The Tao of Woodsplitting

I have begun the sweaty but satisfying task of splitting the hummock of birch firewood piled by the woodshed. Apart from delivering what Jan asserts is a more buff-looking right arm, I find that woodsplitting lends itself to useful meditation. While it is important to be mindful of where one aims the 10-pound splitting maul, headspace is left available to contemplate the book I’m currently reading or to imagine the life and times of the ovenbird singing his head off just behind me or perhaps to conceive a new item for the blog. There is also the satisfaction of replacing what is consumed when cold or damp impels us to get a fire going in the cherished Drolet woodstove. Assembling an impressive new stack of firewood for the old woodshed is one of the simple pleasures of a season in the Boularderie woods.

In itemizing all the simple pleasures afforded by summer at Big Bras d’Or one item that moves closer to the head of the list is one I culpably undervalued in my younger years: the community supper. Last week pals Shirley and Carl MacRae were kind enough to allow me to tag along to the legendary Gaelic College codfish dinner. For a lousy fifteen bucks I got to weigh into a big plate of salt cod, whole potatoes, turnip, carrots, with garnish of green tomato chow, cottage cheese and homestyle bread.  Better still, I got to converse with auld acquaintances and chat with folks previously unknown. Best of all, I got to hang out with Jessie Ross, a livewire 102-year-old still of sound mind and body, still living independently in her own home.

Many folks might argue that living to 102 is extraordinarily lucky—who knows, maybe such folks are right—but my own view is that the feat of remaining engaged, positive and upbeat well into one’s second century is a mark not merely of good fortune but of remarkable resilience, even bravery. Jessie took her first breaths at about the time Canada—according to national myth—came of age on the slopes of Vimy Ridge. What combination of circumstances would enable me to be happy at 102? I cannot imagine them. Whatever, Jessie is just such an individual. At the end of our conversation I asked my new friend if she would be willing to submit to a hug. Absolutely, she replied, I don’t get very many of those any more. I departed the event feeling benefited by much more than the plate of codfish and fixings.

Jessie brought to mind the Frenchwoman Jeanne Calment who lived exuberantly well into her 123^rd year, outlasting most everyone she ever knew, everyone in her own generation, her own children and—by about a half-century—the man who had bought her Paris apartment on the agreement that she could live there for the rest of her days. From far-flung Victoria, I fell in love with Jeanne when I read something she’d said near the end of her forty-four thousand days, namely that she’d only ever had one wrinkle—and sat on it her whole life. What a grand old gal! Perhaps Jeanne was ready to go by the end but I can’t help but imagine that even after so long a life she must have felt it had all gone by so amazingly fast.

Meanwhile in the here-and-now of Bigador, I happily report that just as Air Canada was about to deliver Jan to McCurdy airport, sunshine supplanted rain. The notion that my better half is the woman for me is verified by this: not just a bringer of better weather, she willingly agreed to head straight from the airport to a certain mosquito-plagued bog near Frenchvale. There we install gumboots, bugshirts and Deep Woods Off for a squishy walkabout among the showy lady’s-slippers I know where to find nowhere else. How gratified I was to see the site unmolested, the orchids as prolific as ever. For good reason, I anoint Jan with the nickname Hawkeye. While I was entirely distracted by the flowers, she found birds too—American redstart, parula, swamp sparrow—and told me where to aim the long lens for a shot of the sparrow. It is a joy to have her at hand once again.

As for the woodpile, well, the newly split product must wait until the well-dried stack at one end of the woodshed has done its appointed duty in the Drolet. Because the stacking of firewood is just about as meditatively rewarding as the splitting of it, I look forward to benefits yet to come.