Firewood

BUYING THE YEAR'S supply of wood and having it cut to suitable size for use in the various stoves, was as thoroughly systematized by my grandfather as buying the years supply of pork, beef, wheat buckwheat flour, maple syrup and peaches. In fact everything done by grandfather was well thought out and systematized. He had no grudge against middlemen; he had, to an extent, been one himself, but he believed in buying in large quantities and from the producers whenever it was practicable to do so.

Grandfather's purse was a chamois skin pouch, fastened by a long thong of the same material which he wound many times around it. Much time was required to unwind the thong and the process gave grandfather opportunity to change his mind about spending the money, if prudence so dictated and a last minute reflection sometimes saved the day. To grandfather, unwinding the thong of his purse was equivalent to working out the combination of a safe by a modern businessman-a moment of grace.

He bought his wood both hard and soft from the French-Canadian farmers having wood lots on the mountainside. He paid approximately four and one-half dollars per cord for four-foot wood delivered In our back yard. A cord of four-foot wood was the equivalent of three cords of wood cut to stove size, as it is now sold.

The purchase was made in early winter and deliveries were to be made whenever the sledding was good. Before the winter was far advanced, the farmer's ox team and low sled piled with four-foot maple, beech, spruce, pine and birch wood, made its first appearance and the wood was neatly piled on the rise in front of the barn. This procedure continued until grandfathers supply of eight cords or thereabouts had been delivered. The piles were then measured by grandfather with meticulous care In the presence of the farmer, and, if all was as per specifications, grandfather and the French-Canadian farmer repaired to the kitchen, the farmer stomping the snow from his high felt boots before entering, and the final ceremony was performed.

They did not sit down; they stood by the side of the kitchen stove, grandfather resting his arm on the hot water reservoir at the rear of the stove. A few words of a pleasant nature on commonplace subjects were exchanged, the farmer, in his broken English, doing nine-tenths of the talking. When the psychological moment arrived, grandfather, slowly and deliberately, reached into the pocket in the northwest corner of his trousers, pulled out his chamois skin purse and the process of unwinding began.

I used to think that even the French-Canadian farmer derived a certain degree of edification and inspiration from the ceremonious way in which grandfather 'paid off." If the amount involved had been a million dollars, the pay-off could not have been conducted with greater ceremony, dignity and impressiveness. I do not recall having seen other Vermonters equipped with grandfather's device to guard against reckless expenditures but metaphorically speaking, when it came to a question of dollars and cents, it took most of the Vermonters of my day a long time to unwind.

During the days of my early childhood, the sawing of the wood was done by little old Mr. Rutherford, working with a bucksaw. It was a long-drawn out process which lasted most of the rest of the winter. As the years advanced, Mr. Rutherford and his bucksaw gave way to a circular saw driven by horsepower. The horse, which was old and scrawny, contributed his share by walking up hill all day long on a treadmill. The saw shrieked as if in protest against the use to which it had been put, but nevertheless the bucksaw was hung on a peg for a long rest. All parties concerned, except the horse, profited by the change.

After the wood had been sawed to stove length, it had to be split to stove size and that is where another French-Canadian came in. For want of a name which home folks could pronounce, he had taken the name of Benjamin. Mr. Benjamin had the trunk and shoulders of a gorilla and an axe in his hands was like a child's toy though murderous in its effect on birch and maple. He seldom had to strike twice in the same place; the chunks fell into suitable sizes as if by magic.

Both grandparents had a high sense of responsibility in connection with the guidance of their volatile, mischief-loving boy and I gave them ample grounds for discouragement. My mad pranks caused neighbors to shake their heads dubiously; the prevailing opinion was that nothing good could come of them.

Grandfather, for two reasons, continued to do most of the chores. First it was the easiest and surest way to get them done; and second, to assign them to me was the hardest and worst way to get them done, Only a few odd jobs were left to me. Picking apples, pears, currants and gooseberries were in my line, and, in early spring, the firewood which had been thrown into a huge. shapeless mass by Mr. Benjamin, had to be wheeled into the barn and placed in neat regular piles which would stand the inspection of grandfather; that was my job. Five or ten wheelbarrow loads per day and a few extras on Saturday, served, in course of time, to reduce the pile but spring was well advanced before the last stick of firewood was kicked from its jacket of ice, given a ride in the little red wheelbarrow into the capacious barn and carefully piled ready for use in the kitchen stove when its turn, came.

The tiers of softwood used for kindling and for quick and temporary fires were in one place, and those of hardwood for use in continuous fires were in another.

Woodfires were used to heat water for cooking, washing in the brick encased boiler on wash days, and Saturday night baths in washtubs and for heating the kitchen. Not far distant from the wood piles in the barn was the coal bin where most of the winter supply of coal was stored.

During the winter, every morning after breakfast grandfather would emerge from the house with full ash pans and empty coalscuttle. He would empty the coal ashes in an out-of-the-way place and the wood ashes in the smoke house for use in making soft soap in the spring.

