This is the entrance to my grandfather's woodshed. I was mesmerized by this scene one night around Christmas.
What struck me about this stash of wood was how necessary it was, how worn the path was, how the whole thing was constructed and filled in a labor of love, and out of requirement and a sense of responsibility on the part of family to help keep my grandparents warm through the winter (and if anyone knows Pipi, through the summer too!).
I know that my grandpa (Pipi) was a logger, and has passed along his woodcutting skills to his family. I know and have seen the labor involved in obtaining those logs - the task of felling a tree, cleaning it up, cutting it into logs, splitting them.
The shed itself and pretty much all of the surrounding buildings were constructed by Pipi, his sons, his wife and daughters, his grandchildren...anyone able-bodied and willing to help, really. I have seen the list that tells which of their now grown children will come each day of the week to stock the pile of wood in the garage so that my grandparents don't have to walk out there in the cold.
I am very aware of the story of this place.
Looking at it, I started thinking about family, community, service to one another, fellowship. This old pile of wood had more than a nostalgic bent to it in my eyes. It represented so many years, so many conversations, so many hands (there's a family joke to be had here about how many injuries, but that's not my point). It represented servitude and responsibility. It represented love.
This cold, worn path to a pile of logs made me think of love. Love looks like this. It isn't always sparkly and perfect. It is present, necessary, and often needing replenished. It is labor. It is rewarding. It is a source of warmth. It is family. It is community.
Why do these people still come here to this house and still cut and stockpile wood, even after having accidents, even after having arguments? Because they love their family. Because their family loved them first. Because no matter how bad you are, or what a mess you've made, Mimi will still feed you, and ask after you, Pipi will still laugh and hug you. They will still love to have you stay and sit by the fire a while.
So the elephant in the room is this - they are growing old, these people who have loved us so. And maybe we won't need to stock this woodpile someday. We all have this fear, this unspoken drive to be there as much as we can before its all gone.
But it doesn't go away! Why would this go away when they do? When they are gone, there will still be this structure. We as a family - we will still have this skill. The people we serve will change, but that is all. What matters is that we don't stop teaching our family that serving one another is not only a requirement but also a privilege. And the dividends are priceless.
This isn't just a pile of logs, folks.
S
ps: for the family members that may read this and be like "what? that girl never chopped or stocked wood a day in her life, what does she mean 'we'?"...I say true, but the hard work did not go unnoticed, and also, I saw what happened to Brian's nose. I stayed away from those boys and the axe for good reason! And you had a boy-girl ratio of like 25:1 so I got lucky. Thank you for giving me a reason to write tonight. I hope you see the lasting value of your work.
© 2013 Sarah Fisher
You did it.
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