Wood waiting

The Douglas fir in our rockery died. A man knocked on our door to tell us so--but we had known before he called. I'd liked the tree. It stood tall and proud, ramrod straight from bottom to top; I was sorry when it had turned brown, then dropped its needles, wishing there was something we could have done to save it. The man said he was in the tree business, he could take it down for us, had a couple of sons to help him. He could do it next week--they'd be in the neighborhood anyway, had the chipper all rented and everything. We agreed.

A week later, the man and his two sons showed up as promised, trampling the azaleas and sedum in our rockery with logger-style brown boots. One of the sons wore a chainsaw slung over his shoulder. I came out to gape and worry as he scaled the thirty-foot tree, methodically lobbing off branches as he climbed, blue smoke swirling in a haze around him, fresh cut wood resins spicing the air.

I spied the dad who'd sold us the job. He was standing in the driveway, helmeted, his eyes pinned to the treetop, to his son working up there. I went over to him on my mission, almost yelling to be heard above the roar of the chainsaw and the chipper.

"I'd like a three-foot section of the base," I shouted.

"You want what?" He yelled back.

"A three-foot section of the base--there, right at the bottom, the thickest part."

The logger dad glanced at me sideways. I've always dreamed of wood carving, I wanted to explain. Ever since I was a little girl, I've dreamed of carving out three-dimensional shapes that hide in wood's bulk, of uncovering what's been there all along. I even have the tools, second hand, but all the same, they're rolled up in a worn, striped cloth, sitting on the workbench, waiting to be put to use. But I didn't go into that. I could tell he looked at wood differently. Instead, I gazed at him solemnly, hoping he'd realize I was serious.

"Where do you want us to put it?"

"Behind the shed."

He nodded, turning back to his boys. I wrapped my coat more tightly around me and returned to the house, mission accomplished.

It's been a year now, and I'm still waiting to carve it. To properly season a log, it needs to weather at least a couple of years. My wood waits for me behind the shed:  In another year or so, I'll get to look inside.