What My Mother Taught Me About Splitting Wood

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You know, the ax was one of the few practical things my dad left behind. Together with the saw, it was all we had to remind us of him. Yet, aside from these tools and his children, there was hardly any sign of his presence. My mom’s stories about him were brief, sharp fragments that didn’t carry a hint of affection.

I often find myself at the kitchen window, recalling how she would battle the biting January wind, bracing her knee against the chopping block, the dull ax blade sunk deep into the log. I can almost hear the rhythmic thud of wood meeting wood, the sound echoing in my mind—once, twice, three times before it finally split. Her jaw was set, her brow furrowed, showing either determination or frustration.

It was hard to tell if she swung the ax to free herself from something or to signal for help. I didn’t think much about her life back then; I was too young to truly wonder. As long as I could remember, she had been alone, at least as much as one could be while raising five kids. She split wood, sawed logs, and we little ones dragged fallen branches across muddy fields, each of us handling what we could manage, while she used that old, worn-out saw.

Carrying in bundles of split logs, she trudged through the door, bringing the outside chill with her. She stacked the wood against the stove, and as it dried, it seemed to lose a part of itself, slowly forgetting its original form.

I ended up marrying a guy who also split wood. But when he left—much like my father did—he didn’t leave me an ax. Not that I would have used it anyway. I was only concerned about keeping myself warm. After I got past the danger of marrying someone like my dad, I found love again.

Now, from my kitchen window, I watch my husband teaching our son how to use an ax. I can’t hear their words, but I see their breaths mingling in the frosty air. I worry for my boy; he’s not quite strong enough to hold the blade up correctly. I fear he might hurt himself and be lost forever, never reaching his full potential.

This is a rite of passage for him. But unlike my mother’s labor, this isn’t a necessity. It’s not essential like our fireplace, which, while comforting, is just a luxury for cozy mornings spent with newspapers, blissfully unaware of the wastefulness—or the blessing—of letting a fire burn out, independent of wood and ax.

It’s been ages since my mom taught me how to split wood; probably just as long since I last swung an ax myself. She’s gone now, and I have no idea what happened to that old ax. Yet, I still picture her, mastering what my father left behind, creating warmth from it. Or standing by the small fireplace, her arms stretched out, holding down a frail piece of newsprint with her worn shoe, waiting for the right moment.

She would keep her head down, eyes glued to the paper, watching for the fire to ignite, hoping for that orange glow to burst into bright yellow behind the page. Timing was everything; she had to pull away just as the flame grew strong enough to thrive but not so fierce that it burned the paper to ashes.

Sometimes, she miscalculated and the paper would catch fire too quickly. We kids huddled behind her, waiting for warmth, clutching each other until she managed to shove the paper into the flames, where yesterday’s stories turned to warmth and then to ash, drifting away in the gentle pull of the sky.

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Summary:

This reflection on splitting wood intertwines memories of a mother’s resilience and the lessons passed down through generations. It explores themes of strength, independence, and the nuances of family life, offering insights into the complexities of parenting and the legacy we inherit and create.