Reflections - Whack, Thwack, Crack

Split Log and Splitting Ax

Spence, feet on the coffee table and knees bent supporting his laptop, pointed at the computer screen last Monday afternoon. “Here’s your next adventure.” My husband twisted the end of his mustache. “Beginning ballet at sixty.”  

The idea of twirling on my toes made me shudder. “I’m more than a decade older.” 

“You could do it. You swim. Do yoga.” He flashed a teasing grin. “You’re always looking for adventures.”

Not that adventure. I glanced from his mud stained work pants to the view through the sliding glass door. Bare branches reached to a cloud-dotted-azure sky. Straggly grass encircled withered garden plants, and sunshine sparkled in puddles. My kind of adventure awaited there. “What are you doing outside next?”

“Splitting logs.”

Years before I acquired arthritis, I'd tried splitting logs. Spence’s long-handle maul had a blunt pointed edge which didn’t cut into the wood. It concentrated the maul’s weight to break the log by brute force. My shoulders ached for two weeks after that adventure. Swinging that old maul now could give me a flare up—streams of searing agony raging from my shoulder to fingertips.

Spence had torn his rotator cuff splitting wood with that maul. The doctor advised Spence to buy a log splitter. Instead he purchased a splitting ax. “It has wings!” Grinning, he had caressed the blade which had a sharp, thin tip that widened into a chubby wedge—no resemblance to bird appendages. “They split wood like magic.”

Former and present grins plus his magic sounded like an adventure. “I’m coming too.”

His eyes doubled in size, but he didn’t say no. “Put on mud clothes.”

With the temperature a balmy 56° F ( 13° C), I didn’t need a winter jacket. I slipped into an old sweatshirt, frayed jeans, and Gore-Tex boots. Their hard leather tops would protect my tender toes from a slipping ax—hopefully. I grabbed my camera and hustled out the door behind Spence.

Squish, squelch, squish.

We trudged over the muddy tractor path to split logs stacked on a chicken-wire-covered pallet. A dozen unsplit logs lay on the soggy ground. I could split that many without injury.

While Spence set a cherry log on end, I picked up his magic ax. “Where should I put my hands?” 

His forehead crinkled. “Um.” Grabbing the ax with both hands, he shuffled them back and forth. “It’s a muscle memory thing. I can’t tell you.” More shuffling. “That’s it.” His right hand gripped the handle six inches below the blade. His left gripped about a foot and a half lower.

“Thanks.” I reached for the ax.

“I thought you wanted to take pictures.” He stepped back and clutched the ax to his chest. “Pictures of me splitting wood.”

Some adventure. “Nope. I want to split. You can take the pictures.”

Face registering heck no, he muttered something about me taking better pictures but followed his motto of making me happy. He handed me the ax. Knocking the cherry log down with his foot, he grabbed a maple log. “This one will be easier.” He set the log upright and took a giant step back. “Hit it in the middle.”

Swing!

Staring at the middle, I swung the ax over my head and—whack—hit the edge chipping off an inch of bark. 

The log toppled to the ground.

I set the log on end, raised the ax, and swung—thwack. An inch thick slice of wood split off. I sniffed, but no maple fragrance tickled my nostrils like when Spence harvested downed maples with his chainsaw. “At least the ax went all the way through.”

“We can use it.” Spence reached in for the slice and tossed it to the side.

Determined to split the log in half this time, I took a wide stance, stared, and swung. The blade struck the middle and sunk in—a half inch. I pulled the blade out, aimed, and whacked again. The blade stuck in a quarter inch. 

“Listen to what the wood is telling you.” Spence said in his “just relax” voice and walked to the log.

“Thud, I’m dense?”

He didn’t laugh. “Hit along here.” He traced a crack with his finger. Scowling, he backed away.

Raising the ax, I swung and—thwack—miraculously hit the crack. The log burst asunder. I pumped the ax in the air. “Woo-hoo.”

Whack!

While Spence carried the split logs to his pile, I set another maple on end and swung the ax. The blade sunk in two inches. I couldn’t pull it out. “Do you have a hammer?”

Spence stared at me in disbelief but gave me a hand maul. The head had a wedge side and a hammer side. 

I aimed the hammer side at the head of the splitting ax to force it further into the wood. 

Whack, thwack, smack.

Missed. The maul thudded onto the log each time. And swinging the wedge end close to my face, not protected by Gore-Tex leather, made my stomach agitate like a washing machine. “Don’t you have a sledge hammer?”

He winced and switched the hand maul for the sledge hammer. 

Grabbing the sledge hammer jerked my arm toward the ground. I couldn’t lift the hammer with one hand while holding the splitting ax in the other. “I need help.”

Spence grabbed the hammer, tossed it aside, and pulled the splitting ax out of the log. With one smooth swing, he—crack—split the log.

I upended another. 

After I’d made three swings cutting quarter-inch dents each time, Spence said, “Think through the log.” He pantomimed swinging the ax to the ground. “It’s a Zen thing. Kind of like the archer becoming the arrow.”

Taking a deep yoga breath, I widened my stance, raised the ax, and slammed it against the wood as if slamming the door in the face of a hungry bear. Whaaaaack. Not Zen, but the ax cut through the wood and dug a soggy divot.

Woman-power cursing through my veins, I finished splitting the wood. 

Whack, thwack, crack. 

Spence stacked the split wood and covered the log pile. 

Together we waltzed to the house.

The next day my shoulders ached as if squeezed between logs on Spence’s wood pile, but my arthritis didn’t flare up. 

Perhaps Spence’s suggestion of taking a beginning dance class at sixty, plus a decade and some, has merit. Instead of twirling on my in-tact toes, I could step-together-step through a cotillion in a Regency dance class to prepare for a Jane Austen ball.

Janet Holding Her Split Log