Wood Gathering
The Second Thanksgiving
The turkey was huge, one of the
biggest I could find; probably more than 20 pounds, because that was my mom’s
recommendation. "While you're at it, get a big one so you can freeze the leftovers," She said. The pies I had made the
day before, and although I would not have expected to be so tired from that, at
almost seven months pregnant, I had gone to bed exhausted the night before. A 20 year old, youth was on my side however, and after a
good night’s sleep, I rose bright and early to start the turkey and join my
husband on this planned excursion. We
quietly left the house while my 'not a morning person' mother-in-law enjoyed a sleep-in day.
I had grown up with a fireplace in
the house and one of the ways we had helped Dad, as he tackled the frequent problem of advancing the work ethic of his children, was to load and stack the wood he had cut and
chopped. He agreed and slightly enlarged on Mom's creed: fresh air and exercise is good for kids, even if we thought we might be too sick with a cold. So packing wood was not a new thing to me, but there was a difference. I had noted that in Wyoming, wood was a lot more scarce than it was in North Idaho, and our excursion was about to reinforce that observation. We drove for what seemed like hours on a long, narrow, winding
road up Rattlesnake Mountain that morning.
Up and up we went, and on and on.
In addition to not feeling real perky from a touch of motion sickness, we had not even arrived at our destination when I
started to wonder about getting back to make dinner by the time the turkey was done. We had passed acres and
acres of what appeared to me to be usable accessible wood, not huge forests by any means, but firewood potential for sure. We drove on, by more dead looking stands of trees that looked to me like respectable selections on the way to where we were going. The destination having not yet been revealed, we would know when we got
there.
I had three sisters and one brother
back home. With a long history of
extended families gathered around, we teamed up happily to concoct grand feasts
for many guests under Mom's supervision. Sometimes our menu was
traditional turkey and all the trimming, but just as readily we served Sukiyaki
or Tempura, or who knows what all, and just about everyone got in on the fun as
we worked.
This dinner was different. Dinner for three was the plan. My husband had turned out to be an introvert
and I was still learning what that was. Besides, my mother-in-law was not quite as
happy in the kitchen as I was, however content she seemed to be to assist me. (Her preference was the more the merrier, so invite everyone,
having been the oldest in a family which totaled 15 children.) I
fully expected to put dinner together mostly on my own, but it would take some
time. Thank goodness the pies were
finished!
At long last, my husband decided we
had arrived at our destination.
Perplexed, I gazed around at a very bare and steep hill, much like a
number of others we had passed, only a lot steeper and taller. At the top of this hill were a few dead tree
trunks laying on the ground among a very few standing and nearly as dead-looking
scruffy, hard scrabble , bravely surviving Wyoming winds - yes, trees, with the barest of limbs, trees that may or may not be alive. Hard to tell. First of all, they were few and far
between. This was still a mental adjustment for me when it came
to trees. "Where are the trees," I couldn't help thinking. And second of all, they were a long ways from us.
Yes, it appeared, we were going to
cart the chain saw up to the crest of the first rise, and yes, there we were
going to cut the dead fall into the lengths we needed for the wood stove. “And how do you plan to get the wood to the
pickup?” I sputtered weakly, still doubtful,suspecting that I was going to be involved somehow, whereupon my fears were confirmed. The plan, which was actually fairly obvious, was to roll the wood down the hill to the pickup, and there load it up. Well, actually that sounded like fun, so off
we went. It was a climb, amazingly steep
actually, but doable with some good effort. I had not been raised much of a pansy, and no way was I going
to balk at this and be thought too much a princess. Pansy Princess or not, I was failing to see the logic of this plan,
but what did I know? It was evident that
trees were hard to come by and free firewood was a necessary part of the equation.
I have learned through the years
that if the work is not sufficiently hard, you may just have to find a way to make it
harder. Befuddled at the strange philosophy of my better half, which in moments of retrospection I still find incomprehensible, I went along with the
plan. This was not my native land and I had a
lot to learn, it seemed! I was still fairly
new to this way of thinking, and knowing some people thought I had a persistant lazy streak, I figured that getting outside my comfort zone might be a good thing. Somehow the logic of working for the sake of working had escaped me, but hard work hadn't killed me yet although it had changed my plans a few times.
