Considering The Woodsman

It was an extraordinary opportunity, kind of like seeing a bald eagle, or perhaps the mystical white buffalo.  He sat perfectly camouflaged on his front step.  I was rounding the bend of the road rather slowly otherwise I would have missed this rare sighting entirely.  I don’t think he wants to be seen, but I see him.  I watch him.  I wonder about him.  I pray for him.

When I first moved to the country, I reckoned his place to be one of the many abandoned farm houses that dot our countryside.  They are a testimony to the change in our society and its values.  Sometimes I even put the party-line bumper sticker on my car:  “No Farms.  No Food.”  It is a way of life that seems to have almost evaporated, yet the fact that I can pull a half gallon of milk out of my refrigerator every morning is evidence that someone, somewhere is milking cows successfully.

His house has character. I imagine it was a lustrous white at one time.  It is not spooky, but it is large with two debris-cluttered porches on adjoining sides of the house.  The railings are broken or non-existent.  The house, like him it seems, has a weather-beaten ambiance to it.  There are giant trees that have crashed willy-nilly on his property and lay there, probably on his very long to-do list.  Last year, he did some sort of wood clean-up behind his garage that involved stacking and chopping.  It was the clearest evidence I had that someone actually was associated with that house. 

There is no mailbox.  Perhaps he has a post office box.  Or perhaps he has no need to receive all of the charity requests, bills, advertisements, and the like that are crammed into my own mailbox on a daily basis.  I envy him if he has found a way to beat the system. 

A truck that has seen better days sits in a threateningly permanent pose on its flat tires on the driveway.  This truck makes Fred Sanford’s humble junkyard pick up resemble a Beamer.  I’m just saying.  More recently, a smaller car has been parked in after the truck, its operating condition also in the questionable status.  The back tire sure looks low but if you have to get to a hospital or some such thing, I guess it could get you there.

Not only are there crashed trees around the house, but smaller standing trees.  They function like Robin Hood’s band of Merry Men:  they seem to encircle the house itself as if to shield it from the eyes of the curious.  That would be me.  I am just curious.  I study people and I study habitats and this combination fascinates me. 

The house does not have a welcome sign on it, that’s for sure.  But he is a human being, and I acknowledge that he must have some thoughts and feelings that are important to him.  I wonder if he has people with whom he shares those ruminations.  I wonder if he has stories of the old ways that he would be glad to tell to friends over coffee at the diner.  Did his family work the canal?  Did they work the rail yard?  Did they farm the land across the street from his forlorn-looking home?

I know that Norman Rockwell would have found a way to capture the image of this man and his dog sitting on the front porch.  He probably could have done it all in camo-colors:  army green, greys, ash, and a gentle sunlight through leafless grey trees.  It is the first almost-nice day with an unusually high temperature for February (65 degrees!).  The man sat there on the stoop in nondescript jeans and a workshirt of some type – I imagine flannel or the like.  His beard went down about a foot from his chin it seems.  He sat like a man who was just sitting for the sake of setting there.  No plan.  No “next thing.”  No agenda…  Just sitting in the company of the proverbial best friend – a scraggly looking dog who probably means the entire world to the guy.  And dogs, being the perfect example of being-for-the-sake-of-being, that dog just sat on the step with him, taking in the moment when heaven and earth seemed to touch a little more closely: a warm day in February, a man enjoying sunshine and clouds with a willing companion.

Rarely do I see light coming from that house.  In fact, only twice in seven years have I seen evidence of light there:  a bulb hanging in the plastic-covered window one winter night.  Is there heat in that house?  A roaring wood stove to cook what I imagine he eats?  I hear-tell that he is a trapper.  I hope that he has a real meal every now and then.  Maybe a niece cooks for him?  Or does he have a sister-in-law that says to her husband:  “Go down there and haul your brother over here for a decent meal tonight, won’t ya?”

My musings in his regard will continue.  Mostly because I think when I get older and can’t keep pace with my house, I may be in the same predicament.  But also truly because all of the mystique about a regular guy who just chops lumber at a house that is aging badly deserves to be considered.  He is the symbol of every one of us who gets out of bed in the morning and fights the atrophy around us.  We clean houses that don’t seem to stay clean.  We work jobs that seem circuitous in their tasks.  We know that some things just will never push high enough on our to-do list to suit the outside critics.  And in the long run, all that really needs to fill us is the moment of sitting in a cast of stray sunshine on the stoop with our dog who loves us just for who we are, not for what we do or don’t do.  That’s the thing that makes it all worthwhile.

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