It Takes Wood to Build a Fire...But It Takes Special Wood to Heat the Pot

It Takes Wood to Build a Fire…

But It Takes Special Wood to Heat the Pot

An Excerpt from: A Mountain to Climb

By John W. Vander Velden

 

The flames of the small fire danced and crackled, sending sparks skyward into the blackness.  There in the dark, they sat staring into the flames, just the two of them, alone on the top of Hawk Mountain.  Daniel asked his father to tell a story…a scary story.  Mathew was not certain it was wise, but the boy’s pleading broke his father’s resistance.

“You’ll tell me if it’s lame.”  Mathew commanded.

The boy nodded.

“Many years ago when I was a boy.”  Mathew began with as serious a voice as he could create.  “There was a man that lived in the hills north of our farm.  He lived there all alone and people only saw him two or three times a year.  He kept to himself, living in a shack near Grover’s Creek.”  He pointed in the general direction of the valley.  “Well the back of our farm butt up against his land.  There were times when Joey Kindig and I would walk the woods back there.  You couldn’t be sure where the boundary was, but we were pretty far past, just wandering around with our dog Snowball.  You remember I told you about Snowball.”

“He was the good dog.”  Daniel responded.

“The best.  Well anyway it was autumn and the leaves had fallen, so you could see a good ways, but walking quietly…well that was nearly impossible.  We came to the top of a hill and looking down onto Lyle’s land we saw him gathering wood.  Now there is nothing unusual about a man gathering wood.  Especially a man that lived back and away.  He would need wood to keep from freezing and to cook.  Since we had heard stories about the strange guy we laid down so he wouldn’t see us, as we watched.  But he was singing as he dragged an old cart loaded with long sticks.  ‘It takes wood to build the fire…wood to build the fire… wood to build the fire…but it takes special wood…to heat the pot!’  He would stop gather up more sticks and throw them on his cart all the while singing. ‘It takes wood to build the fire… wood to build the fire…wood to build the fire…but it takes special wood…to heat the pot!’  Twice he stopped.  Stopped in the middle of his song and looked all around.  As he did he would look directly our way.  Once Joey let out a squeal, so certain the crazy man had seen us.  I covered Joey’s mouth so only the slightest ‘hmmph’ escaped.  But I felt certain the old man had heard us.  He tilted his head, stared in our direction for what seemed like forever, but then began to sing again.  ‘It takes wood to build the fire…wood to build the fire…wood to build the fire…but it takes special wood…to heat the pot!’

Joey wanted to get up and run right then.  But I whispered that we hadn’t been seen and even if we were, we could easily out run that bent old man.  This seemed to calm Joey a bit but not very much.  We watched as Crazy Lyle, that was the name we gave him, kept working and singing that weird song.  Finally when he was out of sight, we left.”

“Is that the story?”

“Not scary enough?”  Mathew asked.

“Well…”

“There’s more, so why don’t you let me tell it.”  Mathew took a slender stick and raked its tip through the coals, sparks flying up into the darkness.  Then he began once again.  “The next Saturday afternoon Joey and I went back to that woods.  We were just running among the trees, up the hills and down.  Snowball ran off chasing a rabbit or some fool thing, and we ran after.  Now dogs can run faster than kids, but we gave it a good try.  Well, we got turned around and lost in those woods.  I guess we weren’t thinking straight because we couldn’t agree on which way we should go, and so Joey and I got into a loud argument.  It was then we heard that song.  It was close…real close.  ‘It takes wood to build the fire…wood to build the fire…wood to build the fire…but it takes special wood…to heat the pot!’  We panicked, turned and ran right into the old crazy man.  He tripped us and we fell face down on the leaves.  Grabbing us by the ears, he dragged us away screaming our lungs out.  He took us to his cabin, where he tied us to the porch posts all the while singing, ‘it takes wood to build the fire…wood to build the fire…wood to build the fire…but it takes special wood…to heat the pot!’  By now it was beginning to get dark which only made us more afraid.”

Mathew added a small piece of wood on the fire.  It kicked sparks once more skyward as he watched the pale face of his son, with mouth open.  “He had this large black pot standing on a great big pile of those sticks we had seen him dragging along.  It seemed he had been working for months, to get so many.  He would go to his well and fill two buckets and carry the water to that pot all the while singing, ‘It takes wood to build the fire…wood to build the fire…wood to build the fire…but it takes special wood…to heat the pot!’  At times he would swing the buckets around and dance, as he came back to the well for more water.

