Reflections - You Don’t Want To Do That

Spence Starting Loaded Tractor

“No.” My husband scowled at the March 9 to-do list on his clipboard. “You don’t want to do that.”

Surprised, I took a sip of rooibos tea before repeating my suggestion. “Instead of taking our health walk, I want to help you log.”

Because driving his tractor with a bucket load of logs up the muddy path from the flood plain wasn’t an option when winter melts into spring, Spence had searched for easy-tractor-access firewood. He found plenty a half mile down the road in Charlie Flickenger’s fields. Amish loggers had left trunks ready to mill, frozen horseshoe prints, and treetops too small for lumber.

Spence frowned and set the clipboard on the sofa. “We always walk.”

“I can walk behind the tractor and drag scrappy branches into the field.” Charlie had given permission for Spence to harvest firewood if he piled the useless branches in the field for future bonfires. “Besides, it’s a gorgeous day. I want to do something productive in the sunshine.”

“You’re the queen.” He slapped his thighs and slipped into boots.

While Spence loaded the chainsaw and tools, I exercised by pacing around the garage.

He started the tractor.

We put on ear protectors.

He backed out of the driveway.

I ambled beside him.

He pulled the throttle lever, shifted into high gear, and pressed the gas pedal.

Another surprise.

In the garden, I easily outpaced the tractor. Following Spence up Route 173 hill to the farm implement repair shop, my speedometer registered zero mph. But on West Creek Road, the tractor zoomed away.

I giant stepped.

It widened the distance.

I huffed and puffed. Perhaps if I’d trained as a long distance runner, I might have kept closer. The rumble of the motor faded. I took off the ear protectors—no need at this distance.

At the curve in the road, Spence twisted in his seat to check on me. Seeing me striding but not hearing my gasps, he charged ahead.

Though I raced as fast as I could, I fell further and further behind. By the time I got to the bottom of the old horse pasture, he had stopped the tractor at the top and unpacked his gear.

Determined to help, I climbed. My eyes focused on brown and green grass blades that winter had plastered horizontally to the rutted, rocky field.

Spence revved the chainsaw.

I set the ear protectors in place and listened to what sounded like a high school student practicing a drum. Several measures of the rhythm gave me a third surprise. The beats came from my heart. I’d met my aerobic exercise goals and hadn’t yet touched any wood.

The chainsaw cut through a scraggly branch in a tangled mass of fallen cherry trees.

Spence tossed it from the edge of the woods into the field. He pointed from the branch to me.

Spence Splitting Wood

I had my instructions.

Gulping for breath, I grabbed and dragged the next spindly top which resembled a stack of broken umbrellas—a six foot branch with radiating branches and twigs. More branches waited. I dragged and tossed. Thin branches smacked my face. Ouch! Cheeks stinging, I kept piling.

When the pile topped my head and occupied the space of two SUVs, Spence turned off the chainsaw. “I have a new job for you.” Pulling a metal measuring tape and a fat, red construction crayon from the bag hanging on the tractor’s roll bar, he demonstrated on a freed branch. “Mark sixteen, thirty-two, and forty-eight.” Pointing at another branch, he handed me the crayon and tape.

Understanding that sixteen inches is the ideal log length for our wood stove, I stretched the metal ruler.

It bent and unrolled.

I stretched it again.

The tape slid off the branch.

Wishing I had my fabric measuring tape, I extended the metal ruler with one hand while inching the fingers of the other along the metal until they framed number sixteen. I drew a red slash and inched toward thirty-two.

Spence cut. Logs varied from three to six inches in diameter. He whacked the thicker logs with his splitting axe releasing the subtle fragrance of cherry wood.

With all the branches measured and cut, I lugged logs to the tractor bucket.

“Small logs on the end.” Spence waved an example. “When I put five of these on the fire next January,” he stacked the piece on the pile, “you’ll be glad of the warmth.”

I figured I’d still be warm from the day’s exercise next January. I sweated from thinning hair to the soles of my feet.

Spence nestled his chainsaw on top of the logs and stowed his tools. “I’ll drive down the hill. You can drive on the road.” He lifted the bucket with its heavy load, turned the tractor, then inched down the rocky, rutted pasture at creeper speed.

Outpacing the swaying tractor, I ambled.

Spence stopped the tractor on the road. He shifted into high gear, hopped off, and swung his arms inviting me into the driver’s seat.

Sitting felt divine. I grabbed the wheel and pressed the gas pedal. A peaceful view of the tree lined road extended in front of the loaded bucket. Easing my foot off the gas, I pulled the phone from my pocket, and focused the camera on the view.

Spence hustled to my side. “Don’t text and drive!” He scowled and shook his fist.

“I’m not texting,” I yelled in my defense. Besides, I hardly crept forward on the road. Nevertheless, I put the phone in my pocket and pulled the throttle lever from the tortoise to rabbit icon. Fresh air caressed my face. My cheek muscles stretched into a wide grin, and I relaxed against the padded seat.

Though helping Spence log had been hard work, I’d wanted to do that.

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