North Florida, An Anvil's music , Laying by the crop , John's passage , Ben Minor's obit , The Farm House , Directory
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The thin layer of sandy loam soil, saturated with water, covered the underlying red subsoil and had all the characteristics of jelly in its appearance. A better clay pot for holding water has yet to be made by man. If you patted your foot on the ground for a while, it would quake and become like quicksand allowing any weight on it to sink to the clay beneath. This was mud in its finest form. If you grow up in such an area you will never forget it and like as not will see no reason to return. Others make talk about their black or gumbo soils but nothing compares to the fine silty clay loam of Texas when it comes to stick-to-its-ness and its treacherous nature.
It was a typical winter day. The harsh winter cold had turned the country shades of brown. The trees had long ago dropped their acorns and leaves. Squirrel's nests were easy to see in the tall oaks. Only an occasional holly or scrub cedar gave color to the woods and fence rows.
Monday morning as agreed, the old man drove up in his much battered truck. Damage from hauling loads of wood was evidenced by dents, gouges and bends in the sheet metal on the sides of the old Chevy. In back were the tools of his trade; a half dozen iron wedges with battered and splayed tops, a crosscut saw whose two handles wore a patina of hand-oil, sweat and dirt. In the cab, each carefully protected by a wrap of denim were two double bit axes; the protection was meant for the carefully filed edge, not for one careless enough to feel their caress. A bucket held lunch and a gallon jug wrapped in burlap held the day's water. Along side the wood cutter was his great grand son. They were a pair well known to the area.
The old man and the boy were dressed for working in the woods that day. Each had high-topped shoes that were laced firmly. Faded jeans and much washed flannel shirts were underneath a thin duck jacket, the arms frayed from years of wear. The old man wore a felt hat that had seen much better days but mostly retained its shape. It never left his head, some said he slept in it. The boy had a stocking cap not unlike those worn by sailors. It was pulled down so that it covered his ears. As their hands were hardened by the tools of their trade, no gloves were necessary and if they had possessed them they would have been left at home to save them for some special occasion.
Everyone knew the boy was "dumb." In today's times, he would have been considered a "special student," but in those unenlightened times, dumb was the term used. And he was not a student, having never entered a school in his entire life. The pleasure of his life was that he would be eternally young. Having the mind of a five-year old, he saw beauty in all that was before him. And, with him was his grandparent who he called "dad," just as the old one called him "son."
They were a pair. The old man was in his late seventies and had worked most every day of his life. His back and arms held surprising strength for one of his age, and his mind was sharp. The boy now in his late teens was a good worker. He followed "dad's" lead and was an essential part of the team. Together they could cut and split a hundred fence posts in a day and for boot, save almost a cord of wood from the branches and unused trunks of the trees they fell.
This week they were to cut, split and stack one thousand posts from the post-oak trees that grew in the waste land beyond the pond. For their labors they would receive ten cents per post and all the fire wood they chose to haul away. Not a bad deal in those times when money was dear. Having been to the farm many times before, it only took a moment to stop at the house before they were on their way.
Carefully the truck was edged along the side of the field, staying close to the fence and away from the plowed ground.
The barb-wire gap was thrown back for the truck's passage and then put back in place so the cows and horses would not stray into the woods. From the gap, the wood's road twisted between the trees and stumps from past foraging. Finally in what seemed to be a good place to park, away from falling trees and where it could easily be turned around, particularly important as the reverse gear worked only when it had a mind to, the truck was brought to a halt.
The old man surveyed the trees that he intended to cut during the next five days and planned how he would be able to load the post and firewood with the least effort. The boy sat in the truck as he was told to do. Now having arrived at a decision on the first tree, he called for the boy's help who brought the cross cut saw to his dad. The old man ran his finger along the saw and sensed that he had done a good job of setting and sharpening the teeth (others would say it was perfection in itself.)
Perhaps because he wanted to warm a bit or maybe it was just pride, the old man called for his axe and on the selected tree began crafting a notch. Today there was little breeze and the tree would easily fall where he intended. The thought of having to use wedges to throw a tree was unheard of for this wood cutter, his notch provided all the direction needed. Now he called for the saw. Each positioned themselves as a part of the team and with an easy swing of their arms they practiced how they would attack the tree with the saw. Now the points of the teeth just touched the bark of the red oak, barely brushing it. With a rhythm long established between them as they had been cutting wood together since the boy was eight, the saw moved easily through the bark and took its first taste of wood. While some would have noticed the resistance the tree provided to the saw, it was not evident in the strokes the pair applied. Slowly the blade cut into the tree until it was within an inch of where the axe cut had been made and just as accurately, an inch above the cut as well. The pair removed the saw from the cut and the boy, as told returned the saw to the truck. The tree stood motionless and then with a slow movement as gravity began to influence the balance of the trunk, it began an arch still held in place by the uncut fibers.
This tree, as a seedling, took to the soil at about the time of Texas Independence and was one hundred years or so old. If you looked at the rings, you could see that it had had good and not so good times, some rings being tightly spaced indeed. It gave up its life and came crashing down just as all the others felled by the old man and his son. No other tree of value was damaged by its fall and while the trunk kicked back when the full weight was transferred to the branches, it lay exactly where the old man intended. He surveyed his work, called for the saw and as practiced before, the boy and man attacked the trunk some six feet above the cut. This time the sawing was easier than before as the blade passed easily through the wood and each team member could stand with good footing permitting the weight of the saw to put pressure on the teeth. When the section dropped to the ground, the old man signaled that the boy could begin trimming the branches from the tree while he went about the business of splitting the post.
