Kindling
On fire and my father
I didn’t write this with Father’s Day in mind, but I happen to be sharing it the day before that holiday and the Summer Solstice, which feels right.
This will be my last post for a few weeks. I’m so grateful to you for reading, responding to, sharing, and supporting my work. Thank you. I’ll see you later this summer!
He split the logs, I picked up the kindling.
He raised the axe high, brought it down hard, and a wedge of wood went flying. Then he did it again. And again.
I watched, waited. Stayed out of the way, as I’d been taught, or didn’t need to be taught: the fast-flying logs that went spinning off in surprising directions were their own education.
You didn’t go scurrying in to get the kindling in between every blow. You had to wait until there was a longer pause; when he needed to get another log set up for splitting, when he rested for a beat or two. Then you sprung into action, mouse-like, collecting the crumbs.
I took pride in my speed, my ability to grab everything I could see and get out of there without interrupting his flow. Tibia-length spears, tiny crumbly shards, anything burnable, all of it rough and sharp. I was thorough and fast. He never had to wait for me.
We both understood that he was doing the real work, turning leg-sized pieces of tree-body into logs that would fit into our stove, and warm our house. My role was secondary. Waste prevention. The gleaner, the cleaner.
He hunted, I gathered. He set the rhythm, I danced in on the offbeats. He stood, lifted, and swung. I crouched, plucked, and hurried back out of the way. He made loud noises: the thwack of the axe blade against the wood, the thump of the logs landing, the grunt of another heave, another lift. I was silent.
He worked big. I worked small.
He worked high, I worked low.
He broke things apart, I picked up the pieces.
He was kind, my dad. Or he could be, and usually was. Patient, often, and interested in teaching me. At some point, I graduated from picking up kindling to making it myself.
He showed me how. Hold the small, light log-bit on its end. Set the hatchet firmly into it. Then lift them both, hatchet and wood fastened together, and bring them down, hard, onto the splitting surface. An old stump worked best.
Things could go wrong, or rather, would. Guaranteed. The wood was a once-living thing, and therefore was full of all the unpredictability of life — curves and bumps, wounds and knots. The grain that looked straight and regular on the surface might prove to be twisted and tangled somewhere inside. These things could knock your hatchet off course, or just stop it altogether. You can get stuck deep in the wood. Then you have to figure out your options.
There were three. You could apply more force; keep trying to slam the hatchet in, hard as you could. Or, you could sometimes knock the hatchet loose, and start again from the other end of the log. Another possibility was to surrender; toss that piece aside to be burned as is, and pick up a different one.
There was no way to know in advance which option would work best. You just had to do something, and find out. You had to ask the wood — this way? no? how about this way then? — and pay attention to the answer.
I noticed that he usually he chose option one: more force. I noticed that it didn’t always work. Somewhere, very quietly inside, I wondered about that.
A tree is a being, not a thing.
So is a fire. Each one has a lifespan: a birth-spark, a growing period, a maturation, a death. Kindling is food for the very new, tender flames. Crucial nourishment for a blaze so young it doesn’t even know its own name yet.
I remember standing next to him, skinny as a stick in my oversized overalls, watching, learning. It wasn’t an uncomplicated bond we shared, but it was, without a doubt, a loving one.
Tree becomes kindling. Kindling becomes fire. Fire becomes light. Light feeds the tree.
You are such a beautiful writer.