DAD THE LUMBERJACK

This is the story behind the scar on my forehead...

It's cold. It's rainy. It's grey. It's dark. The heater is on and blowing directly onto my head. The phantom hair syndrome is worrying me silly. That fan keeps blowing and I keep pushing the hair out of my eyes, those long heavy locks that slip from the confines of the years of training gone awry. Problem is my skull is without hair atop it and the phantom hair syndrome is rather creepy. Here I brush aside hair that disappeared 30 some-odd years ago. I'd always heard of phantom limbs but this is silly. Pardon me while I tie this dangling lock into a ponytail.

 Right now I’m sitting in a chair with rain pounding on the roof and wishing it were a tin roof. My grandmother's house had a tin roof and there was nothing more soothing than the sound of a steady rain beating on it. It makes such sweet music to inducing drowsy lovely memories, like Georgia on the day before Christmas.

We'd drive down from Charleston to Clio (that's Georgia, about 10 miles east of Gifford which was about 10 miles south of Luray--shouldn't be hard to find if you want to go). My mother's family would all meet there. I was about 5 or 6. Clyde was about 9 or 10. Grandma Kicklighter--she was my great grandmother but Clyde's grandmother.

We'd get there about noon on a good drive if dad was able to get Christmas Eve off. There would be cars parked around the house and across the dirt road under the tall maples bare of leaves. The dogs would run out to welcome us with baying sounds and wagging tails and snouts snuggling into crotches. They'd dance joyfully around us impeding our progress to the front door, but we'd finally open the creaking screen to the warmth of a fire in the front room and the voices of family members who'd arrived earlier.

Good, you're here they'd all chime in followed by let’s eat! From the front we'd all meander through the main bedroom into the kitchen from which the blended aromas of roasted chicken, simmering ham, baking bread and apple pie would mingle in our noses and seek release in watering tongues eager to sample any and every item spread across the white tablecloth.  The table lay across thr entire length of the kitchen. We'd all clamber for a seat scraping chairs across the floor. The kitchen filled with the oohs and ahhs of hungry travelers soaking in the glorious feast our diminutive grandmother had labored over since the wee hours of the morn. Everything before us had been raised on the farm. Everything was fresh and lovingly cooked, baked or fried. Yams, potatoes and rolls, biscuits and bread fresh from the oven. Chicken and dressing along side smoked ham and sugar cured ham with vegetables and sauces and tea, both iced and hot, along with coffee or milk or water and iced lemonade. A feast of pilgrim proportion set before us.

Granddad sat at the head of the table. He would wait for everyone to be seated.  Then he would stand. We all quieted down and bowed our heads. He would repeat the blessing which was different each time depending on the circumstances but in our case not only would he ask a blessing upon the food before us but would give thanks for our safe arrival. He would end his words of thanksgiving and sit down but each time someone would addend his prayer with the words "and bless the little cook" before we had time to open our eyes to which we would all say amen.

Then everyone would dive into the food, angling for his or her favorite dish. I loved grandma's biscuits smothered in her cream skimmed from the top of the fresh milk from the morning milking. Then on top of this rich combination I'd pour home made cane syrup. It was dessert before eating but allowable because it was all fresh from this little self-sufficient farm. Then came the sweet potatoes, piled high with butter churned that morning. Chicken and ham sidled up with mashed potatoes with a crater full of gravy. Beans and peas sprinkled into a corner of the plate, being little I was not fond of the green foods but had to take some just to be able to get to the for real dessert of apple pie or bread pudding or cake all sitting on the shelf behind us emitting the warm luscious aromas tantalizing us while we gorged on the meal piled upon our platters before us.

We might have been full but we always grabbed pie dollopped with a mound of fresh heavy sweet cream. We'd ask to be excused with happy grins upon our faces and contented tight bellies.

We'd scoot our chairs back under the table and run for the back door to go exploring the barns and sheds and fields for all the wonder of hay in the loft and tools in the sheds and cows in the fields. It was a wonderland for kids. There was always something to explore or a place to revisit. There were creeks and woods to wander with dogs zipping ahead or behind, barking and yapping. They'd sniff trails and we'd follow or we'd wander around and they'd follow. It didn't matter, we were free to do anything or go anywhere without fear or worry. We'd run off that huge meal and begin to grow hungry again and back we'd go for another piece of pie or some of the cake this time.

I ran through the door intent on pie on one of these annual trips when I noticed my dad headed out the front door. I ran to see where he was going. He was in the process of picking up a saw when I ran through the doorway slamming the screen behind me. He looked up and smiled. I asked where he was going.

"To find a tree," he said.

"Can I go?"

"Don't see why not,"

So we headed out into the woods beyond the house. He carried the saw across his left shoulder. I asked if I could carry it and he said all right handing it to me. We entered the woods and began looking for a tree of suitable height. It had to reach the ceiling with just enough room for the angel to sit on top.

"Howaboutthisone?" I'd say with each tree we passed.

"No, there's a better one up ahead," he'd say each time.

Every tree we passed looked perfect to this little mind and I could not understand why he shook his head “no” until we came upon the one he chose. The forest parted and the other trees stood back as this tree stood tall and proud and full. The perfect round pyramid shape with no bare spots or gaping holes. It seemed to plump out as if proud to sacrifice its life for the occasion of Christ's birth.

Dad began to saw at the base of the tree. He was three-quarters through when he asked me to bend it back a bit while he took his last rip at it. For the life of me I don't remember how it happened but the tree trunk snapped  upright somehow catching me right above the bridge of my nose catty-corner over my left eye, and I was out for the count. I came too hearing my dad's worried voice.

"Rick, are you all right! Rick!"

I looked up at him and said yes, I was all right. There was blood streaming down form the wound above my eye. He picked me up. "Are you able to walk?" he asked. I told him yes. We started back to the house. What about the tree I asked and he said he'd come back later to get it but right now he needed to get me back to the house to see how bad the gash above my eye was. I was awash with my blood. My face was covered, my clothes were drenched.   It was scary my dad told me few years later.

We entered the house around back. The screen door opened to the back porch which was also screened in. A long trough with a hand pump lined the screened in portion. Dad took me over to the primed pump and began to lever action it until cold clear water gushed through the spout.

"What happened?" my mother asked. I turned to look at her and she nearly passed out at the sight of all the blood down the front of me.

"It's all right. Rick's fine and it looks worse than it really is. He'll be fine." He washed my face and wiped the blood from the slanting slice on my forehead. "Can you get me a band aid so we can hold this together and stop the bleeding?'

It seems that scalp wounds bleed so much more than other superficial wounds. This was just that. A lot of blood flowed but it stopped after a bit and the bandage kept it under control. I still carry the scar but it isn't detectable without close inspection because it blends into the worry lines natural to my face. Dad always felt a little guilty over the incident but there was no real harm. My mother got over the initial shock of seeing her son drenched in his own blood.

Dad and my uncle went later to retrieve the tree and they set it up in the living room. It was the perfect height with just enough room for the angel. We all helped with the decorating.

It was a happy Christmas that year and I have a permanent reminder of that one.