The ashes of old cigars burn long into the stories of old
men. Men telling of how they built their lives on the foundations we find
standing today. Foundations built by hand and sweat.
Sitting on the front porch listening to the rain on the roof
of the chicken coop, gathering in the corners of the roof and falling to the ground
in a steady stream the old man’s cigar ash burns long. The sweet smoke meanders
about in the swirling spring winds of the rain storm. The only light visible comes
from the small kitchen window behind him in the late night darkness. The cigar
burns red under the growing ash of the cigar as he reminisces of days past.
He recalls being a young child and hitching a team up to the
wagon to gather firewood. He a young boy, traveled several miles with his father and brothers to
cut timber from the nearby hills and canyons for wood to burn in his mother’s
stove. Raising before the sun to feed the animals and hitch the team, it was a
two hour ride by wagon. They spent the day cutting trees by hand with axes and
misery whips to lengths that could be loaded. For him it was a struggle but his
older brothers and father lifted the logs 4’ long with
great power. It took most of the day to cut and load the wagon. It was hot work
but had to be done in the summer when the trees were dry and the crops were
growing. After the wagon was loaded the rest was stacked to dry, they would return for it another time.
Once home the wood was bucked into smaller pieces, split and stacked. They had
little choice then. It was either gather the wood or freeze during winter and
eat raw food. Now in his elder years with a gas lines running into homes, his
hands crippled with the scars of arthritis and a life’s hard work, he still
burns a wood stove to heat the small cabin style home. It takes him much longer
to split the wood than it did when he was younger but he wakes every morning
early to a pot of coffee brewed on wood burning stove top and tends to this
daily tasks. He does not complain about the work he performs but worries for
the future of his children and grandchildren who have grown and moved away. The
wisdom and education learned through a lifetime waning and dying with his age.
The cool of the rain filled air chilled the old man and he
steps inside the warmth of the small home. He remarks at the warmth and steps
to the stove adding a large log to the coals flickering as he opens the
creaking cast iron door. A story of spring wheat and planting before the last
frost when most crops could be safely planted. Pointing to and old grain mill
on the counter he recalls the wheat he ground for some bread he had made
recently was harvested in the fall of his father’s death. That was the last
large yield they had gathered bearing nearly two tons of grain from the small
area they had planted. His father past away shortly after that harvest, he
stopped with a somber face pausing for some time before continuing. I said
little as I was lost in his words and my imagination ran wild with his
memories. The night continued with stories of hard work, hard times and great
rewards. At the end of the night I crawled under the sheets thinking of the
heat in the cabin and how it had been created by the hands of a man forgotten.
I awoke the next morning to the smell of fresh coffee and
pancakes. The old man had risen and prepared breakfast with barely a noise. I
looked out the window to see the early dawn light peeking into the window.
Breakfast was warm and the pancakes were the best I had tasted. Made with the
wheat flour mentioned the night before. They did not need syrup or jam as they
were sweet with a nutty taste. I was excited about the day as today was the day
the learning began.
Breakfast was finished and we stepped out the back to a
small shed. The buildings itself was a masterpiece of hard work. Each timber
hand hewn to a square and stacked with great accuracy to a height of eight or
nine feet. The door was thick hand cut
timber with the saw marks still showing like the signature of an artist’s brush
strokes. The hinges were handmade wooden sculptures that made no noise as the
door was swung open. Entering into shed I was amazed at the organization of so
many tools. Axes on one wall with large cross cut saw next to them. All very
well cared for and razor sharp. The back corner had what I had come looking
for. A stack of neatly configured brick forming the forge with anvils and tools
neatly arranged in front.
It took but a second for him to spark a fire in the forge
and get the coal burning red with almost no flame. As he took a heated steel
from the fire his crooked fingers and stiff joints seemed to work like an
orchestra as the old man manipulated steel teaching me a lifetime of skill. Over the next week I was marveled by
the skill of an artist and the wisdom of his age.
During the time spent in the small cabin I heard stories of grief and happiness, was
taught how to turn steel into art with the swing of a hammer. I split more wood
than I thought could be used in a lifetime. I ate like a king and earned a
friend.
Now I sit on my porch in the coolness of a spring rainstorm,
rain bouncing off the chicken coop and gathering in the corners of the roof
falling in steady streams. My house is heated by a gas furnace and lit by
electricity much to the displeasure of and old man I’m sure. The ash on my
cigar burns long as I imagine the old man, wondering what he would have been
like if he existed outside my dreams.
