The Nostalgia of Wood

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Wood-the forts we made, with dad’s help among pines and poplars, the smoke arising from a campfire in autumn, holding a sleepy child in front of a fireplace, a tree in the forest, charred, but still alive.

A fallen tree makes me wonder how large the tree was when I was born,  if my grandpa climbed it, maybe planted it.  When I see wood, I realize that it may have been here before me and may be here long after me. In all of its’ fragility, wood seems to speak of endurance.  The lines within a log upon the ground, they speak of drought, or rainy years, they carry the voice of the creatures who lived when each log was a tree.

I see “my” crows standing in a snag above my house, waiting for me to put out scraps and then calling to their comrades. I see my grandpa hauling in logs for grandma’s woodstove. I stack railway ties to make a wall for my garden. I inhale the fragrance of new wood in a young house, waiting patiently for memories yet to come.

Wood is a diary, an album of our being. I touch it gently, reminded of all the meanings it holds.

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7 Responses so far »

  1. 1

    Sandra Bennett said,

    I enjoyed this, beebee…Both wood and rocks have always captured my imagination, and you have helped to rekindle some of my thoughts as well…Thanks.

  2. 2

    Lucid Gypsy said,

    Yes very soulful Beebee and it took me for a lovely nostalgic ramble. Beautifully written!

  3. 3

    As the daughter and granddaughter of Master Carpenters I too appreciate wood, very beautifully written BB ((xx))

  4. 4

    You captured beautifully the nature of wood from both its physical core to its ability to store history. A walk down memory lane for many.

  5. 6

    Subhan Zein said,

    The last two sentences are wonderful. Keep crafting brilliance! And Merry Christmas to you, and happy birthday too! :-)

    Subhan Zein

  6. 7

    Lovely! When the floors creaked in our old house, I used to imagine the wood could remember being trees on a mountainside swaying in the wind.


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