from our childhood that  is unfinished business.

These days, at my age, we speak of those things we'd still like to do as a "bucket list". I only have three items that I'd like to fulfill. I'd like to meet the writer, Garrison Keillor, and have an opportunity to have some extended conversation with him. I'd like to meet naturalist Eustace Conway and his sidekick Preston Roberts, and talk to them some, too. Finally, I'd like to ride through the snow in a one- horse open sleigh, probably singing Jingle Bells. That's all.

But what about you? What child-like thing is buried in you that still could be fulfilled? What is your unfinished business? Take a hard look at it then seize the day!

Grits

I really enjoy traditional breakfast food although often I prefer it not at the normal breakfast time. I like it best in the evening, at the dinner/supper time, or for an occasional weekend brunch. Coffee alone has been my normal breakfast "food" for a long time. I drink mine black, the same way the Lord drinks his...or at least that is what I have surmised. However, since I started taking some medication a few months ago I have found that I need to eat something in the morning or I get headaches. Obviously, I want to avoid these, especially since they tend to get severe if I neglect having some food. Neither do I want a really heavy breakfast so as I was considering some possibilities yesterday, into my mind popped something straight out of my childhood: grits.

My mother cooked grits most mornings and she would serve them up hot and well buttered. Occasionally she would cook an egg in mine and once in a while they might include a little country ham red-eye gravy. Toast always accompanied grits unless it was a really early morning when we were going to travel, which required a much heartier breakfast, at least that is what my mother said. On those occasions, biscuits were always in order along with eggs and bacon or some good country sausage. On those days grits played a little less prominent role but they were always necessary.

It wasn't until 1967 that I learned that not everyone is familiar with grits. When I entered the Navy that year I was sent to the Great Lakes Naval Training Base, not far from Chicago, for boot camp. A few days in they served grits at the chow hall for breakfast. I guess they did that to make us Southern boys feel better since by then we definitely needed some encouragement. At that point, it seemed a significant part of everyone's job description was to be mean to us and they were really good at it.

When grits were served the first time in boot camp, I quickly learned that people, who were not used to grits, did not have a clue as to what should be done with them. It was interesting to hear questions that asked what this was and the most prominent answers were Cream of Wheat and farina. Actually, Cream of Wheat is a brand name of farina. You cook it similar to grits, but it is made from wheat while grits are made from corn. I gave instruction to those fellows regarding what they needed to do in order to enjoy their grits. Some of them complied while others decided to forego this mostly Southern delicacy.

At our house grits, always received a generous amount of butter and salt, maybe some pepper. Even though my mother stirred in the butter while the grits were cooking, each portion of grits received a healthy pat in the center of the puddle in the middle of the plate. You can eat grits from a bowl and some people prefer that, but usually they are very hot when they come from the pot so when they are on a plate they cool to a manageable mouth temperature more quickly. I learned that if you take your spoon and eat from the outside in, you will fare well more quickly.

Occasionally mama would stir in some cheese before they were done and that was quite awesome, especially if we were not having any breakfast meat. Grits are very bland but also very filling....a stick to your ribs kind of food. However, you have to make them "dance" and butter, salt, ham gravy, and cheese can all do that. They are like a blank sheet of paper that is just crying out to be written upon. So yesterday I made grits and they were very good so I made them again today, along with toast.

The toast at our house was not from a toaster. Slices of bread were spread with soft butter, placed on a cookie sheet, and stuck under the broiler for about 30 seconds. It was crisp, buttery, and perfect alongside grits. I still prefer toast made that way today. I don't think there was even a toaster in our house until I left home. I think someone found out that my mother did not have a toaster, felt sorry for her, and gave her one for a birthday or Christmas present. Of course, she continued to make toast the old way but that shiny appliance looked nice sitting on the counter.

Grits are a favorite dish in the South. I have a friend who calls grits "Georgia Ice Cream" because they are so well loved in his home state. My wife is originally from Buffalo but loves grits as well as a few other specialties I have introduced her to...in particular, Eastern North Carolina Barbecue, which I will address on another day. I tell her that she was cut out to be a country girl, just sewed up wrong.

Of course, grits have become a little more upscale to some these days as chefs around New Orleans, Oxford, Mississippi and Memphis, Tennessee have found other things to serve with them. I've had shrimp and grits and it's certainly a delicious dish. I just don't ever want to lose the essence of grits. It's a Southern staple that can be made tasty while being filling and inexpensive. Grits have helped fill the belly of many a farmer that has set out in the field shortly after dawn. If you think about it, we owe a lot to grits.

