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Monday, December 12, 2016

Greatest Hits: Show No Enthusiasm; Don't Complain


[Editor's Note: Originally offered three years ago. We don't burn firewood any more. Using our firewood furnace with our neglected, unlined chimney was a form of Russian Roulette, but you do what you have to do sometimes to get by. We also got tired of freezing half to death every time I fell asleep for more than three hours at a stretch. We burn wood pellets now, and the Spare Heir follows in the Heir's footsteps by carrying the bags up the stairs]

Winter came like a postcard a long time ago. The snow drifted down in slow motion, the big, fat flakes parachuting in and accumulating gently on the frosted earth. There was a lot, all at once, and in the morning the birdhouse wore a pope's hat, and the birdbath was a cheesecake. The sun shone and the trees wore their coat of flakes like ermine.

Then the rain came. It turned the pope's hat to a drunkard's fedora, and the cheesecake to a dog's breakfast. It came down mechanically, at an angle that could be measured anywhere along its route, as methodical as a secret policeman; the icicles on the eaves turned from a little fringe to dragon's teeth. The trees threw their coats on the ground with their shivering, and left craters like the moon in the slumping snow.

Then it did it all again. Snow fell on top of the icy film over the styrofoam snow, and brought Currier and Ives back to town. Then the ice came and put Currier and Ives in the stocks in the town square for the crime of being jolly out of turn, and pelted them with everything handy. The roads turned to suggestions. The pavement was just the bottom layer of an arctic lasagne of sand and ice and mud and snow and general corruption. My wife's car and my truck told me to shove it more than once when I turned their keys.

Then the thermometer began a truth or dare phase. It had been ten degrees below normal for months, but now it wanted to impress people. Pinch the unwary. Show you who's in charge around here. Twice it showed me twenty below and kept going, and days ticked off the calendar, one after another, without ever reaching the number one. The ladder to spring had been drawn up into the calendar's treehouse. We'd have to set a spell and wait for it.

There is no heat but what we can make. I shoveled the logs into the stove like a man in the belly of some great, dripping, iron ship, while icebergs passed by the portholes in first class. Nothing you could do could touch twenty below. You could set your house itself on fire and not raise the temperature in the living room ninety degrees. What chance do you and your disassembled birches and beeches have?  But one bails a leaky rowboat whether you have a bucket or a teaspoon.

My neighbor passed by and said he was angry at his thermometer today. I understood, because he felt the thermometer had betrayed him. It was still five below at nine o' clock this morning, and that was a shiv in the guts from a friend. He was promised by the man on the TeeVee, who combs his hair a lot, that it would be warmer today.

We were out of firewood. Well, not out, exactly; I'm a fool, but not that big of one. There were still three cords sleeping in the back yard where we stacked them in August to dry. But there was no more in the house. We'd put three cords in the basement, and all but a few junks were gone in a puff of woodsmoke already. It will rain again tomorrow, and be miserable to be outside, and handling firewood in the rain is a penance not to be inflicted on the innocent. The time to get more was today. 

My son came out with me. He shows no enthusiasm, but does not complain. It's the mark of an adult, I think. The sun looked like a cataract and hung low in the sky, skulking across the horizon for the few hours it deigns to shine in January, and looks ashamed of itself the whole time. You could look right at it, but why would you? You look at the ground right in front of you, and that's that. We shoveled the top layer of snow and ice to get halfway to the ground, and walked on the skin of ice over the first heaping of snow as we went. The ice was almost strong enough to hold my weight for every footfall, but every once in a while the heel of my boot would punch a hole in it, and my knee would hinge backwards and remind me that I hit a hurdle when I was in tenth grade and that I wrecked a car when I was nineteen. Winter is very solicitous here, and worries you might get the Alzheimer's, and tries to help you remember things. 

In the fall, we'd made and installed four, great big swinging barn doors leading out of our basement into the paved yard where the firewood slumbered. The firewood only had to travel twenty feet. The nature of those twenty feet was the issue. There was a buttress of ice eighteen inches thick holding the doors closed. The eave above had basted the snow that collected there with water, over and over, until it was as solid and unyielding as any revetment. We stood like Napoleons looking longingly at Moscow in the winter.

