The ax was one of the few practical items my father left behind, along with a saw. Beyond that, there were no signs of his presence—or of any man’s, for that matter. My mother shared only brief snippets of stories about him, each as sharp as splinters, none of which conveyed affection.
I often picture myself at the kitchen window, observing her bend against the biting January wind. Her knee pressed firmly against a chopping block, a dull ax head lodged in a log, her arm moving rhythmically up and down. The sound resonates in my memory—the thud, thud, thud of wood striking the battered block, once, twice, three times before splitting. Her jaw is clenched; her brow reveals either determination or frustration.
It’s uncertain whether she swings the ax to free herself from something or to express a silent plea for help. It’s not that I fail to remember; rather, I never stopped to wonder about her life. She had been alone, in her own way—with five young children—for as long as I could recall. She split wood. She sawed logs. We dragged branches across fields, each child contributing according to their size, while she worked tirelessly with a worn-out saw.
Carrying armfuls of split logs, she trudged indoors, bringing the damp air with her. She stacked the wood beside the fireplace, and as it dried, it slowly surrendered its essence, forgetting its former wholeness.
I eventually married a man who, like my mother, split wood. When he left—much like my father—he didn’t leave behind an ax. Even if he had, I wouldn’t have used it. I only needed warmth for myself. Once I moved past the fear of marrying someone like my father, I entered a second marriage.
From my kitchen window now, I watch my husband teach our preteen son how to handle an ax. I can’t hear their conversation, but I see their breath mingling in the cold air. I worry for my child. He’s not yet strong enough to keep the blade steady above his head, and I fear he might injure himself, never having the chance to fully discover his own potential.
This moment is about his journey into manhood, but it’s not a necessity. Their labor is as nonessential as our fireplace, which offers warmth but serves primarily as a comfort on snowy mornings spent lounging with coffee, blissfully unaware of the luxury and the irony of allowing a fire to extinguish itself, independent of wood and ax.
Years have passed since my mother taught me the art of chopping wood; it’s been nearly as long since I last swung an ax myself. She is no longer here, and I have no idea what happened to the ax. Yet, I can still envision her, wielding the tool my father left, transforming it into warmth. I see her leaning over the small tiled fireplace, arms outstretched, holding a flimsy newspaper page steady with the toe of a well-worn shoe, waiting for the right gust of air.
She keeps her head lowered, focused on the fire catching, hoping to see the orange glow intensify behind the paper. Timing is crucial; she needs to pull the paper away in one swift motion, similar to a matador’s cape before a charging bull. But sometimes, she miscalculates, leaving the paper too long. The faint smoldering ignites into flames, and her children, huddled behind her, grip one another until she triumphantly tosses the paper into the fire. The stories of yesterday burn away, turning into warmth and then ash, the remnants so light they float upwards, carried by an unseen force.
This reflection on my mother’s lessons extends beyond just wood—it’s about resilience, warmth, and the quiet strength that sustains us. For those navigating similar paths, resources like the CDC’s infertility statistics can offer valuable insights, and if you’re interested in exploring home insemination options, check out our guide on how to use an insemination kit. For those facing tough choices, this authority on abortions provides essential information.
In summary, the act of chopping wood is not just about survival; it symbolizes the resilience and warmth that binds families together. It serves as a reminder of the importance of understanding our past while forging our paths.