The Power of the Cashew Nut

Once we moved into town we lived only a few blocks from Main Street and I would walk there with my mother when she shopped. I always tried to be especially well behaved on those excursions because I knew there would likely be some kind of reward if I did so. Usually it would be something seasonal. In the spring of the year it could be marbles, a fine Duncan yo-yo, or one of those balsa wood airplanes with a red plastic propeller and a rubber band engine. In the summer water guns were in order and in the fall it could be something related to Halloween. In the winter, green rubber army men were always great because I played with them for hours on the oval braided rug in front of the fireplace.

As I got a little older I discovered that the local five and dime stores also had some tasty treats that ranked right up there with the aforementioned toys. There was a long counter with a wide variety of candy bars plus candy dish-worthy selections priced by the pound. They had a huge variety....chocolate covered peanuts, gum drops, chocolate drops, Hershey kisses, maple nuts candies, and many more. But soon I learned there was another delicious item lurking at the other end of the counter. Nuts. Not nuts still in the shell but nuts out of the shell, roasted, salted and kept warm by some device. From the moment I tasted these I was hooked....especially on the cashews...jumbo cashews. Incredible.

On one occasion I remember we were concluding our shopping as we did on most trips, by going into S.H. Kress. This was my favorite store and was pretty much reward central. They always had a lot of cool toys and cranked it up as the seasons changed. Of the three places downtown that had candy counters and nuts, Kress was the best with candy and nuts stretching between the two entrance doors to the store, one on the far right and one on the far left. On this particular day I made out like a bandit. Mama had already bought a large bag of army men for me but then said, "Lets get some cashews to take home." Wow. What a day. My mother walked up to the counter and asked for a pound of the hot, delicious cashews. She then handed me the bag and told me that I could eat a few on the way home but not too many.

My mother was sweet, kind, and a very smart woman. However, on this occasion she made a bad mistake in judgement. She thought she could trust me to limit myself while transporting that bag of jumbo chasews. She did not know that I considered them to be the best thing to touch the tongue this side of heaven. Neither did she know how hopelessly addicted I was to these nuts. Along the six blocks home she said kindly, "Don't eat too many." I nodded in agreement because I couldn't talk since my mouth was stuffed with cashews.

By the time we got home I had devoured countless cashew nuts. Half a bag...the whole bag...I don't even remember. I just knew I was about as sick as a little boy could be who had consumed so much in so short of a time. I stood on the back steps upchucking while my mother watched and said, "I never should have trusted you with them." And she was so right. It was a while before I wanted or was allowed any more cashews but it was not an indefinite suspension.

Today nuts are still my favorite snack and cashews are at the top of my list. They are pretty expensive so most times I settle for peanuts. Of course, technically peanuts are not a nut but they still work for me. Occasionally, I spring for mixed nuts which are really great because of the varieties and different flavors. They, too, are quite pricey so again peanuts win out. But a few weeks ago when the holiday season was still in force, which I felt justified the extravagance, I bought a container of jumbo cashews from the store. I was temped to stick some of the them in the microwave for a few seconds and warm them but I refrained...that would have taken too long. After all, once the jar was opened and the fragrance of nuts exited, well......I could just kind of hear my mother still saying, "Don't eat too many." So now over fifty years later I'm a little more disciplined....but not much.

Memorable Fogs

A few days ago we had a couple of foggy days. I remembered that years ago the old folks in North Carolina used to say that for every fog you experienced in August or September there would be a snowfall during the winter. Fog is kind of mysterious. In most of the old horror movies, it is included at some point, especially those centered in and around London where it seemed to be perpetually foggy. Carl Sandburg even wrote a very short little poem entitled Fog:

The fog comes
on little cat feet.

It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on

When I was in the Navy our ship pulled into Villefranche-sur-Mer which adjoins the town of Nice on the French Riviera. It is a natural port that drops rapidly to a depth of around 300 feet when moving away from the shoreline. We were told at the time of our visit that Jacques Cousteau was doing research at a site not far from where we were anchored. In most ports, the ships are snugged up to docks with the help of tugboats but in Villefranche, there were no large docks. We anchored out and small liberty boats were launched to take us to a small landing to let us off for some recreation if we did not have duty. There were quite a few other ships from other countries anchored there also. It was a beautiful place.

As the night fell, dense fog began to form and so the word was passed for all the ships at anchor to sound their foghorns. These were set to engage automatically every few seconds in order to offer warnings and prevent collisions in case any sea traffic entered or departed the harbor. I remember standing on the deck of our ship and listening as the damp fog was thickening. There were different tones, different volumes, and all at different distances that made for an interesting chorus. It was almost as if they spoke different languages. Though our ship's engines were disengaged you could occasionally feel a little motion as marine traffic moved through the harbor and as the tides rose and fell. It was a little surreal when on deck because you could hear and feel but were unable to see what was going on around you. It did make you feel a little vulnerable, perhaps even more so than when we were in the North Atlantic with thirty foot seas that were visible to us.

