Burning Wood

Sitting in the back yard on a lovely autumn afternoon drinking beer and burning wood left over from the old floor in the back porch that we ripped out and replaced. It's been an all-afternoon project.

Wood from trees that were carefully harvested by someone who's livelyhood depended on that job.

Wood that was cut, sized, and bundled by someone who knew nothing but a life of working in the mill.

Wood that was driven across the country and delivered to the local hardware store by someone who's sole dream as a child was to become a truck driver and see the country.

Wood that was bought, thrown in the back of a truck, and brought to this house by one of the owners long ago.

Wood that was cut to size, trimmed, and installed with immense amounts of pride so that the final product, a new back porch extension on the house, could be showed off to his wife one chilly spring afternoon.

If the newspaper found under the flooring is to be believed the porch was added in March of 1948, but I have no more memories of doing it. Nor of stacking the lumber at the hardware store. Nor of driving it across country and delivering it. Nor of de-barking the trees and cutting them to size. Nor of the day on the side of the hill cutting down the trees.

No, i remember nothing of what I have done as all those other me's, Dave seems to be the only one that fills my thoughts.

But as all the wood goes up in smoke and I watch the flames, my thoughts drift back to who I am when Dave steps out of the way; who I was when the porch was added some sixty years ago; who I will be some sixty years from now when another goofy old man sits in this same back yard burning wood after he/she too has once again rebuilt the porch.