This was his most favorite task. Judging how many posts could be taken from a bole and having each equal in size to the other was the mark of a professional. He was.
He took his axe and with an easy swing embedded the bit into the square end of the trunk and using it as a lever, rolled the section to a position where he could begin the insertion of wedges. He removed the axe and carefully laid it aside. Now with his first wedge he drove it easily into the wood perhaps an inch. The second followed some eighteen inches away. Then playing a tune on the two, he drove each deeper and deeper into the wood. Between each strike there was silence but on his last swing, the wood gave way and with a crack, the bole began to split. The crack formed was straight and to ensure that it remained so, he took his axe and extended the crack until it was from stem to stern. Now he drove an additional wedge into the trunk and drove the two others deep as well. In short order the round trunk was two half moons with only a few fibers torn from each to reflect that great force had been applied in making the separation.
Now each section was rolled flat side down and the process of splitting was repeated. As this was a good sized oak, the section would yield ten posts, four of which would be heart wood only and the other six a mix of sapwood and heart wood. When he had completed his work of forming the posts, they lay at the stump of the tree. Taking each in hand, the old man stood them around the stump in the shape of a teepee so that they would dry and age well.
He stopped and admired the work the youngster was doing. The branches were being attacked just as he had been instructed to do so many times in the past. When a spot was finished, the smaller branches were removed and placed in a neat pile. Then the boy would trim-up the branch to a point from which lengths of firewood could be cut.
It was time for the next section to be removed from the tree to yield up its charge of posts.
As in the past, the saw did its job and the section of post was separate from the tree. But before the old man returned to his job of splitting, he and the boy used the saw to remove sections from the top that would yield split wood, a premium product in the wood lot. These were carefully cut to yield two foot lengths so that when the wood was stacked in a neat rick four feet by eight feet by four feet it would be a cord of wood. A face cord, popular with those on limited budget, was only two feet wide rather than the four feet of the standard. Sometimes he cut wood to order with the preferred length being sixteen or eighteen inches to fit in smaller stoves and fireplaces. He charged on the basis of a face cord for that wood, no discount being given for the smaller volume of wood, as the labor required to produce it was the same.
The young man was permitted now to practice the art of splitting on the cut sections, while the old man returned to his task. In this way they cut five trees this winter day and had a good yield of more than one hundred posts. The sun was dropping from the sky when they moved the truck to the area where the trees had been cut and loaded it high with the fresh-cut wood. With the axes protected in the cab and the saw safely snugged in the bed of the truck they were ready to head for home and a well-deserved rest. Unfortunately that was not to be the end of their day.
The heavily loaded truck approached the gap; the boy hopped out before the truck had rolled to a stop and ran to open the gap. It was thrown open as before and when the old man slowly engaged the clutch, the truck stalled and rolled back a bit. The engine started easily as a Chevy is known to do, he let it idle a moment which was a mistake and then poured on the coal to go through the gap. But the time spent in one place so heavily loaded, with the engine shaking the truck while it sat in one place, had an unplanned result. The ground around the wheels simply turned to mush and the truck sank. They were stuck.
Taking only a glance at the quagmire surrounding the wheels, the old man and son trudged up to the farm house and explained the source of their misery. No problem. The horses were in the barn enjoying their evening feed and it took little time to harness them and with a good logging chain thrown over the hames, back to the gap; the farmer, the old man, and his son went. Each carried either a double tree or single tree for hitching the team to the truck. A shovel was brought along to dig out the dirt from in front of the wheels to give running room for the truck. The truck would sink no further as the clay pan would hold the weight and prevent further sinking, however, it provided little traction as the tread of the tires would quickly fill with clay once they began to spin. Should they unload the truck? Try it without unloading was the obvious answer and with the team hitched to the front bumper, the truck was started and cautiously moved forward to the end of the short trench that had been dug for the tires to follow. Then it was permitted to roll back to the furthest position. The old man set the hand brake.
On signal the horses strained against their collars but could not budge the truck. With a roar, the engine was given a full charge of gas and just as the clutch was jumped, the hand brake was released. As if on a spring, the truck lunged forward and the driver of the horses who intended to give them a sharp snap of the reins never had a chance. Out of the depression came the truck and it was being pulled by runaway horses that surely thought a roaring devil, a snallygaster or necromancer was behind them. Reins were jerked from the horse's driver's hands and the team took off toward the only shelter they knew, the barn at the end of the lane. The old man allowed the truck to roll with the clutch depressed so that it was only the horses providing the energy for movement as they raced homeward to the barn. When they entered the lot, the old man put on the brakes and the whole affair came to a stop. Exhausted, the horses hung their heads and shook such was their state, being completely spent. The old man climbed from the cab of the truck and unhitched the horses. Placing the traces on the hames, they were allowed to go inside the barn, the owner could unharness them and give them a well-deserved feed later. He removed the log chain, the double tree and two single trees and put them in the barn, then leaned against the side of the truck and lit his cob pipe. The farmer and the boy trudged up the lane from the wood lot.
As customary, little thanks were said, it was understood that the favor would be returned any time. The old man and son climbed back into the Chevy and drove home. Their day was near an end. They had only to unload the firewood after supper in preparation for the next day's events.
With pride the two would stack the wood in their yard in neat ricks. If asked they would sing the praises of this particular day above all others. It ended well.
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