Growth Rings

At some point, I promise I will write some creative non fiction that doesnt end with some kind of profound tear jerky type ending. But, that seems to be where my feels are at right now, so I give you week 2 of creative nonfiction essay

Growth Rings

Crack!

The log split solidly under the force of Amy's swing. The two halves tumbled to the ground as she wiped her brow.

“Its kinda like swinging a baseball bat.” She explained as she showed me how to grip the axe. Starting with hands apart and then sliding together as the axe comes through the backswing, legs slightly bent.

“Really pull down through your legs when the axe head is dropping.”

It was a warm fall day and Id just arrived home from work. My landlord stopped by to show me how to stack and split the wood I would use to heat the house for the winter, here in the frigid hinterlands of Portland Oregon. It fit well with my romanticized ideas about homesteading in the woods; Id warm my house with my bare hands, and if that didnt work I could fall back on the electric zone heaters.

I spent my Saturdays in the backyard woodshed, preparing my cache for the week ahead. It reminded me of Pa from Little House On The Prairie, providing for his family against the harsh elements of winter. Or even my own father, who spent the fall with a borrowed wood splitter preparing logs for chopping and then hucking them into our basement. Between the satisfying ache in my body, the fresh fall air and recollecting my rural upbringing I blissfully melted into bed on Saturday nights.

As the weeks went by the heavy axe began to change my body, and with it, my sense of self. My newly muscular arms guided the axe to split open the logs, inside which I discovered things long forgotten; my life long urge to be strong – to have a muscular body and to provide for my family. To be a rock physically and emotionally that could be depended upon. The power and pride behind creating my weekly assortment of fuel, kindling and tinder lit a pilot inside me. Unafraid, I let the flame grow, with the developing awareness that it was casting light onto things I tried to turn away from. My desperate need to do something of use. My true self that had been emasculated under a drag show of who I thought I should be.

The crack of the axe became a sort of mantra. I chopped wood while I mulled over my feelings for women. I chopped wood after I came out to my inner circle on a cold January Tuesday. I was chopping wood when I was suddenly overcome with grief. More than anything, in that moment I wanted to share with my late father what I had learned from the ax. I wanted him to know how it freed me, that I was finally “OK.” As the tears rained down I removed my leather gloves and fished around my overalls for a hanky. After a moment I wiped my nose , cleared my throat and returned to my chore, steadying myself for the task ahead.