Woodsmen

     Saturdays in the spring and fall during my childhood were frequently spent in the woods, helping my parents and brother cut firewood. Dad had permission from the landowner to cut fallen hardwoods from the thicket of vines and briars that are the hallmark of Delmarva pine forests. This wasn't always the case. Ecological history tells us that the forests along the Atlantic coast once boasted old-growth trees so large that they shaded out most undergrowth. A man could ride through the woods at a full gallop.
    In the corner of these woods was a vaguely beaten trail that ran from the farm road behind the line of houses in the town of Church Creek, to Brannock's Neck Road about a quarter of a mile away, which then ran down to the water. Legend says that in colonial days, some gentleman met his demise there while on a late night ride. Dorchester County folklore keeper Tom Flowers--the "Old Honker"--first introduced me to the story of the "Ghost of Tick's Path." I can no longer remember the details of the story, but with a thrilling sense of dread and delight, I used to imagine I could hear the hooves of Tick's horse as I pushed the wheelbarrow full of logs along the path in the woods.
   The scents and sounds of those days in the woods still captivate me, from the sputtering buzz of the chainsaw and the oily smoke coming from its motor, to the musty, earthy smell of the leaves and the tentative twittering of the startled birds. When Dad cut off the chainsaw, the quiet dropped like a blanket except for the sound of the wind rocking the tops of the tall pines and the crunching of the leaves beneath our feet. I did my share of the work, but I am eight years younger than my brother and had the luxury of sensing it all.
   We continue to burn wood as our primary heat, and so spend our fair share of Saturdays cutting wood. Sadly, we usually do not cut in the woods. A neighbor or family member often has a tree that has fallen, and we are more than happy to clean it up and take the wood. We have spent the last 15 years slowing taking down the gum and "trash" trees in the hedgerow along our property, making way for pin oaks. It remains a family affair.
   My brother, who doesn't have a woodstove, often 'invites' us down to cut wood and performs more than a fair share of the labor. A good deal for us, but what's in it for him? I suspect he too has fond memories of weekends in the woods, and a love of being outdoors working. So it was that I found myself down in Dorchester County this weekend, trying to cut up the remnants of a 170 year old cherry tree on the waterfront property belonging to my brother Jim's friend. The base of the tree was probably six-feet in diameter, but hollow in the center. It had come down last year, fortunately missing the house. A giant hornet's nest was inside, but winter took care of that.
   We had cut and split the two-foot pieces of log last month, but Jim and my husband seemed determined to tackle the trunk, cutting through half of the massive base and then splitting it off with wedges. It seemed like a difficult way to get firewood, but I suspect it presented a bit of a manly challenge. As always, everyone had a job. I do not use the chainsaw--sharp moving tools and I have a bad history--but I haul and stack and do whatever else is needed. I do like to split nice dry wood, but this cherry was so old and tough, it almost seemed petrified. It was futile to try to split it without a wedge, although my 72-year old mother insisted on trying and so I felt compelled to attempt a few also.

   It was a strange day. A sudden burst of rain forced us to quit an hour after arriving. We loaded up some unsplit logs and retreated back to my parents' house. An hour later, it cleared and we returned to try chiseling off some more of the giant log. The sky grew dark over the river again and I looked over at my son, my husband, my brother and my father: my son fearlessly handling a maul; my husband on top of the trunk, silhouetted against the swirling gray clouds; my brother wielding a chainsaw; my father standing alongside the tree. The four most important men in my life. Woodsmen. It was an unexpected moment and I realized that what moved me was not nature. Cutting firewood may seem like an odd family tradition, but it is ours.