My friend Serena and I used to have this argument when I lived in Warrensburg. She claimed I was a city girl, and I assured her that I was a country girl. I mean, I love the city, but I grew up country.
Evidence? Until my senior year of high school, we heated my house by woodstove. This meant that for a week at the end of the summer, my dad and the four of us girls (and eventually Daniel) would stack wood.
Do city girls stack wood? I think not.
For about two hours a day for five days, we would unload a truckload of wood and stack it in our garage for the winter (aside from the year that my sister, Jenni, racked up a $300 phone bill talking to her boyfriend at my grandparents’ house and my parents made her do all the stacking by herself:). We stacked 20 chord of wood each year, and we got it all from an old man with a glass eye named Dick Farmer.
Once my sister Juli accidentally threw a piece of wood on the pile before I removed my hand from it. I ran inside to my mom who held ice on my fingers and read me a Highlights magazine. When my dad came home she showed him my fingers (which were puffy and the strangest shade of green) and asked if we should go to the hospital to see if they were broken. He said that even if they were broken they couldn’t do anything except tell me they were broken. So I stayed home.
My fingers were taped and I was out stacking wood again the following day.
So, clearly stacking wood was not a highlight of my childhood. But just as clearly, I’m slightly proud of the fact that I have that experience (and that I’m pretty awesome at starting fires).
Today my dad needed help stacking wood once again. We only had to do a few loads, because it’s for the occasional fire we have in the fireplace rather than heating the house through 5 months of a Northern Michigan winter, so I was happy to do it.
I was not so happy about the fact that the wood still contained the same plethora of slugs and spiders (okay, so maybe part city girl).
It felt good to be outside and to do some manual labor, and I even got to try splitting some wood. Unfortunately, I couldn’t do it. I’m convinced it wasn’t lack of strength, but fear that prevented me from being able to split the logs.I was afraid of missing the wood with the axe and taking a chunk out of my leg instead.
It was a beautiful fall day to be working outside.
God’s grace today was spending time outdoors with my brother and dad.