Londonderry News

Lorraine did over 60 stories for us before moving from Londonderry.  The door is always open for her to provide her remembrances of a day gone by.  We just got our wood in for the winter and stumbled across this while looking for something else.

Woodpile, a Love Story

As I drove past an old farm in Londonderry on Wednesday morning the sight of cord wood piled neatly between two large trees reminded me of the days when our family burned wood in a pot-bellied, black stove. It was a time when wood stoves warm homes and country stores alike. Logs were split and delivered by a logging company. Once the logs were dropped at the end of the drive it was up to one of my older brother’s to stack the wood in close proximity to the back door.

There were times when he had to chop the logs into smaller sections be used as kindling. The long handled axe seemed to extend twice the length of his arms. I often wondered how he stopped himself from being flipped forward from his downward swing. Brother would swing the axe according to his mood. When he was angry he would swing the implement fast and furiously and with such strength as to leave a gaping slice mark into the tree trunk that was used as a chopping block.

Then there were days when I watched him pick up the axe as though it weighed two tons. On that day I him unmercifully in a sing song voice that he detested. It was on such a day that I pushed him too far. His temper flared, he picked up a log and pounded the axe to the wood. A stray piece of log flew to my left; hit the iron post holding the cloths lines then dropped onto my brother’’s foot.

With great glee I watched him dance around the chopping block and to my horror colorful words popped out of his mouth as he dropped the axe on the ground and fixed me with a menacing stare. I had not seen my brother as angry as he was at that moment and my insides began to shake.

“Don’t you dare hit me”, I screamed.

He limped closer and closer until he was but inches away. To my surprise, he did not lift a finger to me yet his tongue lashing left my heart bruised and sore.

The chafing cut me to the quick as he was the best of the best to me. Tears stung my eyes as I apologized for teasing and not heading to the safety rules our father imposed. All onlookers were to stand four feet away, in all directions, from the chopping block. His chafing seemed to last and last.

Suddenly a voice coming from the neighbor’’s opened window asked sweetly, “are you alright, Bo?’

My brother looked up at the girl hanging from the window sill and like a butterfly coming out of its cocoon his frown turned into the silliest grin I had ever seen.

For my brother, it was the beginning of a love affair with self and the sting of the love bug for me. It was as though no other person existed except the girl next door and I was left out into the cold.

He no longer seemed to mind stacking wood. He looked forward to the chore at precisely three thirty every afternoon. That is when she passed by our house on the way home from school. The changes were subtle at first; torn jeans were replaced with a pair that had been ironed smooth, his favorite flannel shirt was left on a hook and he began to wear snug, short sleeved shirts

I once caught him flexing his muscles in front of a pane of glass before heading for the back yard. It was sickening syrupy and a stab to me heart. He lingered by the back step until that girl was around then he would attack the logs as though they were an enemy to his well being. When he was ready to chop a log into kindling, he made it an art form. My brother would rest the axe handle against his right arm and with his left hand he would held the log in a manner that would make the muscle in his left arm bulge. Ever so slowly he would then chop away to a rhythm that only he could hear and now and then he would look to the neighbor’s window from under his eyelids.

The same scene played out day after day for more than a week. The girl next door did not venture any further than the open window.

My jealousy over the girl lost its density and my heart went out to my brother. I approached him with on a late October day and simply stated, “I bet you a quarter she would come out of the house if you asked her to join us during one of your breaks.”

My brother‘s eyes lit up with hope and his grin returned when he asked, “do you really think so?”

“Yes, I do. I would if I were her.”
“You would?”

“Sure, she is not looking at the woodpile when she hangs out of the window, dummy. “She’s looking at you. “

It was as though I had given him a double dose of pure energy. He picked up the axe and began to chop kindling wood as though his life depended on the amount that would be needed to keep the pot-bellied stove going. After a bit he turned to me and spoke in a loud voice.

“Boy, oh boy, I need a break.”

I could not stop from smiling as I declared, “she at the window again.”

He looked up, put his hands in his jean pocket and pulled out some change and asked the girl.

“Would you like to go for a hot chocolate with my sister and me?”

She disappeared from the window and with frustration my brother kicked a small mound of wood chips into the air.

Within moments a sweet voice called down to him.

“My mom gave me permission to go if I want to.”

“Do you want to?”

I am never going to fall in love. I thought as I listened to the exchange.

The rest of the afternoon found me playing second fiddle to the two of them as we sat on the woodpile enjoying the hot chocolate. Well, they were sort of enjoying the drink but it was hard for me to tell seeing as they were doing more talking and looking at each other more than anything else. In time she told us that she had to leave because it was her turn to cook supper.

My brother took her by the arm and offered to walk her home; the distance being all of about twenty feet.

When he returned my brother walked over to my side, poked me in the arm and complimented, “You are the greatest sister ever. No wonder I like you best.”

“Better than that girl?”

“Sure, only in a different way.”

That day, by the woodpile, I realized that a brother’’s love does not go away just because he falls in love with the girl next door. To show him that I understood I offered a suggestion.

“You know, old Mr. Farley could use some help stacking his wood. And he lives across the street from her front porch.”

My brother stacked wood for most of our neighbor’’s during his teen years and fell in love a half dozen times. Is it no wonder that looking at a pile of wood stacked between two trees brings back such sweet memories?

Lorraine