Grandfather would then proceed to the barn, fill his scuttle with coal, feed the hens and gather their morning's lay of eggs which he would place in his ample pockets, load his left arm with wood, part soft and part hard, pick up the scuttle of coal, and then make his way down the gentle slope to the house,

Later in the day, he made a second and perhaps a third tip to the barn,. These chores doubtless contributed to his physical well-being and he continued them until the time of his death in his ninetieth year. Did grandmother try to dissuade grandfather from continuing his daily tasks? She did not; she knew how much they meant to grandfather; she knew that they were wholesome stimulants even in his advancing years.

Our smokehouse being of a capacity far beyond our needs and our supply of corncobs being short grandfather made a deal with Mr. Sinclair Cruickshank whereby the Cruickshank hams were hung in our smokehouse and Sinclair kept the smudge continuous during the curing period.

Mr. Sinclair Cruickshank was one of the picturesque characters of our community. In memory I can see him now with his broad-brimmed hat pinned up on one side like that of a peasant of the Tyrol, mincing along the street with his basket of corncobs hung on one arm and his steps bent in the direction of our home and smokehouse. Folks used to say that Sinclair wore corsets and painted his face to make himself look beautiful.

When the smoke from the final basket of corncobs had died down our hams were taken to the basement. A slice of this ham, in company with a half-dozen golden brown eggs fresh from the nests, fried to taste and basted from time to time in its own delicious fat, was delicious. To one brought up on New England home-cured ham and migrating to parts where they know not of its virtues, the contrast between what is served when he orders ham and the memory of the ham of his boyhood is enough to bring tears to his eyes.

Grandfather's eating was always abstemious. His regimen was the result of years of experimentation. At no meal did he eat very much and at supper, he was particularly careful. A typical evening meal might consist of a cup of weak green tea, so weak that it was almost colorless; a piece of cheese and a doughnut or a part of one. I am aware that modem dieticians would raise their hands and shoulders in horror and declare that grandfather's supper was the worst he could have selected; that mince pie only could have been worse. Such authorities would have to be reminded of the fact that grandfather never ate fresh cheese or doughnuts; both had to be aged to the point of being almost as hard as the proverbial brick; that grandfather then cut off microscopic slices and munched them slowly and carefully. Have I not yet proved my case? Well then, I will shoot my last bolt, one that I have been saving: Never during all the years that I lived in grandfather's home did I know him to suffer one day from coughs, colds, indigestion, constipation, insomnia or other malady and never did I know him to take a pill or a spoonful of medicine of any character; not even grandmother's catnip tea. Grandfather never needed the professional services of Uncle George until the time of his last illness. Grandfather was his own doctor and none could have been better. Mary Foley used to say that he could have eaten and digested tacks as easily as some folks eat raisins.

Fancy a man in his ninetieth year, wearing a double truss, shoveling the snow from his sidewalk long before daylight, and you have a picture of grandfather as I knew him in the years preceding community snow ploughs, automobiles, radios, yes, and of bath tubs, excepting the wooden wash tub which made its appearance every Saturday night behind the kitchen stove.

It was not the custom of New England families to lavish affection on each other; none was lavished on me by grandmother excepting the good-night and good-morning kisses and the nearest approach grandfather ever made to manifesting affection for me was to permit me to climb into his lap and rub his wrinkled and beard stubbled face with my soft and loving hand. These visitations of mine came most frequently when I heard grandfather sighing, and sometimes sobbing, after having received a particularly discouraging letter from my father. These were memorable occasions for grandfather and me. They doubtless served to raise grandfather's drooping spirits and they also served to make amends for many acts of insubordination of the unruly youngster who was sitting in his lap.

For some reason grandfather never seemed to worry very much about me or my future; he seemed to think that I would manage to get along somehow without having to be sent to jail or to the poorhouse (either or both), although the slope of the road I followed at times seemed to be leading in the wrong direction.

New England restraint also manifested itself in the relationship between grandfather and grandmother. To have kissed his diminutive wife or to have caressed her in public would have been beyond his understanding and hers. Never was he known to address her as Pamela; never was she known to address him as Howard. In the intimacy of the home, she addressed him as "Pa" and he addressed her as "Ma," but it never went beyond that. Even to their next door neighbor, they always spoke of each other as Mr. and Mrs. Harris. Devotion, however, was manifested in undemonstrative ways. For instance, in the ever to be depended upon cleanliness and orderliness from cellar to garret, bringing a satisfying sense of peace, comfort and well-being.

Grandfather never indulged in arguments with anyone on any subject. He would suffer a grievance rather than argue about it. Grandmother used to tell of an experience in Boston which Illustrated this characteristic of grandfather. It seems that, contrary to his usual custom, he had taken grandmother to Boston with him on one of his buying trips. As they were walking on a busy street a drunken man staggered against grandfather, assuming a belligerent attitude as he did so. Grandfather, sensing the situation at once, bowed with a courtesy far beyond usual and said, 'I beg your pardon, Sir," and then hurried along on his business.

My grandparents attended and supported the Congregational church of which grandmother was a member. Devotional exercises were not practiced in our home though grandmother read her bible regularly and at stated periods, the minister called. His visits were never mentioned. One day I happened to be passing the half-opened door of the south parlor and observed both grandmother and the minister on their knees; he was talking to someone, God, I presumed. Anyhow, there was something within me which said, "This is grandma's hour; I must tread softly; she must not be disturbed."