“‘What do you think he means to do with that pot?’  Joey asked me when the man was the furthest from us.  I didn’t tell my friend, I felt certain the old man was going to make a soup or stew and we were certain to be the main ingredient.  I think Joey was feeling the same way too only didn’t want to admit the possibility.

“When it was full dark Lyle lit up the wood, soon the flames licked up the side of that great big black pot.  The old bent man dancing all around and singing his song.  ‘It takes wood to build the fire… wood to build the fire…wood to build the fire…but it takes special wood…to heat the pot.’  Then he came to the porch, tilting his head and looking us over one at a time, he  felt our arms, first me then Joey, looking a bit disappointed he asked, ‘Don’t you boys eat nutin?’  He shook his head.  ‘But I guess I’ll just have to make do.’  Then he pulls out a knife.  Now I thought my paw’s knife was big, but it wasn’t anything compared to the blade that crazy man whipped out.  He cut Joey lose holding my friend by the arm with the blade to his neck.  Joey and me screaming our lungs out as he pulled Joey toward the pot.”

Mathew suddenly stopped.  He looked up from the fire into his son’s eyes.  “I know the story is lame.  I’ll just stop now.”

Daniel blinked and jumping to his feet.  “You can’t stop now dad. What happened?”

“Like I said the story is lame…there’s no reason to bore you anymore.”

“No, dad tell me what happened.”

“You sure?”

The boy nodded firmly.

“Well alright.  I don’t know whether it was because I was scared, or because I had struggled so long, but just then I found one hand free.  I struggled with the rest of the rope all the while screaming, as Joey was being pulled toward that pot, while that monster kept singing his fool song.  ‘It takes wood to build the fire…wood to build the fire…wood to build the fire…but it takes special wood…to heat the pot!’  He had nearly brought Joey to the pot when out of the dark came a white bolt…Snowball!  That dog was all over that man, knocking him to the ground.  Joey broke free and began to run as fast as his legs would take him toward the woods.  It was lucky for me that I had managed to free myself.  For it seemed I would not get any help from my friend, not that I blamed him.  He had been close enough to the fire to be pretty warm by the time Snowball rescued him.  Snowball still had the man rolling on the ground when I ran past chasing after my friend.  I called Snowball from the trees and soon the three of us were most of the way home.”

Daniel just sat there blinking, mouth open.  The sight nearly caused Mathew to laugh out loud, but to do so would spoil the moment, so he went on.  “Nobody believed us, not my folks not Joey’s.  But when we finally convinced our fathers to go back with us a few days later, there was no sign of the old man…or the pot.  The shack had burned to the ground and there was a chard spot right where we told them the pot had been.  No one ever heard of Lyle Cass ever again.  A few weeks later we found Snowball bloody and dead.  But sometimes late at night I can hear a voice far away in the dark singing, ‘It takes wood to build the fire… wood to build the fire…wood to build the fire…but it takes special wood…to heat the pot…’”

 

October's Mist

October’s Mists

By John W. Vander Velden

 

Few of those that live on the shores of Coulter Lake, know the story of Hiram Coulter the man that first deeded the land of those parts.  That was before Indiana’s statehood and no concern to the owners of the fancy houses overlooking the sparkling waters of Coulter Lake.  Stories tell of an overprotective father, though few blamed him.  Naomi, born that terrible night Hiram’s beloved died, remained little more than a prisoner on the farmstead that overlooked the lake.  Living in seclusion, seldom seen, word of Naomi’s beauty spread, and many a young man sought ways to see if the stories were true for themselves.  All the while Hiram thwarted any that dared to meet his grown daughter.

But Mitchel Merit was a cleaver youth, or so he thought.  Borrowing his uncle’s boat he rowed across Coulter Lake in the darkest hours.  Lonely Naomi accepted the attention of the handsome farm boy that crept through the bushes to her window.  Night after night he came and she would slip out to secret places they were certain only the two of them knew.  But Hiram knew.  He had no admiration for young Mitchel or any of that clan.  Felt that the family was misnamed for that matter, unworthy of the title Merit.  At last he found the boat hidden among the brush and made his plans. 

One night with brace and bore he quietly drilled holes in the bottom of that small vessel.  Hiram chuckled at the thought of young Mitchel’s surprise as the boat slowly sank into the lakes dark waters.  But how was he to know that the lad couldn’t swim.  “Not a lick,” his father said.  Or that would be the night Naomi would run off with the boy to parts unknown.