Turns out that when you are rolling
pieces of wood down a steep hill, it is nice that it is very steep, and try to
avoid, if you can, any places where it sneakily levels out very slightly, because it is there
that the wood will find its way. As
Jerry started sawing the dead fall into manageable slices, I set the chunks of wood rolling down the hill. Completely
contrary to the plan, they would roll awkwardly for a little way, find a pocket, and stop. Follow up is important to most jobs, and sure
enough, it turned out to be vital to this one.
Steep as the hill was, rolling wood down it was a lot more work than you
would think. We could work two or three or four pieces down at a time. They would roll
this way, then that. I found myself zig-zagging
my way down. I would give one piece a
good push, and off it would go. Then the
other piece would get a good shove and off it would go too, but rather than gathering speed in the direction I had in mind, it took off in a sort of
staggering path the other direction. They
would each stop on some insignificant little obstacle, several feet down, and
several yards apart. Up we went to the top to start a few more pieces and
repeat the process, wildly pursuing pieces of wood all over the hillside. However ridiculous I felt about sneaking peaks at the sky for any trace of a candid camera helicopter filming me looking like an idiot, I had little choice but to continue the project if I wanted to make it home for dinner. In
fact, it is so much work that you would never, ever do it again. Ever.
Apparently my husband is in agreement with this, because even he, the master of doing things the hard way just to prove you can, has found better ways to get cheap firewood. Soon I was counting one of my Thanksgiving
blessings: we were driving a small sized pickup.
Much to my surprise, when we got in the pickup for the drive home, I realized I was
completely exhausted. I was so tired, more tired, I think, than I
had ever been in my life. I decided that
if dinner was going to be cooked, it was not by me. I went straight to bed, worried that I had
overdone it to the point of endangering my unborn child. I sent my apology to my hungry mother-in-law via her
son, assuring them they were quite welcome to go to town for dinner, but they
decided to finish the preparations. I
don’t remember many details. I don’t
remember what we did about the dressing; maybe I had stuffed the turkey. Mom did not stuff the turkey because it took longer to cook but I liked to
try things, and figured it might enhance the flavor. I think the gravy was probably lovely, because
my mother in law made delicious gravy, (in small portions while my husband
liked plenty of gravy, but hey, only three people were expected for dinner, so there should have been enough). I had learned to
make gravy via phone calls to my mom, so my gravy always had plenty of flavor
and there was plenty of it. But
Mother-in-law could do whatever she liked by me!
Hearing the activity in the kitchen
did nothing toward promoting sleep right away, so I ventured out to the
kitchen to see how things were going. They seemed to be managing okay, and not feeling able to contribute very much, I headed back to
bed, exhausted and down for the count. There were two for dinner.
Later, I tried to decipher my
mother-in-law’s reaction to this change of plan. Did she think I was being a pain? Did she think I was shirking? Was I wimping
out, a quitter? Too much work for two
people? I never knew. I decided it did not really matter. What did matter to me was that two and a half
months later I brought a healthy baby boy into the world. I continue to enjoy fixing holiday dinners unless
we travel for Thanksgiving. I love the planning, the celebration. It's always amazing to me how many hours of work goes into the meal, yet how quickly we couldn't shovel in another bite. The moment when it has all come together we sit down to enjoy the result of our labor, the stories shared, the laughs; the socializing - all fun. I especially like reheating and eating leftovers - no cooking for a few meals! We have learned to expand our guest
list just a bit, inviting people in our area who are alone for Thanksgiving, however, unlike my mom, we have
never really needed a 24 pound turkey, even for the leftovers!
I've never been able to understand why a Republican contributor is a 'fat cat' and a Democratic contributor of the same amount of money is a 'public-spirited philanthropist'.
An appeaser is one who feeds a crocodile, hoping it will eat him last.
Winston Churchill
Discussion is an exchange of knowledge; an argument an exchange of ignorance.
Robert Quillen
