by Jim Carter
He probably split one hundred cords of wood
the year after Grandfather died.
I would work for hours
stacking the pieces into
rows, ten high, waiting for
the chance to get a couple
whacks in with Dad’s splitting maul.
Every three weeks, or so, a new
tree would be hauled out of the forest.
Dad’s therapy was consuming.
Most days he would
go out alone.
I would run out and get him
for dinner or for telephone calls.
A few minutes to get his attention
was normal – always being wary
of the flying chips and the swing
itself.
He’d stop, rub his nose and
proclaim something to the effect of:
“Michigan has to be the most
beautiful state in the Union.
You kids should spend more time outdoors.”
A sentiment from him that was
like a Johnny Cash love song:
awkward,
masculine,
unconvincing.
Some days he would stay outside
until long after dark,
coming in only after the handle broke
on his splitting maul.
He’d leave the wood piled up on either
side of the chopping block.
After work the next day he’d
pull a new handle from the trunk
of his car.
All that wood burned in our wood stove for
eleven winters, including
the offending handles that couldn’t
withstand the words my dad had
left to say to his father.
