The ax was one of the few valuable items my father left behind, along with a saw. Beyond those tools, there was no sign of him—or any other man—ever having been present in our lives. My mother rarely spoke of him; her memories were sharp, fragmented tales that lacked warmth or affection.
I can see her now, framed by the kitchen window, bracing against the biting January wind. With her knee pressed against a chopping block, the dull blade of the ax stuck in a log, she lifted and brought down the tool with a rhythmic thump, thump, thump. Each strike echoed through the air, the log splitting after multiple hits. Her jaw was set tight, and her furrowed brow revealed either the strain of effort or an undercurrent of frustration.
It’s hard to determine whether she swung the ax to free herself from something or if she was silently pleading for help. I don’t believe it’s a failing memory that clouds my understanding, but rather my youthful inability to ponder her life deeply. For as long as I could remember, she had been alone—as alone as one could be with five young children. She chopped wood and sawed logs, while we dragged fallen branches across muddy fields, each child contributing according to their size, and she wielded the old, worn saw with a sense of purpose.
She would carry armfuls of freshly split logs inside, bringing the dampness of the outdoors with her. Stacking the wood beside the stove, she allowed it to dry, and in doing so, the logs seemed to forget their former selves, slowly shedding their wholeness.
I eventually married a man who also chopped wood. When he left—much like my father had—he didn’t leave behind an ax. Not that I would have used it; I only needed warmth for myself. Once I was free from the shadow of my father, I found love again.
From my kitchen window, I now watch my husband teach our young son how to handle an ax. Though I can’t hear their conversation, I see their breath mingle in the cold air. I worry for my child. He isn’t strong enough yet to hold the ax securely over his head; I fear he might hurt himself and never have the chance to discover his own identity.
This moment is a rite of passage for him, a lesson in masculinity. Yet it lacks the urgency of necessity. It’s as uncritical as our fireplace, which, despite bringing comfort on snowy mornings, merely serves as a luxury—an indulgence that allows us to be cozy while ignoring the realities of survival that once depended on wood and axes.
Years have passed since my mother taught me how to split wood; it’s been nearly as long since I last swung an ax myself. She is gone now, and I have no idea what happened to the ax. Yet, I can still visualize her using the tool my father left behind to create warmth. Or perhaps I see her leaning in front of the tiled fireplace, her arms extended to hold down a flimsy newspaper page, the toe of her worn shoe anchoring it against the grate. She waits for the updraft, her head bent, watching for the fire to ignite, hoping for a flicker of orange to blossom into a vibrant yellow behind the paper.
She is careful, choosing just the right moment to whip the paper away in one quick motion, like a matador evading a charging bull. But sometimes she miscalculates, leaving the paper too long, the smoldering center flaring up into flames. Her children, gathered behind her, wait anxiously for the warmth as she battles to get the paper into the fire, where yesterday’s stories blaze and transform into warmth and then ash, floating lightly into the air, carried away by the gentle pull of something greater.
This reflection reminds me of the importance of warmth—both physical and emotional. If you’re interested in learning more about insemination and creating your family, check out this post on home insemination. For more insights, Make a Mom is a great resource. Additionally, Drugs.com offers excellent support for those facing challenges with pregnancy and home insemination.
In summary, the lessons of chopping wood extend beyond mere survival; they touch on the essence of warmth, nurturing, and the stories that shape our lives.