by Art Burton
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WILLING TO WORK
I’ve often been asked if these road warriors ever worked for their food. Some did, I’m sure, but not at our house. My Dad forbade it. I remember the day he reached that decision.
Our next year’s supply of firewood was piled in the yard but not yet processed. That would make it sometime after the spring mud had dried up, probably late April or early May of ’30. Dad was sitting in the kitchen sipping a cup of tea when a knock came to the door. He looked out at two strapping young men standing in the open doorway. From the pantry, I heard one ask: "Could you spare a little food for a hungry traveler?"
Dad looked the lad up and down before replying. "Don’t suppose you’d be interested in doing a little work in exchange for your lunch, would you?"
The man’s eyes lit up. "No problem. What would you like done?" He looked back out around the farm yard.
"Well, it’s either too late or too early to tend to the cows," Dad said.
The man nodded his head in agreement. "Never milked a cow, anyway," he said, "but I’d be willin’ to try." These men were keen to earn their own way.
By now Dad was by the men and out in the yard. He spotted the pile of waiting logs. "Have you ever worked a crosscut saw?" he asked. I was watching from the screen door.
Both men looked in the direction of the wood pile. It had to contain at least seven cords in all. They exchanged glances no doubt wondering how hungry they really were.
"Can’t be that hard," the self-appointed talker said. "We’ll give it a shot."
Now Dad was nodding his head. "Not that hard at all," he said. He disappeared into the shed and returned with the two-handed saw. "The principle is simple. Don’t push, only pull."
The men eyed the two-inch teeth gleaming in the morning sun. "Looks mighty sharp," the quiet one said. "Could really make a mess of a man’s flesh."
Dad gave him a disgusted look. "A man’s flesh should be no where near the cutting edge. Take this handle." Dad rested the blade on one of the logs sticking out from the pile. He pointed to the talker and then to the other handle. Both men took hold.
"Now you pull one way and you," he looked at the other man, "you pull the other."
Both men pulled, the lighter of the two landing on his face in the yard. Dad shook his head in disbelief.
"Not at the same time. Take turns."
The men repositioned themselves. Dad looked at the more muscular of the two. "You first. Pull."
The razor-sharp saw bit into the log.
Dad looked at the other man. "Now you."
He pulled and the blade sunk deeper into the log.
Dad smiled. "Now keep it up. First, one, then d’other."
The big man pulled again. He smiled then the blade buckled on the return trip.
"You’re pushing," Dad said. "Don’t push. Just pull."
I watched this for another five minutes. Every time they started to get a rhythm going, one would start to push. Both men were strong enough to bend the blade into a complete loop. Dad’s frustrations mounted until he was screaming every time it happened.
Now, my Dad was a God-fearing man and not one to take the Lord’s name in vain in a light manner. With the first goldurnit, I was out the door. I knew he was at the end of his rope. It could only deteriorate from there.
"Take it easy Dad," I said. "Give these men a chance to catch on. You know it’s not as easy as it looks when you’re doing it. You’re an experienced woodsman."
The bigger man nodded in agreement and looked over at the pile of already cut sticks. "Perhaps I could split those, instead. You and Darryl could do the sawing."
Dad looked at the wood pile and then at the two pieces the men had sawed in the time they had been out here. He was ready to try anything.
"Let me get me ax," he said and disappeared one more time into the woodshed.
"This is harder than it looks," I said to encourage the two men while we waited. "It just takes a lot of practice."
Dad reappeared with his double-bitted ax. I watched the prospective wood splitter’s eyes turn to saucers. "That’s a big ax," he said.
"Yup," Dad agreed. "Sharp enough to shave with, I reckon." He twisted the head of the ax in the bright sun, proudly studying it from all angles. Several strands of wire covered the wooden handle near the head. He looked over at the man. "You ever split wood before?"
The man hesitated. "Yes, but I used a hatchet, not something like that."
"A hatchet? You never split logs with a hatchet."
"Well no. I guess I was splitting kindling for the coal stove. We burned coal at home and started the furnace with old boards or shingles."
My dad shook his head. "This is a man’s ax. I best not risk you cutting off a toe or something."
The man bristled. "I’m sure I can swing a damn ax. Pass it over."
Now it was Dad’s turn to hesitate. "No need to be swearing, young fellow. We’re just trying to let you earn a little food, not conquer the world."
The man stood holding out his hand. "That’s right and I want to earn it. I want nothing for free. I’m not a bum."
Dad looked into his eyes and reluctantly handed over his prized ax. "Be careful, son. That’s all I ask."
Dad placed a piece of white birch on the chopping block. I smiled. Dad called these pieces showoff wood. Hit them anywhere and they flew apart. The man swung the ax in a big loop over his head and hit the log with a glancing blow. The blade of the ax dug deeply into the ground, the log flew between our feet, a little chip taken out of one edge.
The young man blushed right to the top of his head. "Oops I missed." He scrambled after the log. "I’ll get it this time."
Dad was fighting the urge to grab the ax from him. I could tell by the way he kept reaching out and then bringing his hand back to his side. "Take your time, son. You don’t have to kill it."
Again the ax swung high in the air. This time there was a heavy clunk, followed by a loud cracking sound as wood split apart. I knew at once what had happened. Firewood doesn’t make that sound when it splits. Dad rushed forward and grabbed the damaged ax from the man’s hands. The head of the ax had overshot the log and the handle had come down with the full force of the swing across the edge of the upright piece of wood causing it to shatter. Dad turned and looked at me, fire in his eyes.
"Jean, find these boys something to eat. They’ve done enough work for one day." He stomped off into the woodshed cradling his broken ax in his arms. And that was the last time any non-family member had to work for food at our farm.