Samhain Thanksgiving Moon
“Cutting down trees is easy,” Gabe said with all the confidence and bravura of an opera soloist. At 7 things still happen because we think them. So, he put on his black snow boots, orange gloves and partially zipped coat-he seems to have a similar metabolism to Grandma-and came outside.
I had begun to move limbs. It was Sunday morning and I didn’t want to run the chainsaw, cut into a neighbor’s deserved rest or their (less likely) morning contemplation. The trees I had limbed on Friday had branches ready for transfer to the chipping piles. Grabbing limbs by their smaller branches, slogging through the now crusty snow, the piles along either side of the driveway grew taller.
Kate had suggested a saw for Gabe, so I had found a suitably light pruning saw. “Why don’t you work on taking off these branches, Gabe,” I said. Thinking smaller, easier to cut. Some early satisfaction. “I can show you how to use the saw.” “My dad already showed me.” OK.
He began, the saw at an angle too broad to achieve any result. Frustration. I could see it. He moved up to a smaller branch, a twig really. Tried that. The saw slipped and nicked his finger. The finger came up, examined closely. Hemophilia. Makes him take care. Probably too much care.
Moving limbs seemed like the next thought. Nope. Gabe, “I want to cut down a tree.” All right. “Let me show you to use the ax.” No chainsaws for Gabe. Way too heavy, not to mention noisy. It’s still Sunday morning. Also, chainsaw plus young hemophiliac. Hmmm. Not so good.
The ax it is. Feed spread wide apart, at a 90 degree angle to the cut, left hand on the heft and right up just below the ax head, I brought the right hand through to the left, angling the ax blade down and in toward the tree. The ax bit and a small moon shaped piece of wood showed phloem, the delicate living cambium and the xylem. Gabe was eager.
He stood, feet apart at almost 180 degrees from the tree trunk. The ax. He held his left near the heft, but the right up only half way. The weight of the ax head, I imagine. With a not too aggressive swing he brought the face of the ax blade into contact with the tree. Nothing. Again. Nothing.
Show him again. Correct the stance, go through the motion with him, ax in both of our hands. A sliver of tree cut open.
Feet apart, a bit better angle. Left hand on the heft, right midway, he swings again, more like a baseball bat, a familiar wooden tool, but moves neither hand. Face of the ax against the bark. Cutting down trees may not be so easy after all.
This went on until, “I’m going inside.” “Why?” “Just because I want to.” And with that the would-be lumber jack made his slow wander to the house, stopping now and then to break off a branch, kick the snow. Wonder about things in the way of 7 year olds.
All the limbed branches made their way to the piles.
Only a few smaller trees remain to be removed in the front. Four trees cut down last Friday still need to be limbed and the limbs moved. Always Chipper will come out and chip the slash, fell the problem trees.
Soon, after the snow, I’ll take my smart holder and the peavey out and begin cutting tree trunks into fireplace sized logs. They’ll get stacked between trees, well over 30 feet away from the house where they’ll remain until next year about this time. Then they’ll be seasoned, ready for the fire.
(This is the big lodgepole just before felling. Another, slightly smaller, behind it may have to go as well.)
