Jeff Yocum
Prologue
Observations from the Woodpile” is a collection of essays bundled together and given as a birthday present for my wife, Nancy, in 1997. Twenty-seven years have passed since the collection was given. The two main subjects of the essays, my sons Justus and Jacob, have grown into men with families of their own.
Rising Water
Along about the second week in January 1996, we had a blizzard that dumped about three feet of snow on us. You could barely tell where the wood was. The boys and I had nearly finished the woodpile and felt pretty good about our industriousness, but the snow was just too deep to do any more cutting. Besides, we had our hands full just digging out.
Despite all the work the snow caused, there was considerable satisfaction in the scenic and acoustic quality of the snow. That much snow swallows all other sounds so well that there’s nothing left but your own labored breath and thoughts.
After a few days, the roads were clear enough to travel and enough paths had been blazed that life was returning to normal. The whole family had spent evenings together shoveling snow off the roofs of the barn and the house, out of the drive and walks. It was a good stretch of “quality time” with the kids. As it turned out, we needn’t have bothered.
During the afternoon of January 18, a weather front with heavy, warm rain moved into the whole snowbound region. The rain fell, melting the snow, and all the water rushed into the creeks and rivers. The following day, I received a call at work from my daughter. She had been released from school early because of the potential for flooding in the area. Her voice was stressed as she described the scene from our kitchen window.
The little creek (Owens Creek) next to us had suddenly grown into a river. It had risen enough to make an island of the covered bridge perched upon its abutments. I left for home immediately.
The drive home was filled with visions of disaster and mayhem. I tried to remember the exact wording of my flood insurance. Then it dawned on me that the cut and spit wood was all stacked less than twenty-five yards from the creek. I had one vision after that: nearly five cords of firewood bobbing along for miles.
I reached home just as the water crested. It was impressive, but not to the point of real danger. The stacks of wood were surrounded by water, but it wasn’t deep enough to move them. A couple of hours later, the water receded.
The evening news showed scenes from all over the region of the destruction and damage. I thought about my fixation on the possible loss of all that wood. It could have all been replaced for less than $600. I felt a little embarrassed by my concern.
However, after thinking about it, I realized that there was something else about the wood that concerned me more. The thought of losing all the time and effort the boys and I had invested really bothered me. Justus and Jacob had worked more like men than the boys they were, and they were proud of their achievements. I was proud of them.
I no longer use the field next to the creek as the wood lot. I’m a little more protective of my investments.