On another occasion, some years later I was in La Jolla, California which is an affluent area in San Diego, California. I was there to attend a conference for several days and every morning it was very foggy which we discovered was unusual for the area. For most of us, the fog was not that big of a deal because it did burn off by lunch time. However, for the locals it was a terrible shock. I learned that Californians, especially in that particular area, are especially concerned with aesthetics. They want everything to be beautiful and perfect all the time, especially as they show off their surroundings to non-natives. It seems that everywhere we went people were apologizing for the fog as if they had control over it. I felt badly for the natives because they were truly upset.

On occasion, I liked to travel about 90 miles from where I lived to fish at the small town of Belhaven, NC. At certain times of the year, the speckled trout and gray trout moved out of the Pamlico Sound into the Pungo River. Fun to catch and great table fare, I'd collect a friend and head out for an early morning excursion. We'd usually leave in the wee hours, stop for breakfast along the way at a favorite greasy spoon in Columbia, and arrive in Belhaven a little before dawn. On this occasion, we had somehow made better time than normal so it was about an hour and a half before the sun came up. I did not have running lights of my little 14 foot boat so we could not get out onto the river. We did decide, however, that we would go ahead and put the boat into the water and fish a little while sitting in the creek waiting for dawn. We didn't start the outboard motor but rather paddled over to an area under the bridge that spanned the creek. As the darkness was retreating we were greeted by another detriment to our getting out onto the fishing grounds...fog. It came in quickly, gray and thick, enveloping the area so much that we could not see more than ten feet in any direction.

As the sun rose things were brightening but still the fog was so thick that we could see nothing. We had a color change but not a visibility change. We had not put down an anchor or tied to anything when we stopped under the bridge so we had drifted from our original location. The only question was in what direction. We didn't have a clue.That didn't really bother us because we knew the fog would eventually burn off and it really didn't matter where we had ended up. At least, that was what we thought.

Pantego Creek was where several shrimp trawlers moored when they were not out in Pamlico Sound collecting a catch. We heard one of the boats fire up its engine, and then another....and then another. There was now genuine cause to be concerned. In the dense gray white soup in which we were residing it was hard to tell how close they were to us. These were not huge boats, but they were big enough to tear up and sink my little wooden boat and injure us in the process. We heard one of the vessels increase its rpm's. heard crew members yelling to one another, and sensed there was movement taking place.  Very soon water began lapping up against the side of our skiff as a small wake was being created somewhere. Before long the other boats were also engaged at preparing to move out of the creek. We heard sounds associated with winches, booms, and shrimp trawls, all peppered with conversation and direction among crew members. Still, the fog lingered, blinding us to what was going on around us.

The fog lifted slightly and we could see a bit of the shoreline on the opposite side of the creek from where we launched. I pulled the cord on my little outboard motor and we moved in that direction. About that same time, the trawler engines got louder as they were departing the creek to head into the river, their gateway to the sound. The good news was that they were headed away from us, not toward us. We relaxed and heard their volumes lessen as the fog continued to lift. Finally, we were able to move out in the Pungo River for a good day of not only fishing but catching as well.

Fog in itself is not dangerous. It doesn't hurt you if you breathe it in or if you walk through it. It doesn't give you a rash or produce pain. What does it do? It obscures information you want and need. It keeps us from seeing. So the counsel to us is that we should stay out of the fog as much as possible....any type fog...that keeps us from clarity,

The Holidays Are Over But Hope Remains

Some people like to see the holiday season pass. Financial pressure, sickness, general busyness, loneliness, or grief associated with the passing of a loved one during the holidays are just a few of the reasons. There was a year when my daddy was in the hospital through Christmas and then died shortly after the new year. Neither were the holidays pleasant when my first wife passed away in the Fall of  2001. Her passing colored Thanksgiving and Christmas, normally happy and festive times for our family. We went through the motions but at best it was a shell of our former celebrations. It is always hard when there is an empty chair at the table. I can understand the feeling of wanting to get past the period and on to a new and hopefully happier chapter. If we trust and call on God to help us by his intervention, especially through family and friends, we can deal with those incursions of sadness and persevere into a more positive place. It can still be a hard and time consuming effort, even with divine help, but we can get there. There is contention within our souls as we look for things better while dealing with the difficult. The spirit of holidays past may still visit us from time to time but the tears of grief can turn to tears of joy as we concentrate on the sweet memories that previously made the seasons special.

