A Pile of Maple Logs

What insanity! Our yard was full of maple logs, thirty cord's worth,short cords, that is. All of this wood had to be processed, that is, sawn into about 16" chunks and these chunks would be split by me using an 8-pound splitting maul to produce usable firewood. Then I piled the wood in precise  stacks which dominated our tiny yard.This project took a great deal of my time for about about three months but it gave me a sense of accomplishment, pride if you will.

It was a hot and sticky August day and I was finishing the sawing of the last few logs with my roaring chainsaw and I stopped because my glasses were full of sweat, effectively blinding me. I wiped my glasses with my shirt-sleeve and went in to refill my coffee mug even though a tall, cool glass of water would have made more sense.

I sat down on a huge maple block, the one that I used for a splitting block and sipped my hot coffee. I reflected how the once mountainous pile of logs that I had purchased from a logger for $280 was transformed into stove-sized wood, quite an accomplishment for someone with a slight build. All of my work would keep our house warm next winter, not this coming winter, as the wood was still green. I had a prodigious amount of dry wood in the basement for the coming winter.

The saw had cooled sufficiently so that I could refill it and finish all of the sawing and then Mr. Held stopped by. He was my high school chemistry teacher, a stern taskmaster with high grading standards. I recalled the many times I had seen him walk by our house in those days. He was energetic, his gait focused. He distantly bade me 'good morning' or 'good afternoon.' 

Teachers were larger than life in the days of my adolescence. They commanded respect and sometimes were cruel, as in the time that Mr. Martell drafted me into 'group two' math because "you're one of the slower  students." This was in seventh grade and in high school I would dispel this branding as an intellectual sloth.

Mr. Held was also larger than life. He kept strict command of his classroom and sometimes  he was brutal as in the time he stood in front of Julie Pavlovich when she didn't remember the electrovalence of oxygen.  Her face face reddened as he demanded the answer and when she appeared on the cusp of a good cry he relented and asked this question of someone else. Sometimes it was Larry Ruschmeyer, whose complexion also became ruddy during his ordeal.

"How can you people hope to solve chemistry problems if you don't know your valences?"

The kid in front of me sat with his hand supporting his head from behind with his arm on my desk, striking a casual pose. He was surreptitiously giving Mr. Held the finger. He did this each time he was in attendance. I don't think he meant this because Steve was not malicious but he was frustrated with Mr. held as a teacher and he dreaded the class.

I didn't recall any of this when Mr. Held stopped by to visit.

His gait was slower and he was affable, conversational.

"Boy, that was a huge pile of logs and now they are firewood. Do you have a wood stove or is it a fur nace?"

"It's a furnace that works along with our gas furnace."

"Does it cut your heating costs?"

"It sure does. Saves us a bundle of money."

"Do you think you'll teach math again?" He surprised me.

"No, I don't think so."

"It's too bad your Dad had to die just when you were launching your career. You would have made a fine teacher."

"I still love math, still go into my college textbooks."

"What are you doing for a living now, George?"

"I work part-time as the night auditor for the Townhouse. I also do the books for the Baptist Church."

"Do you enjoy your work?"

"Most of the time."

"I don't think anyone enjoys their work all the time. At least you've got a job and jobs are at a premium in this neck of the woods."

Mr. Held,s face was lined and his eyes belied a career of hard work at Ironwood High School. He seemed to have gotten frail. He was so friendly now, but in school I saw him as knowledgeable and tyrannical. Now he was a friendly neighbor and a friend. How life had changed for both of us. Mr. Held would eventually die from Parkinson's disease, his son Charlie would die from lung cancer and his wife ended up in a nursing home and I never saw his daughter Ruth since high school. Their house is occupied by retired folks from the city, yet I think of the Held family every time I pass by. I see it as a memorial.

I wonder if there is a scholarship in his honor. There should be.