None know for certain what became of the young lovers.  Some say they pushed an empty boat into the waters and ran across land to Claudton and took the canal south.  Lived their lives happy and content beyond the reach of one Hiram Coulter.  Others wonder, for no word ever came, no letter, no message from either young Mitchel or lovely Naomi.

Stories tell how grief or guilt drove Hiram mad.  Times at night, so the neighbors told, the hard man rowed the smooth dark waters, lantern in hand, with pleading words on his lips, begging forgiveness.  Then one October night the man rowed into the fog and vanished, swallowed by the mist, never to return.

None pay heed to the old house of fieldstone that stands abandoned, its windows boarded over.  A two hundred year old sad sentinel with closed eyes, waiting.  But everyone knows of the light on the water. The pale lantern light that pierces the October mist which rises on cold autumn nights.  Others speak of the wailing cry that echoes on those foggy nights.  The sounds of a destressed woman calling for help.  Those that live at the water’s edge, tell of the chill that comes off the water, a chill that rises in the vapors that slowly hides the lake.  A chill that causes grown men to tremble and children to wail.  But one thing is for certain, no one ventures onto Coulter Lake at night and into October’s Mist.  (551 Words)   10-17-2015

 

 

 

Mom

Mom

By John W. Vander Velden

 

Born one of nine children, in Holland, born in 1925.  By the time she became aware of anything her family was in the depression.  Fortunate to be a family of Taunders, that is truck farmers, they had food though little else.  When at last the depression ended they found their country occupied, and again they had so very little.  Even when the war ended their country ravaged by the war…there was nothing…absolutely nothing.

Though I would remember Mom and her life we must also remember dad, for their lives are so intertwined, as two strands of one fabric, so bound together.  It is not really possible to speak of one without the other.  They did not attend the same school, though they grew up in the same neighborhood.  They were in families that knew each other.  Both families were truck farmers.  They would marry in 1948, young, too young their pastor told them.  They were twenty-three. 

But they were driven by dreams, filled with ambitions and a lack of patients.  For they found themselves in a time, a time when there was no opportunity.  Their older brothers and sisters had begun their lives.  Later their younger siblings would have their chance.  But mom and dad found themselves, in the donut hole, so ready to begin their lives and denied.  So they came to United States.  They came with dreams, hopes, ambitions, and incredible pent up energy.  They left their home and the only life they knew,  coming to this country with two card board suitcases, a hundred dollars and little else.  But they brought with them a faith.  A faith that with hard work they would succeed.  A faith in themselves, a faith in this country, a land which they knew so very little.  A faith in God, cornerstone of their lives.  And later faith in the new family which they built. 

Crossing in a steamship, imagine people that had never been a hundred miles from home, crossing the ocean.  Mom became so ill.  The room felt so hot to the newlyweds.  Dad opened the window, that is the port hole, only to be balled out by the room steward.  I really doubt dad knew what the steward said but he never opened the porthole again.   Imagine the situation, nearly alone in a strange land.  For though dad’s sister and her husband had arrived a few months earlier they knew no others.  Though they had taken English lessons in Holland they soon found out what they had been taught was not quite English.  Actually it was not English at all.   Yet young, perhaps naïve, bold with incredible courage the newlyweds began a new life in a new world. 

That was the beginning of the great adventure that was their lives together, and like all great adventures it was not always pleasant or joyous.  There were many disappointments and setbacks.  Working for others, moving to Florida, and coming back to start all over again.   Yet with years of hard work and sacrifice they achieved their dream.  They at last had a place of their own… Their farm here in Walkerton. 

And all the while they raised their family, the five of us.  We’re all tall perhaps but each very different with lives and dreams of our own. Lives and dreams they did not always understand.  Two that with boldness and daring came to this country, five children, ten grandchildren and five great grandchildren…and so it goes on…

Just when they should have begun to enjoy the fruits of years of hard work and sacrifice, dad’s illness changed all their plans.  He was only fifty-seven when he was diagnosed with MS, only fifty-seven.  Mom worked hard all her life. She knew nothing else.  She understood nothing else.  She cared as best as she was able for her children, and then she cared as best she was able for dad.  Twenty-three years dealing with his MS, with all its ups and downs until at last it took him in 2005.  Suddenly she was alone for the first time in her life she was alone.  Living with her family, going directly from her father’s house to her husband’s, then after nearly fifty-seven years of marriage…alone.  Focusing on others she never realized that she too had become old.  She was strong, always strong, yet suddenly without purpose, the purpose that had so long been her life, she was to deal with the most difficult years of her life. 