My son got an iron bar we keep for some reason. It's six feet long, as big around as a toddler's wrist, pointed at one end, with a sort-of chisel at the other. This tool is of absolutely no use, until it's essential, like a lawyer or a prostitute. I laid into that bulwark of ice like, like -- like it was the only thing between me and heat tomorrow morning. Ten minutes and the big door swung clear. We dumped the plywood that covers the woodpiles overboard, and then layed them on the iffy ice and snow layer cake on the ground. We rolled a handtruck back and forth over them, and assembled the clanking junks of wood into a wall four feet high and twenty-four feet long in the basement. People here call a piece of firewood a "junk," and firewood that's been dried properly rings with a ceramic tone when you handle them. The last of the wood outside came hard; frozen solid six inches below the level of our feet. The iron bar levered them out, and they joined their brethren. The last of them will no doubt go in the furnace still wearing their necklaces of ice, because it's not warm enough down there to melt it.

My son, who is no longer a child, really, never flagged, never complained once. We spoke almost not at all, because there wasn't much to say. The work would whisper done when there wasn't any more of it. I thought to myself that I would not have been able to do it without him to help me. I wondered -- I very dearly wished -- he might say the same thing about me.

11 comments:

Sam L. said...

You Sippis be hardy souls.

Casey Klahn said...

Only you, it seems to me, could make Winter entertaining and almost, but not quite, tolerable.

From your snowed-in friend on the other coast.

Johnny Glendale said...

Every now and then, when the temp gets below 50 and I have to put on socks and a jacket, I curse the winter, then think of you. Every time we have company over (about as frequently - 4 or 5 times a year), I clean the house and curse the dust. I just pledged your table Sunday, and thought of you. We've never knowingly met, and I feel quite close to you. Please keep writing. We'll always have Wong's...

Gringo said...

Speaking of winters in Maine, a Skowhegan LP gas vendor has made the news by informing customers he will no longer deliver to Trump supporters.

An owner of a propane dealership in Maine is refusing to deliver gas to anyone who voted for President-elect Donald Trump.

Michael Turner, owner of Turner LP Gas in Skowhegan, Maine, recorded a voice mail greeting that leaves little question as to his feelings for those in his community who supported Trump.

“Thank you for calling Turner LP gas. If you voted for Donald Trump for president I will no longer be delivering your gas — please find someone else,” the message states.


As Skowhegan voted for Trump, this is a businessman who is definitely putting his money where his mouth is. Let's hope that Mr. Turner's customers can readily find an alternative, and Mr. Turner discovers his cash flow is politely but considerably reduced.

http://www.lifezette.com/polizette/maine-gas-distributor-wont-deliver-trump-supporters/

http://www.powerlineblog.com/archives/2016/12/you-voted-for-trump-no-heat-for-you-this-winter.php

Thud said...

I hear its a tad brisk there at the moment.

SippicanCottage said...

Hello Thud- I hope you and all the Thudlettes are doing great.

It was 15 below zero last night. That's Fahrenheit, not avoirdupois or Kelvin or whatever they use over there to measure your chill blains. I shudder to think that winter doesn't start for a week or so.

The Spare Heir and I shoveled snow together all afternoon. He was useful, which struck me as a kind of wonderful.

Bram said...

Your son will remember these days as good times spent with his father - despite the the tedious work and lack of conversation. That's how I remember splitting and stacking wood with my dad.

Anonymous said...

Happy generic end of the year holiday to you and your family Reginald.

Maybe I'll come up and visit you after all chance of frost is passed- say July.

BonafideView said...

I could feel the ice crunch, almost hear the sound of it from your well wrought words. There is adventure in the usefulness of an iron rod to chip away chunks of ice to allow the fetching of wood for warmth. There is the strength of knowing no energy was wasted on unnecessary words between you and your son as you tended to the task at hand. Your often sardonic approach to writing meets every challenge with integrity. Enjoyed every step of travelling vicariously on your journey at home but your closing paragraph brought the whole event to another level. The revelation of truth rang out and grabbed me as a great work of literature will do. Thank you.

shoreacres said...

Somehow I thought you'd quit writing. I think you have, sort of. I hope you start again. This piece is wonderful. My favorite line of all is, "The work would whisper done when there wasn't any more of it." Takes a special person to know to say that -- to understand how those things are.

SippicanCottage said...

Hi Shore Acres- Many thanks. I'll return to daily writing as soon as possible.