“A man’s woodpile is sacred,” he declared and looked me squarely in the eye as if he expected me to dispute it.
Not being one to disappoint, I asked with a note of skepticism, “Oh yeah, how do you figure that, Sid?”
He waved his massive hand in a dismissive way and shook his head in mock disgust at my apparent ignorance. “See that pile of wood over there waiting to be put under cover for winter?”
“Well, of course, I see it. I’m not blind.”
“No, you have sharp eyes and a sharp tongue to match, girlie.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be a wiseacre. It just seems to come natural,” I said apologetically.
“Oh, I know how it is. I guess you can’t help the way you are any more than I can. I’m kind of odd. I’ve never been popular,” Sid said and spat a stream of tobacco juice.
“I can’t imagine why,” I replied and smiled wryly.
“You know why as well as I do. You really should curb the sarcasm. People don’t take to me because I’m different. Some of them think I’m uncouth.”
“True, but what do they know? Are they so all fired perfect?”
Sid laughed and turned to walk away.
“Hey, wait a minute. You didn’t tell me why a woodpile is sacred. Fill me in. I want to hear it.”
“I’ll tell you, but before I do, I want you to help me stack this woodpile in the shed. It’s seasoned and ready to be stored for winter.”
“Okay, but this had better be a good explanation.”
He only smiled, handed me a pair of work gloves that he took out of his pocket and said, “Put these on. I don’t want you getting a splinter in your hand. I’d have to dig it out and there’d be no end to your sniveling.”
“Thanks,” I said and pulled them on.
We worked at stacking wood for three hours straight without taking a breather. Then he stopped, turned to me and said, “Enough for today.”
“I thought you’d never take a break. We toted a lot of wood in that shed. There’s still plenty left, though.”
“Yup, there’s too much to carry in today.”
“So, are you going to tell me now or what?”
“Nope, if you remember I said I’d tell you when this woodpile was all stacked. Come back tomorrow and we’ll finish it up. I’ll tell you then.” Sid stated.
“That’s not fair. I want to hear it now,” I said in a whiny voice.
“It’s absolutely fair, honest, and above board. I told you I’d give you the explanation after the wood was put in and not before. See you tomorrow.”
“You’ve gotten all this work out of me. The least you can do is to make me some lunch before I leave.”
“It’s a deal. Come on into the house and wash up.”
We walked side by side up to his old farmhouse. It’d seen better days, but there was something charming about it in spite of that, kind of like Sid.
“You know, for someone who doesn’t like folks, you don’t mind making me feel welcome.”
“You’re different, girlie. I think we’re on the same wave length.”
“I don’t know. I’ve always like you, Sid, but I can’t say that I’ve ever understood you,” I admitted as I followed his huge form through the kitchen door.
“There’s not much to understand. I like my privacy. I don’t want nosy people poking around here prying into my business.”
“What business?”
“Go wash up at the sink.”
“Sorry, I suppose that was a nosy question.”
“Yes. You are one of the nosiest critters I’ve ever seen, but for some reason, you don’t bother me.”
“I may be nosy, but I’m only that way because I like you.”
“That’s it. The others are nosy because they don’t. They only want something or someone to gossip about. You’re pretty smart for a kid,” Sid said and smiled broadly.
After we’d washed our hands, Sid made thick roast beef sandwiches on pumpernickel bread, poured tall glasses of cold milk and we had a feast complete with oatmeal raisin cookies for dessert. We didn’t talk while we were eating, but he did pause before starting to say grace as was his custom. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable. We enjoyed it along with the food and like the milk we drank it in. I liked his old kitchen, especially his farm style oak table with the straight back chairs to match. Today, he had the table covered with a red check tablecloth, but I also noticed he was using placemats on top of it in an apparent effort not to dirty it up. It seemed unusual.
“How come you’re getting all fancy today? I mean, what’s up with the tablecloth?”
He sighed and looked at me as if I’d crossed some sort of boundary line.
“Well, you don’t have to tell me if you’d rather not say,” I blurted.
“You know I’ve been alone a good many years,” he began.
I glanced at him and averted my eyes; his were filling with tears. I wasn’t prepared for that development.
“I know. Really, Sid, you don’t need to tell me.”
“It’s okay. I met this lady last week. I think she might like me a little. I invited her for supper. Ain’t that a fine kettle of fish? I don’t know what a woman would like about me.”
“Your wife, Alice, loved you. Besides, I know what a woman would like about you.”