I could spend all day speaking of memories, of how mom with her thick Dutch accent taught a brother how to correctly say chimney…the word has no “L”.  Of New Year’s Eve parties at my Aunt and Uncle’s, of trips to the beach at St. Augustine, and I remember when Mom received the phone call that broke her heart; when word came of her father’s death.  There are so many memories.  Are all my memories happy ones…no!  But all my memories are important ones, and I will cherish them always!  

 

We were taught respect for others, respect for our parents, and respect for God.  If I would speak of the home we as children were given.  It would be best said.  There were always clean sheets on the beds…food on the table…cloths on our backs…and love in the home.  In reality…is there anything more !!! 

(902 Words)  8-2015

 

The Rows Await

The Rows Await

By John W. Vander Velden

Their numbers shrink, yet I stand among the few that prepare, as the rows await the grand harvesting machines.  Since the days of spring when the soil accepted the seed carefully planted, those that work the land watched and worried.  Tiny seedlings cracked the soil standing as soldiers in formation.  It is they that form the rows as the farmers struggle.  The battle begun even before the straight line armies had covered the fields, continues each day as the plants grow.  The war plans, made at kitchen tables and in tractor seats, battles against unpredictable weather, weeds, and disease, demand brave souls, willing to work and to risk, and in the end require us to wait.

Many years, I have come to this place – to a place where all the sweat and worry lay behind me.  The tall rows of golden corn stalks stand.  The soybeans ready, as lines of precious pods upon straight stems, stretch across the field.  Many years have taught that success is not measured by the green fields of August, its value will be measured by the bin.  This warrior is ready, for the rows await…    

(190 Words)

The Ant and the Grasshopper

The Ant and the Grasshopper            

By John W. Vander Velden

When I began school, all those years ago, Mrs. Marks read stories to the class. Among those stories and fables was one titled, “The Ant and the Grasshopper”.  It seems that particular story has faded from fashion.  Yet I feel the meaning hid in those words is as important today as ever.  For the story goes that as the ant worked each summer day, the grasshopper sat idly by playing on his fiddle.  The grasshopper chided the ant each day, “Why work so hard?  You need to enjoy this beautiful day.” But the ant told the other, “Yes, the weather is good today, but winter will surely come.  I have much to do to prepare.” But the grasshopper waved him off, and continued to play another ditty or just sat relaxing in the shade.   Perhaps that story is the source of the term, “fiddled away time”.

The story may not be common today because things did not end well for Mr. Grasshopper.  Seasons pass as they do and winter did arrive and the ant and his friends and family were ready.  The grasshopper found himself lacking…and well…I won’t go into the details.  I feel that the story yet has merit.  As we go through life, doing our best to take care of all the things that fill it, we sometimes forget to, as the Boy Scout Motto instructs, “be prepared”.  We rush off to our jobs.  We scurry our kids to all kinds of events.  There is the grass to mow, and the bushes need trimming.  Uncountable jobs around the house demand our attention.  Somewhere within the chaos we must take the moments necessary to be ready.

An example:  Midnight July first 2014, we heard the roar like nothing we had ever heard before. We raced in the dark to the basement.  Only a few minutes later the storm had passed while we stood side by side in the pitch dark.  What we found in the morning left us reeling.  Trees torn to pieces.  Limbs littered the front yard.  Our driveway was impassable.  Most of my shop’s north wall blown out.  We remained without power for four days.

I would not say I was physically prepared for that storm.  Oh, I knew enough to head below ground.  The flashlight was handy…sorta’.  But how do you prepare for that kind of event.  But I was prepared mentally.  I understood what I needed to do and how to go about getting it done.  So with the help of a wonderful neighbor and chainsaws, sweat, truckloads of brush, water hauled in, and eventually a generator we got it done.  It’s life, and we need to be ready for the bumps and curves that come our way.

So when I think of the Ant and the Grasshopper and being prepared I make a list.  On that list are things like, checking the smoke alarm, keeping flashlights working and handy, squirreling away a few bucks for car trouble or whatever, and keeping the insurance paid up.  There are many other things I do, but most important…to me…is have the mindset that things happen.  They have happened in the past.  They will happen in the future.  Just as the winter caught the grasshopper off guard, storms or other tragedies sneak up on us all.  But if we like the Boy Scouts are prepared, well then in the end we will be fine.

(571 Words)                            9-4-2015