He wielded the ax like a side-show magician waving his wand. Pieces of the dried oak log flew apart almost before the razor-sharp blade made contact. A single log, a foot in diameter, would be turned into thumb-sized kindling under the spell of the woodsman.
Gnarled hands gripped the hickory handle like a mother holding a baby. Whipcord arms worked effortlessly as they repeated the motion: left hand set the log, right hand dropped the ax, left hand set a piece, right hand dropped the ax. As the pieces became smaller, the left hand never left the wood. It would simply relax long enough for the ax to strike and then quickly catch both pieces before they fell to the ground.
How could anyone who looked so frail make cutting wood look so easy? Born before natural gas or fuel oil furnaces, he cut wood to heat his mother’s home and provide fuel the wood stove where she made biscuits and gravy. Thousands of strokes with that ax, made over a lifetime, honed timing and strength into the perfect harmony of tool and man.
Try as I might, duplication of his effortless precision is beyond my grasp. Perhaps, it was magic after all…