Splitin' and Spittin' with grandpa Townsend

 

     I must have been in my early teens. I know wasn’t old enough to drive. Grandpa was splitting wood. I walked up and watched for a minute.

     “Can I try, Grandpa?” I asked.

     “It’s harder than it looks, Charley,” he replied.

     He handed me a double bit axe, set a small piece of wood on the ground.

     “Hit it right here,” he said as he pointed at the center of the log.

     I raised the axe over my head, took careful aim, and put every ounce of energy I had into the swing. The axe sliced down through the air and hit the wood with a solid thunk. If I were a cartoon character, the thunk would have been followed by a boing since the blade missed completely. It was the handle that made that solid thunk as the shockwave traveled up my arms, to my shoulders, and jarred my very soul.

     I looked at grandpa sheepishly and he laughed at me.

     “Don’t worry about it,” he said taking the axe. He pointed at the duct tape wrapped around the handle below the blade. “You aren’t the first to miss. The tape protects the handle if you miss. Now put the blade where you want it to hit and step back until you arms are straight out in front of you. Raise the axe and swing.”

     He stepped back, raised the axe, and swung. The axe again sliced through the air and ended its journey with a solid thunk. This time the wood fell away from both sides of the axe in two separate pieces. He set up another piece of wood and handed me the axe.

     I put the axe on the wood, stepped back until my arms were straight, raised the axe, and swung. THUNK! The axe hit the wood, went halfway through, and stopped.

     Another sheepish look at grandpa. He took the axe that was still holding on to the wood, raised it above his head, and swung the axe at the ground. It went completely through the wood this time, and the wood fell away.

     “That’s how you get the axe out of the wood when it sticks. Practice makes perfect,” he said as he handed me the axe.

     I split a couple dozen pieces before taking a break. I leaned the axe against the wall, pulled off my shirt, and wiped the sweat off my face.

     Meanwhile, he pulled a plug of Days Work tobacco out of his shirt pocket and a well worn Barlow pocket knife from his pants pocket. He sliced off a good sized piece and put it in his mouth.

     He looked at me and held out the tobacco. I nodded and he sliced a thin sliver off and handed it to me. I put it in my mouth.

     The flavor was pretty strong, but it wasn’t bad. I picked up the axe, did the blade placement ritual, raised the axe, and swung. It hit the wood with a solid thunk. Unfortunately, even though the shockwave didn’t jar my soul, it was enough to make me swallow a little of the tobacco juice I hadn’t spit out.

     A few seconds later, the axe lay forgotten on the ground, and I was on my hands and knees spitting and coughing. I swore that my first experience with chewing tobacco would be my last. Grandpa laughed, picked up the axe, and went back to chopping wood.

     I’ve kept my promise.