Stove Wood
I don my grandfather's hunting coat—a moss-coloured size forty-six that fit his broad shoulders well in his prime, I'm told—and turn the door handle to head outside. The brass lever is cold in my palm. The house’s warm air follows me outside, but within a few steps, my breath turns visible in the cold. The fog from my mouth rises, drifting over my eyes on the cold breeze.
I stuff my hands into the pockets of my coat, the comforting feeling of their fleece linings. I rarely bother with gloves. They make the bowsaw handle slip; I need a firm grip for the work ahead. Still, pocketing my hands leaves me vulnerable to a fall on black ice or slick mud.
My pack sits light on my shoulders, holding only my saw, a bottle, two apples, and a half litre of black coffee. This fifty-litre sack will hold some forty pounds of wood on the way back.
I am glad to live in the valley, for I collect my stove wood from the forest up on the hill. The uphill walk with an empty bag is pleasant; the weighted return downhill feels earned.
The air is sharply cold, carrying the smell of sap and damp earth. The electric company has been at work, for once, and felled a stripe of young trees so they can erect a row of those eyesore pylons. This saves me the guilt of denying these young trees – so eager to be giants - of their potential.
These young trees, though, are perfect for my needs. If much wider than their five-inch thickness, my modest saw—as well as my arm—would struggle through them. They would also need splitting to fit into my bag, which means bringing the seven-pound axe along. I don’t have a chainsaw like the men from the electric and water boards.
I amputate the limbs from a chosen pine before sawing through its torso—like the magician we watched saw his assistant in half. My bag must close over top of these two-foot lengths, as these woods—and, by extension, this bag of wood—are not my property. Whoever decided that a man can own a forest? These woods are older than the men who own them. Still, I take only what I need. The forest offers, and I accept.
I cinch the lid and pull the cross-strings tight to keep my cargo from jostling on the descent. The pack is heavier than I’d hoped, with all the moisture in this fresh wood. Still, I’ll manage the forty-minute walk home.
This would warm the whole house for two days. But since I am alone for the next few weeks, I can close the doors, turn off the radiators and warm just the living room. I can watch movies late into the night and sleep on the couch, just as we did when he still owned this coat. I can make this last.
