My cousin had given dad a tree that was still standing but had died a couple of years ago. A friend of his had fallen it that morning and another friend was there cutting it up as we arrived. The trusty wood splitter was sure to get a work out because this tree was quite large.
As we worked in the field adjacent to my dad and mom's home, the memories of past days flooded my mind. It was in this same field that me and my sisters would celebrate Thanksgiving. On Thanksgiving Day we would go into the field and start tree stumps on fire. By nightfall, after dinner had been consumed, our cousins would join us in the dark wooded area where the stumps burned like torches. We spent many Thanksgivings in the smoke filled night air.
I worked beside my dad. We stooped, picked up, loaded, hauled and stacked this tree so he can do what he does best....heat their home. We joked about how mom says he loves to burn wood. We joked about the "she can" wood (she can stack it, she can haul it, she can burn it). We loaded many "pinochle sticks" because dad loves to "slump the sheetrock".
Six hours later I reminded Papa that he said this would take two hours. He looked at me with a smirk on his face. "I said that?" he laughed. Yep. We both smiled. By the time this day was done we were all pretty well exhausted. Time to seek the house, "hold down my chair" by the warm fire and rejuvenate.
Today was another day. My "fine figure of a man" and I went high on the hill as we often times do. We wanted to see how far up the snow line is. We saw one small patch before turning around. But the view of Mt. Shasta was incredible.
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