May Memoir: Ca va? Stories from Rural Life in Southern France, Chapter 10: Collecting Wood

Welcome to May MEMOIR!

Day 11

For the entire month of May, I'll be sharing part of each chapter from my memoir, Ca va?  Stories from Rural Life in Southern France.

One very large difference between my life in Chicago and my life here in Southern France is our house.  It’s not just its age (600 years), or its rich history, but also how it is heated.  There are no radiators or central heating – we heat solely by a chimney and a wood heater.  The winters here are not as brutal as the ones I’ve known back in Chicago, but it can get pretty cold all the same.  To keep both heat sources going in the winter, we need a fair amount of wood, and we have spent many, many weekends going into the forest to collect fallen or dead trees to make it through the season.

Sometimes, this can get a little harry…

  

Chapter 10: Collecting Wood

I step aside as Christophe starts up his chainsaw.  It’s too dangerous to work beside him, so I wait until he is done to start rolling the logs.  Looking at the horizon, I can see Mount Canigou.  Its snow covered peak majestically towers over the mountain range and create a striking image against the blue skies.  The windblown snow from its crest leaves a smear of white against blue as if a planned effect in an oil painting.  From here, it is quiet, but the weather at the summit must be brutal.  This is a mountain that has inspired courage and created consuming fear for centuries.  It is present in every backdrop of life here, and I see why it is sacred to the Catalan people in the region.  It is magnificent.

Christophe finishes cutting the tree and before him lays ten to fifteen 4 feet sections.  Walking back, I look at the pile.  He smiles and says, “There is more here than I thought.  Now, we just need to roll them down.”

“Sounds great”, I say, recharged by the view.

Each log will be pushed so that it rolls down the hill to an anticipated spot about 15 yards in front of us.  Once all the logs are in that location, we’ll descend to them and start the process over.  Looking over the terrain, Christophe points out a tree ahead of us as our first destination point.  He bends down and forces the log forward.  It starts to roll and builds up momentum.  Hitting some rocks, it jumps into the air and then bouncing back down, hits the ground a few times before it rolls to a stop just at the location Christophe has indicated.

“Not bad”, I say smiling, and then take my turn.

I bend down and examine the next log.  It has lost its bark and is slightly faded from the sun.  I push it with all my force; it is much heavier than what I expected.  I get it over a few rocks, but it doesn’t get the momentum it needs.  It slides lengthwise, and comes to a slow stop just a few feet from its starting point.  I look at Christophe and he looks at me.  Then, we both roar with laughter.

We go down and move the log so that is can again be rolled widthwise.  Christophe gives me some advice, “Look ahead at what lies in front of you and try to use it to your advantage.  If you see a small ridge, get the log to it so it will fall right after it and pick up momentum again.  If you see some rocks, roll the log next them to if you don’t have the force to go over them.  Use the terrain to your advantage instead of thinking of it as obstacles.”

Keeping this in mind, I examine what is between me and my destination point.  There is a small ridge and a sharp incline after it.  I take aim, and push.  Once again, the log starts off slow, but this time it keeps straight and picks up some speed.  It launches over the ridge and takes momentary flight.  Crashing down, it continues its descent until it hits the destination tree and stops inches from Christophe’s log.  I feel completely satisfied.

“That is how you throw a log!”  Christophe yells proudly.  I revel in my small victory and then we turn our attention back to our work.  There are at least 10 more logs to go and a dozen more destination points to hit before we reach the road.

We work all morning long and slowly descend the wood.  Some of my logs are on the mark, but most are not.  Watching one slide off to the right and getting lodged under some bushes, I go down to get it back on track.  Unsure how it wedged itself in so tightly and I try wiggling it to get it out.  I am so engulfed in what I am doing, I do not hear the “thud, thud, thud” quickly approaching behind me and only snap out of my trance as Christophe shouts, “Move Lynn!”

The last log Christophe threw had hit a ridge and taken a sharp turn right directly towards me.  By the time I look up, it is just a few feet in front of me.  I jump out of its path, but not before it tips the corner of my foot.  I go from a narrow, dramatic escape to belly flopping into the bushes.  Christophe is there in seconds before I realize what has happened. 

“Are you alright?”  He asks while carefully helping me to my feet.

Pausing to see if all limps are in tack, I try to figure out what happened.  I look at the two logs in front of me and my feet which are still firmly planted in the bush.

“Why did you throw a log at me?”  I ask in mere shock.

   “I didn’t mean to”, Christophe says apologetically.  “It skipped in the wrong spot and took a bad turn.  Didn’t you hear it coming?”

“No, I didn’t hear anything until you yelled”, I say while checking my wrists and elbows for damage.