Memories of a father, sparked by autumn fires

My dad used to tell me the key to packing was unpacking. He said it in the context of loading the family car for summer vacation, but this paternal wisdom has broader applications for life. If you want to understand how something works, you may have to take it apart. If you want to solve a problem, you have to unpack what caused it.

I was reminded of my father’s exceptional packing skills while bringing in firewood for the winter — another activity that I strongly associate with him. This is the last step of a familiar process that in my 1970s childhood went from woodlot to wood stove, but which in my current situation began with a pile of split cord wood delivered and dumped at the end of my driveway. Over the course of several hours, I shifted that pile by barrow loads to the storm door and tilted it down in a jumble until it reached the top of the stairs. I then clambered down into the basement and, taking up a piece of wood in each hand, proceeded to stack it along the cellar walls.

I don’t need as much as we used to burn during the oil embargo, when wood was considered a renewable resource rather than a source of carbon emission. I don’t really need it at all, since much to my regret my home is heated with fuel oil, but as I also inherited my father’s Yankee insistence that thermostats should be set below 60, I also make use of the living room fireplace. I know this is not a tenable justification for adding to my carbon footprint. It will take some further unpacking to sort out why I continue to do so.

Yesterday was one of those rare autumn days when everything has achieved the ideal. The sky was blue, the air was warm with lingering crisp notes. The color of the leaves was spectacular, as if every maple, hickory and birch tree chose this moment to fully express the season. The light filtering through the maple leaves above and the dry crackle of the fallen carpet underfoot were powerful signifiers for me and invitations to reverie. Each time I stooped to place wood in my red wheelbarrow I repeated a pattern laid down by my forebears, my dad in his woolen surplus trousers and plaid mackinaw, and my grandfather in his navy watch cap. 

Wood is our oldest and longest source of light and warmth. We are those who burn — Homo incendiaria — whether with divine spark or with the seeds of our own destruction. We learned to speak and transmit the accumulated wisdom and ignorance of our tribes by firelight. We forged and hewed and expanded to the farthest reaches of our home world while yearning for the burning stars. We are drawn to the flame in the grate like the sorcerer who summons a demon, secure that the fire is contained and the pentacle will hold.

I summon my father when I stack firewood. I remember how he used to lay down each row with enough space so the air could circulate and the pieces still fit. Sometimes the wood I place fits better on its side, or perhaps in another spot altogether. As the stack rises it sometimes needs to be braced by two or three pieces of wood laid crosswise to add stability or to level the row for the next course. It is slow and deliberate work, bringing order out of the pile, until a full cord stands ready to cure and see us through the dark times until the sun returns. It sets my uneasy mind at rest and helps me face whatever comes next. It is reason enough.

Tim Abbott is program director of Housatonic Valley Association’s Litchfield Hills Greenprint. His blog is at www.greensleeves.typepad.com.