SMALL BRANCHES © Phil Ward, 2019

As he moved into his 90’s, and particularly after Granny passed, Granddad finally began to fail physically. He was a man whose life had pretty much revolved around physical activity and I know it was frustrating to be relegated to an existence tied mostly to his chair in the living room. As much as it pained him, he now had to leave the farming to others. We all pitched in, but as the family members living closest, that work usually fell to me and my sons.

One early spring Saturday I was working in the orchard bordering Granddads house, cutting up a couple downed trees that had finally succumbed to old age and years of machine picking. I grumbled a little as I worked because there were a million things calling for my attention that day, and I needed to get this job done and move on. I was buzzing up the larger limbs for firewood and bunching the small stuff for the tractor to carry off to the burn pile when I noticed Granddad inching down the front porch steps, leaning on his cane, and heading my way.

I shut off the chainsaw and straightened up to watch as he slowly navigated to where I was working. On his face was that “none-too-pleased” expression he usually wore when a job was not being done to his standards.

“You’re wasting wood,” he said as he approached. “What do you mean?” I replied, pointing at the neatly sawn pile of cherry at my feet. “You are wasting wood,” he said again, stabbing his cane into one of my brush piles. “You need to cut up those smaller branches, they’ll burn good.”

Having raised and fed a family through the Great Depression, the old adage of “waste not, want not” took on almost biblical proportions in Granddads’ thinking. However, as a busy professional, I understood the importance of efficient use of time.

“It’s not worth it”, I shook my head and reasoned. “You don’t get enough wood for the time it takes to cut it”.

Granddad stopped and looked at me like I was a creature from outer space. “Give me the saw” he held out his hand and said. “What?” I replied. “Give me the saw,” he repeated as he stepped forward to take it.

I handed it over slowly and as he took it the weight of the saw surprised him, nearly pulling him to the ground. Undeterred he straightened up, flipped the appropriate switches and pulled the starter cord. It didn’t start. He tried again; it didn’t start. He tried again—no luck. He just couldn’t get enough pull on the rope to get the engine to kick off.

Clearly disgusted, he handed me back the saw and said: “Start it for me.” What happened next was the first and only time I can ever recall speaking back to my Granddad. “If you can’t start it, you can’t use it,” I replied.

A look of disbelief crossed his face and I felt a quick pang of remorse. With a loud “Hurrumph!” he turned on his heel and headed back to the house, stabbing his cane into the soft dirt with every step.

I watched for a minute then started the saw and turned back to my work, reaching into the brush pile and pulling out the small branches I had discarded earlier.

They did burn good.

Author: Phil Ward

Phil Ward is a 5th generation Oregonian who over the course of a 40 year professional career has served as a high school Agriculture Instructor, Executive Vice President of the Oregon Farm Bureau, Director of the Oregon Department of Agriculture and Oregon Department of Water Resources, and State Director of USDA’s Farm Service Agency. He lives with his wife Pam on a piece of the home farm south of Independence, near the Willamette River. View all posts by Phil Ward