(no subject)
I wrote this story a few years ago, on this made-up holiday in February. Last summer, when everything went pear shaped, I sent it in to a competition, and it won an honourable mention. It was published in a book sold through the competition's website, along with about 200 other entries. I assume that the only people who bought that book are the people who had something published in it.
I've changed this version slightly. I think it makes more sense this way.
Family Day
“It’s cold. This doesn’t qualify as quality family time Dad.”
My dad, at 67 years old, is standing on a thick branch high above me and doesn’t hear me. Maybe he chooses to ignore me.
I’m not complaining without reason though. It is cold; it’s mid-February and I’m standing outside holding a ladder while my father cuts branches off the maple in our yard. Not that holding the ladder is doing much right now as he’s stepped off its metal ledge and has one scuffed work boot planted firmly on a thick branch. I pray silently that the old tree is still healthy. His other foot waves free in the air, a pendulum of balance for the saw teeth tearing through the frozen wood.
He is fearless.
He’s always been this way. At least, in my memory, he has. He’ll scramble up a ladder onto a two story roof, hang off a ledge and stretch out his long sinewy arms to reach that far spot that needs paint. He’ll hop over fences, he’ll hunker down on the pavement to change the oil in his car, or he’ll race off after his granddaughter with a boundless energy I sometimes envy. Nearly forty years old when I was born, he’s always seemed younger then men half his age. The only problem is that his idea of an entertaining afternoon is standing out in the cold, chopping down trees. I have stood here before.
“Isn’t this a task for a warmer day?” I ask.
“Nope.”
The branch he has been sawing at gives a creaking sigh and snaps. I watch as it tumbles downward, twigs catching in the thin limbs below. It hangs, suspended in its fall, for a few minutes and my father bounces a little on his branch.
“Dad!”
The hanging branch cracks loose and falls with a solid thud on the snow covered ground below, narrowly missing our neighbour’s picket fence. Dad looks down at me from his perch.
“That didn’t hit you did it?”
“Are you coming down now?” I am exasperated. He is always like this.
“Yup. Gotta cut some more on the other side. Altogether too many branches on this tree.” He is halfway down as he answers and he hands me the rusting hacksaw. I move out of the way, still holding the ladder as he hops down to the ground. We clear some of the debris first, chopping the heavy wood into manageable bits and piling it by the garage as if we were stocking up for a winter fire.
The cold has seeped through my jeans and is lying like a damp towel over my skin, seeping in. I dance a few steps to warm up, my thick purple work boots clomping heavily on the ground and grinding the twigs to fine pulp beneath them. I’m considered a good dancer, but today it doesn’t show; I trip over the remaining brush and wheel erratically before righting myself. I hope the neighbours aren’t looking out the window.
“Stop dancing and come help me.”
Dad is ready again. The ladder drops against the tree trunk and he jiggles its sides so the metal feet sink into the spongy earth. Though I’m beginning to lose the feeling in my gloved fingers, the day is unseasonably warm for February 15th and the ground is only covered with a thin film of snow. Dad is up the ladder again and I contemplate the clumps of soil left behind by his boots on the rungs. Some have migrated to my gloves and more than likely my face. Wisps of tangled auburn hair are escaping from my hoodie and draping my eyes.
Above me, Dad has chosen his branch. Zzzt, zzzt, zzzt goes the saw again. Sawdust snows down on me. I scrunch my eyes closed to keep the tiny particles out of them. Zzzt, zzzt, zzzt, crack, thunk. Another branch falls and the process beings again.
“There’s sawdust in my hair!”
“Better then a limb hitting your head!”
This is how I’m spending the holiday. This is what twenty eight, single, alone, unemployed, unwanted, the day after Valentine’s Day feels like: cold, damp, dirty, salted with wood chips and oh yes, shoelace untied, holding a ladder for my father.
Surprisingly, it feels pretty good, though I’d give my right eye for a hot chocolate. It has sawdust in it anyway.
I've changed this version slightly. I think it makes more sense this way.
Family Day
“It’s cold. This doesn’t qualify as quality family time Dad.”
My dad, at 67 years old, is standing on a thick branch high above me and doesn’t hear me. Maybe he chooses to ignore me.
I’m not complaining without reason though. It is cold; it’s mid-February and I’m standing outside holding a ladder while my father cuts branches off the maple in our yard. Not that holding the ladder is doing much right now as he’s stepped off its metal ledge and has one scuffed work boot planted firmly on a thick branch. I pray silently that the old tree is still healthy. His other foot waves free in the air, a pendulum of balance for the saw teeth tearing through the frozen wood.
He is fearless.
He’s always been this way. At least, in my memory, he has. He’ll scramble up a ladder onto a two story roof, hang off a ledge and stretch out his long sinewy arms to reach that far spot that needs paint. He’ll hop over fences, he’ll hunker down on the pavement to change the oil in his car, or he’ll race off after his granddaughter with a boundless energy I sometimes envy. Nearly forty years old when I was born, he’s always seemed younger then men half his age. The only problem is that his idea of an entertaining afternoon is standing out in the cold, chopping down trees. I have stood here before.
“Isn’t this a task for a warmer day?” I ask.
“Nope.”
The branch he has been sawing at gives a creaking sigh and snaps. I watch as it tumbles downward, twigs catching in the thin limbs below. It hangs, suspended in its fall, for a few minutes and my father bounces a little on his branch.
“Dad!”
The hanging branch cracks loose and falls with a solid thud on the snow covered ground below, narrowly missing our neighbour’s picket fence. Dad looks down at me from his perch.
“That didn’t hit you did it?”
“Are you coming down now?” I am exasperated. He is always like this.
“Yup. Gotta cut some more on the other side. Altogether too many branches on this tree.” He is halfway down as he answers and he hands me the rusting hacksaw. I move out of the way, still holding the ladder as he hops down to the ground. We clear some of the debris first, chopping the heavy wood into manageable bits and piling it by the garage as if we were stocking up for a winter fire.
The cold has seeped through my jeans and is lying like a damp towel over my skin, seeping in. I dance a few steps to warm up, my thick purple work boots clomping heavily on the ground and grinding the twigs to fine pulp beneath them. I’m considered a good dancer, but today it doesn’t show; I trip over the remaining brush and wheel erratically before righting myself. I hope the neighbours aren’t looking out the window.
“Stop dancing and come help me.”
Dad is ready again. The ladder drops against the tree trunk and he jiggles its sides so the metal feet sink into the spongy earth. Though I’m beginning to lose the feeling in my gloved fingers, the day is unseasonably warm for February 15th and the ground is only covered with a thin film of snow. Dad is up the ladder again and I contemplate the clumps of soil left behind by his boots on the rungs. Some have migrated to my gloves and more than likely my face. Wisps of tangled auburn hair are escaping from my hoodie and draping my eyes.
Above me, Dad has chosen his branch. Zzzt, zzzt, zzzt goes the saw again. Sawdust snows down on me. I scrunch my eyes closed to keep the tiny particles out of them. Zzzt, zzzt, zzzt, crack, thunk. Another branch falls and the process beings again.
“There’s sawdust in my hair!”
“Better then a limb hitting your head!”
This is how I’m spending the holiday. This is what twenty eight, single, alone, unemployed, unwanted, the day after Valentine’s Day feels like: cold, damp, dirty, salted with wood chips and oh yes, shoelace untied, holding a ladder for my father.
Surprisingly, it feels pretty good, though I’d give my right eye for a hot chocolate. It has sawdust in it anyway.