SPRING 2004George A. Crispin
Woodbury MM
t is good advice for all that we plan ahead. But for a farmer it is crucial. A farmer’s mind must be, at least partially, focused one season ahead. Our family lives on a working farm. Thus it is that in winter we think of spring, in spring, summer, in summer, fall, and in fall back to winter again.
On a hot summer day after weeding our rather large garden, my mind turns to fall, that season of the year where we cut firewood. The farm guidebooks say that a woodlot of four acres can give a family a continuous supply of firewood. Our woodlot is four acres. Thus the process begins. In summer it is most obvious which trees are alive and which are not, which have leaves and bark, which do not. It is during that season that we go through the forest and cut dead wood into manageable lengths of about six feet. They are piled in my wagon and hauled by tractor and placed for the fall cutting into stove-size lengths. In this way summer is filled with fall activity.
The summer turns to fall. The garden yields up its last harvest. The temperature drops. Leaves turn brown. The soil is turned over and rye grass sown for the winter. It is then that my mind turns to winter. The six-foot lengths that have had three months to season are sawed into stove-size lengths and corded on my porch for the winter. But some are not. Some are stacked off by themselves on the paths my tractor knows well. Lugs are driven into the ground and landscape ties placed on the earth to protect the stored wood from ground rot. Once mounted to a height of five feet or so, and covered with a tarp, they are left undisturbed. They are my snow wood.
Winter arrives. The temperature plummets. Sooner or later the snows come. Covering the forest with a blanket of white, the downy sculpture turns the sylvan landscape into a magical world of garish gargoyles and dancing dervishes. But it also covers up the wood. Trudging through the forest, it is now hard to find the dead trees that have fallen and are ready for the stove. It is then that I thank my former planning and have set aside my snow wood. Easy to find, covered with a tarp, it waits where I have left it. Hauled to the house, it releases its energy to warm our home.
Not all storms are snowfalls, and not all our resources are stacks of wood. The storms of life come in sundry dimensions, often with a disturbing unpredictability, and often with alarming force. It is during those times that we need our snow wood. Our snow wood may be a book filled with inspiring passages. Our snow wood may be a place that quiets the mind. Our snow wood may be a friend whose presence pushes back the ache of loneliness. Or our snow wood may be that indwelling door that, once opened, fills our soul with Light.
It is well that part of our mind goes to the season ahead of us and that some of our energies are placed in stacking our snow wood. For the storms of life will come, and when they do it is good to know that place where, covered perhaps, we will find our resources. I look out my window now, and from where I sit I can see the outline of that place where is stacked my snow wood for the snows of this season. But there will be other seasons that will come, and other snows. For this I look within and see another outline, less vivid, but no less certain. It, too, is my snow wood.
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Wednesday, February 18, 2004 at 08:19 AM
