Firewood

Tom Heggie
EVWP Summer 2009


To farmers, firewood, carefully stacked, is like money in the bank.
It’s the week before Christmas. A few flakes fall from a silent, grey sky, as the old mule meanders, wagon in tow, downhill to the mill. Uncle Thomas and I are delivering a load of firewood – cut, split, and stacked last year. Oak and hickory, sold to earn a few dollars and help pay bills during the winter. Aunt Robbie’s egg money and firewood are the only sources of income during the winter. I’m driving the wagon; Uncles Thomas is slumped down in his coat and hat, legs covered in a buffalo robe that he brought back years ago from time spent out west. The conversation is sparse. A few comments on the nature of mules, the weather and its relationship to hunting success, and the hard work involved in the firewood business punctuate the sounds of the mules’ feet sloshing through the soft snow and the creaking of the dry boards in the bed of the wagon staining under the weight of two chords.

The road from the farm to the mill is pretty much a straight shot as country roads go. For the first half-mile or so it is relatively flat, and then it goes downward gently to the river. One mule can handle this load easily. And the trip back is empty.
We cross the bridge at the mill and start up the short, steep hill that leads to the wood lot where we can unload and head for home. If we are lucky, they’ll help us. About half way up that hill, the old mule balks, comes to a dead halt he does. I slap him on the back with the reins. His head half-way turns as if to look at me, then drops – almost to the ground. I slap him again. This time nothing happens.

“Hop out and let me have the reins,” Uncle Thomas slides over. He slaps the leads again, this time with gentle words of encouragement. No response. The next attempt is the same, but the encouragement is louder. “Robert, take his bridle and shake it.” While I shake, Uncle Thomas repeats the process, except this time he utters oaths that he saves for moments like this. The mule might as well have been dead.

Stepping down over the wheel, he calmly selects a thinly split pieces of hickory as if to gain the mules attention by some violent act of man on mule aggression. But instead, he stoops under the mules belly and rakes a space clear of snow. “Hand me some more of this small stuff Robert,” as he shows me the wood he is holding. As I pass him the wood, he carefully lays a fire.

Normally, I would be asking questions, but I remain as silent as the mule. A few curled shavings are added and a match is withdrawn from a pocket, struck, and touched to create fire. At first the mule seems to enjoy the warmth, but then moved as if by some native force, he plods forward uphill, about ten feet up the hill, stopping with the bed of the wagon directly over the now roaring fire. Instantly the floor boards are ablaze with flames lapping upward making contact with the load. I look at Uncle Thomas, never much affected by anything, who has panic plastered throughout his entire countenance. And I look back at the mule who I swear is laughing. We quickly unhitch the wagon and let it roll back down hill towards the river, guiding it the best we can. It clear the bridge, crosses the sandbar where we sometimes swim in the summer, and comes to rest in the river. Firewood floats slowly down the river.

Mill windows open. Laughter is heard. The two of us climb on the back of that old mule and head for home.