Still, it always saddens me when the season is gone. The signs of its departure are everywhere. The driveways that were filled with multiple automobiles get back to normal. The decorations disappear and in my mind they take something with them. I actually can feel somewhat depressed for a short period of time. Why?

Personally, I notice that people seem to try harder during the holidays. There is a lot of benevolence and care for the less fortunate and there are always "feel good" stories.The family institution receives increased concentration and appreciation. In the writing of Dickens is recorded the businessmen who endeavor to interact with Ebenezer Scrooge for the purpose of making it a better time for those in need:

“At this festive season of the year, Mr. Scrooge,” said the gentleman, taking up a pen, “it is more than usually desirable that we should make some slight provision for the poor and destitute, who suffer greatly at the present time. Many thousands are in want of common necessaries; hundreds of thousands are in want of common comforts, sir.”

There was a recognition that certain helps should be afforded to those who were hurting, especially in light of the celebratory nature for those more fortunate. I delight in seeing such emphases, even for a short period, because I am always hopeful that something done temporarily to help those in need will become more permanent in the heart of those who provide. Seeing goodwill grow is a wonderful thing.

Before Christmas there was a local Salvation Army bell ringer that I often spoke to and we became recognizable to one another. He had improvised a bit of an elf costume and seemed to delight in what he was doing. In fact, as the days passed it was easy to see his joy progress. By the day before Christmas he had bought candy canes and was passing them out to not only children but adults, regardless of whether or not anything went into the pot. As I dropped in my final contribution of the season on my last visit to his location he grabbed me, hugged me, and wished me a Merry Christmas with tears in his eyes. I know this would make some people uncomfortable but I appreciated it, especially as I had seen his exuberance escalate.

As I think back to that encounter I realize that he may actually be a man I never see again. However, this morning I prayed for this unnamed fellow that he may be able to keep all that he was experiencing at that time in his small corner of the culture and continue to pass it on to others.

I also prayed for myself and all of us in general that we may do a better job at keeping the valuable positives of life not only for a season but all year long.

The momentary sadness I may feel at the close of the holidays can always we replaced by hope. It may be generated by a well positioned bell ringer, seeing the hungry fed, hearing of people being cared for who have experienced a fire or theft during Christmas, and thousands of other possibilities. I have no doubt that we can all do better if we set our mind to concentrating on things that are right and lovely all year long.

Scrooge at first refused the approach of those who wanted him to contribute. Thankfully, we get to read of his redemption which may reveal goals for all of us

"He became as good a friend, as good a master, and as good a man, as the good old city knew, or any other good old city, town, or borough, in the good old world."

The Most Satisfying Day

Within our memory we all record special moments, events, and times. Our individual memories are broad sweeping, everything from a particular gift, recognition, a kiss, a birth, a death, and countless other possibilities. Such moments are common to all of us. They are outside the mundane and so important individually that they become landmarks in our lives. The rest of the world may walk by these as they are occurring and never know that they are taking place. I remember a day, not just part of a day but a complete day. It was the kind of day that brought teaching and insight in a variety of ways. It is branded in my mind and even now, many years later I recall it in vivid detail and relive the fulfillment I experienced.

Our family was in a transition time as plans were being made for me to begin seminary in Wake Forest in the Autumn of 1980. Frugality was high on our list and we were taking steps to reduce our monthly disbursements as much as possible. Included was a decision to use a wood heater to warm our small house and eliminate the bill for natural gas. Of course, we needed a supply of firewood but in our area it was relatively easy to find land that had been logged out where you could go and cut up the remnants. Usually this was some very nice wood since the logging companies only wanted the main straight trunks and discarded the tree tops and limbs. It was free for the taking with the permission of the landowners who were most often agreeable since they wanted the area cleaned up anyway. I owned a chain saw and an old but reliable truck so this would be an inexpensive way to heat our home, virtually free except for a little gasoline and an occasional saw chain. I just had to apply some sweat equity which I did not mind since I enjoyed getting out in the woods anyway.

It was March 1 and my wood supply had dwindled and needed to be replenished. The weather was cold and the forecast indicated we might get a little snow. Eastern North Carolinians never know how it is going to turn out when snow is forecast since often an expected snow event becomes either an ice storm, a cold rain, or fizzles out completely. Conditions have to be perfect for it to materialize into a full blown snowstorm but it does happen occasionally. Regardless of how it turned out we needed wood for our heater. Spring was on the horizon but had not yet made its presence known.

