Fat Pine: 1983

Papa knelt before the hickory embers and wielded the spatula that he cached along with the grill grating in the hickory tree above the fire pit, and he flipped the beef patties. Strewn around in the sandy dirt lay a bow saw, the morning’s newspaper, some ground peppercorn, garlic salt, a hatchet, and a tin of minced onion flakes. The smoke from the embers wafted over to Dad and finally him and on through the clearing into the mother-naked hardwoods.

After lunch, he led his grandfather to the spring for a drink. The glistering frost on the leaf-litter winked and melted in the noonday effulgence while they walked down the drive, the boy watching his breath and balancing on the rib of grass splitting the sandy ruts. They descended the embankment and crossed another trail into the cedar glade where the inky cypress boards constructed a coruscating box of water in the ground. A tarnished ladle was hooked over the backboard, and they both knelt and dipped it in the water and drank from it.

“It’s good Papa.”

“It is good. Mmm. Best water in the world.”

“Where is Dad?”

“He is at the ravine looking for fatwood.”

“Why didn’t he come for water?”

“There is Pepsi Cola in the truck. And work to do.”

“May I help Papa?”

“We need your help.”

“Good. How big is a hundred acres Papa?”

“You know that.” Papa held out his arm and pointed it across the woodland above them. “From the upside-down pine to here, at the spring, and from the far side of the ravine to Turkey Creek.”

“Is that big?”

“Not especially.”

“How many is all of South Carolina Papa?”

“Too many to count.”

They found Dad down in the ravine kneeling before the pine stump digging out the roots with the fold-shovel, brow and forearms beading sweat. His father didn’t stop digging and picking as they drew near. Papa stepped in front of the remnant and wrapped his arms around it and wobbled it, but the stump was not yet free. Papa knelt and his father handed over the shovel.

“How was the spring?”

“It is the best water in the world Dad.”

“Good. Take that shovel from Papa and dig out around those roots.”

He picked and dug, making a small tunnel under the stump, and then he started at it from the other side. Papa lifted his arm and pulled the chewing tobacco out of the shirt-pocket and opened the pouch and pinched it and chewed it. The boy stopped and watched.

“Do you want some young man?”

“No. I won’t be able to dig.”

“No sir?”

“No thank you sir.”

“I’m going for the peach baskets,” his Dad said.

“Will you bring him a Pepsi Cola?”

“Yes sir, you want one?”

“Not now, I’m alright.”

Papa knelt before his grandson and watched him work at the stump. It was almost free. Papa told him to shake it, and he did, but it wouldn’t come. So he handed his grandfather the tool and stood up while Papa finished the business. When Dad returned from the truck, the fat pine lay on its side next to the hole, and he was striking it with the hatchet.

“I smell turpentine! You got it."

“Yes he did.”

The slivers of wood fell before the stump, and the men stacked them into the baskets filling each of them. Then they walked away from the oddment and out of the ravine carrying the baskets and set them in the truck bed.

“Can I feed the fire Dad?”

“Ask your Papa.”

“May I feed the fire Papa?”

“Yes you may. Saw up that hickory branch.”

The men watched him work down the length of the branch with the bow saw. He stopped once to rest and to watch his breath. When he finished he carried the sticks and stacked them next to the fire pit. He went to the truck bed and removed a few pieces of the fat pine from one of the peach baskets and returned to the embers and stirred them with a piece of the lightwood. It lit off straightaway, and he positioned it and the other slivers over the glowing coals, and then he crosshatched the sticks of hickory around the resinous blaze. The flame spread swiftly to the hickory. He plodded back to the truck bed and held out his arms.

“Load me up please.”

“You want a fire, do you not?”

“Yes sir. A big one.”

The boy lugged the split logs and stacked them next to the fire pit. He looked at his father, then propped the logs over the hickory.

“Like a teepee, right Papa?”

“That is right young man.”

“It is a good fire son.”

“It is getting warm Dad.”

“It is a fire son. On a deep bed of coals.”

They stood around the fire pit and watched the wood burn. Then Papa told him the story about the cemetery across the road. Once some boys in the Sunday school class were camping there in the clearing, and they went to the cemetery at dark to look around. An especially ornery boy was pining for something to supervene, and when he sat down and leaned back against the headstone, the grave marker shifted and groaned, and the boy shot hell-bent out of the cemetery hurdling the fencerow and didn’t look back and didn’t let up until he made camp.