“What?”
“You’re kind and you know how to let a person be,” I stated deliberately.
“Be what?”
“Themselves, of course, you don’t try to change people all around. You’ve never tried with me. I’m not a woman, but I’m on my way to being one someday and I ought to know something about it by now.”
He smiled and said, “Thanks. Don’t rush the growing up thing. Being an adult ain’t all it’s cracked up to be, believe me. There’s too much pain in it.”
I didn’t quite know what to say to that, so I got up, cleared the table, and washed the few dishes. Then I said, “I’ll be on my way back home now. See you tomorrow.”
“Sure, girlie. Better be off before your mother gets worried. I appreciate her letting you visit like she does. Most mothers wouldn’t allow it.”
I didn’t respond to that. Sid didn’t know that my mother didn’t much care where I was as long as I was out of her hair for the summer months. She had her own agenda which didn’t include me, so I tried to stay out of the way as much as I could. I never knew what I would find when I went home. It was a constant worry.
“I’ll be back. I want that explanation,” I said as I ran out slamming the screen door behind me.
The next day was bright and sunny, but not too hot for early August. It was a perfect morning for stacking wood, so I left my house right after eating a bowl of cold cereal. My mother was sleeping off yet another hangover. The last thing I wanted was to wake her up, so I closed the door quietly and crept out. Once I was out of sight of the house, I began to run. It was a wonderful tension reliever and I felt so light as I ran as though I was winged Pegasus. It was great being twelve years old and as free as the wind. When I reached his yard, Sid was already outside working on his woodpile. He must have been at it for hours because there wasn’t that much left on the ground.
“Wow, it can’t be much later than seven o’clock. How long have you been up, anyway?”
He replied, “I guess I started around four.”
His eyes betrayed weariness, but also something else.
“What is wrong?” I asked cautiously.
He rested his big frame on a nearby sawhorse. “That lady wasn’t a lady. She was a talking machine and all she cared to talk about was her ex-husband. It went on non-stop for two hours. I drove her home and as far as I’m concerned that is that. I looked in that woman’s eyes and decided that there are lots worse things than being alone.”
“I’m sorry. I’d hoped you found somebody to make you happy. You’ve been sad a long time, haven’t you?”
“Yes, I have. Let’s finish this wood detail and then I’ll tell you why the woodpile is sacred.”
He handed over the work gloves and we started in. It only took an hour or so and we were done.
Sid said, “That’s a job well done, girlie and I thank you for your help. You’re a good friend.”
I stood there waiting expectantly and he chuckled.
“Okay, okay, here goes. Woodpiles are sacred because God made the trees. They are living, breathing things and He said they are good. Every time one is cut down a life is extinguished to bring me a measure of warmth and comfort. I don’t take it lightly. Their sacrifice is a great gift, one I appreciate. Do you know that the trees sing?”
He had a faraway look on his face and I wondered if he was a little crazy, after all, but I didn’t say so.
“Do they really sing or are you kidding me?”
“The Bible declares that they do. They not only sing; they sing praise to God. I’m a believer, aren’t you?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never given it much thought, I guess,” I said a bit nervously.
“There’s another reason I know trees are sacred. Jesus, God’s son, died on a tree. Not only was the tree sacrificed, but Jesus became the ultimate sacrifice for sin and died on a tree for me. That’s why I think every stick of wood is so valuable. It reminds me of the cross. I have other reasons, too, but this is enough for today, I think.”
“Well, it is a lot to take in all at once,” I admitted.
“I didn’t mean to get so preachy,” Sid said and reached out a big gnarled hand and ruffled my hair.
“That’s okay. I’ve never heard anything like this before, that’s all. I need to learn more about it.”
I went home that day to find my mother gone. There was a note on the table saying she wouldn’t be coming back. She’d met a new man and he didn’t like kids. She said I was old enough to go it alone. I sat down at the table and cried. How could she be so cruel? I took the note and went to show it to Sid.
He said, “Well, girlie, I guess it’s you and me from now on. That must be what the good Lord wants.”
He took me in and gave me the home I’d never had. Sid Westbrook was the only family I ever knew and he taught me the important things in life. I learned about the sacred woodpile, but more importantly I learned about Jesus Christ from the man that most people thought was nothing but an odd, old hermit. He’s gone now, but he’ll live on forever in my heart. I’ll live forever in heaven someday because of him and his unselfish Godlike love.
No comments:
Post a Comment