I got up early on that Saturday morning, drank my coffee, put on my cowboy hat and down filled vest, and headed out the back door. Stopping on the steps, I took a deep breath of the cold, crisp air and then blew it out seeing the vapor.  There was a light breeze blowing from the north and for lack of a better term the air felt icy. There is a definitive "feel" to the weather when snow or ice are on the way. 

Normally I would pick up a friend to go with me but on that day I was alone. I drove about 12 miles from Rocky Mount to a spot near Battleboro where I had been given permission to cut. The laps had been down for over a year so the wood was already seasoned to a degree plus it was all oak and hickory, great hardwoods that produce a lot of BTU's. It was one of those days that in my estimation was just perfect for the task at hand. It was cloudy, cold, and my chainsaw cranked on the first pull. The new chrome tooth chain cut through the large limbs like butter. Some of them were at least a foot thick, a few even larger. The sawdust flew and there was the fragrance of the freshly cut wood in the air. I  filled my truck, drove back home, and dropped off my treasure in the back yard. Quickly I headed back to Battleboro and before lunch I had thrown two more loads in back of the house. Now the harder work began....splitting. I didn't have a motorized wood splitter so it was just me and my ax.

There was a large round of wood that I had used for some time as a chopping block. Positioning each piece vertically on the block I swung the ax aiming for the center. Since the wood already had some dryness to it there was a distinctive "pop" each time I swung and buried the ax head into it. There is also another smell, more sour, that is different than the odor you get when cutting through limbs with a chainsaw. This comes from that deepest interior moisture and the odor is amplified as the wood is split. There was an intense sense of accomplishment as each piece divided and fell to the side. Some were large enough that they needed to be split again to become a manageable size for the the wood stove.

It is pretty amazing how well I remember that day. With the possibility of bad weather, which I was convinced was truly on the way, I was driven to finish my task. Relentlessly I swung the ax, never even stopping for lunch or a snack, just a few sips of my Mountain Dew....the soft drink, not the clear, liquid fire that comes in a Mason jar. Finally, a little before five and with the shadows starting to intrude I saw the last piece cleave open. I had some wooden pallets that had been free for the taking from my work at the newspaper. I quickly splintered them and filled a couple of white plastic five gallon buckets. It made great kindling for starting fires. Of course, once the fire was started it would be maintained for days. I then began stacking the wood onto other pallets I had set up months before during a previous cutting. I was moving swiftly as the wind was picking up and my face which was already chapped started to burn a little. My ears were very cold and my hands were scuffed up from splinters and the rough edges of the wood. I put the last piece of wood into place and an amazing thing happened. The sky began to spit a little snow. It was as if that last piece flipped the switch to start the flurries. I stepped back and then sat down on my chopping block, taking it all in.

The piled up wood was beautiful and all of my senses were at work. It was a satisfying moment. Now years later its just as clear as the day it occurred and represents to me the most fulfilling day's work I've ever done. I wish every day could be so meaningful but if that were so I guess these certain days would not stand out above the rest. Why to this day does it mean so much to me? There are many reasons, probably some I've yet to discover. As a man, a husband, a father it have always meant a great deal to me to provide for my family in whatever capacity is needed. There is also something kind of “pioneerish” or primal about pulling provision from the land instead of finding someone to sell you what you need. I just know it brought great satisfaction then and now as I still contemplate the day. I relive it often with a smile on my face

I grabbed a handful of kindling, went into the house, and in no time had a roaring fire in my old Franklin stove. I filled it with wood to its full capacity and once it was good and hot I cut back the vents to where I knew it would keep the home consistently toasty. I had a carrier for bringing wood into house so I took it outside and filled it. Before taking it back in I covered my stacked wood with a green canvas tarp to keep the snow off.

The cast iron stove had a flat top so it could used for cooking. I put a couple of pounds of dried Navy beans in a large pot with some "seasoning meat" and water, and set it on the top of the stove to cook....one of the additional advantages of a wood stove. It also guaranteed something hot to eat if the power went out because of the growing storm.

I was tired, hungry, and sore but it had been a great day. This was an old house without a shower so the claw foot bathtub was my next stop. With water as hot as I could stand it I immersed my soreness with a deep sense of satisfaction, once again relishing the fulfillment of the day. By the time I was out of the tub it was snowing hard. In fact, this particular storm ended up being called "The Dixie Blizzard" due to its magnitude. It finally relented Sunday evening, 24 hours and 18 inches from the moment I put the last piece of wood into place. 

Looking out the living room window I watched the flakes drop under the street light.  There were no cars moving, nothing to disturb the white blanket that was now extending through the whole neighborhood. It was incredibly quiet. I was just as quieted within myself and relished that moment, that day, that event then as I do now. To me, it was the most satisfying day of work I've ever experienced.