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Woodcut
by
Bill Boudreau, Feb. 2008
by
Bill Boudreau, Feb. 2008
It was a January Saturday and I was thirteen. In the forest at the edge of our village, Grandpa, my oldest brother, and I felled trees for
stove wood.
From the main road, a mile away, we had carried two axes, a hatchet, and a two-man saw. We lumbered through bushes, vines, and
towering timbers. Snow covered tree limbs and several inches carpeted the ground. Grandpa and my brother, their hands on the
handles, sawed through the trunks. The giant arbors spattered clouds of snow as they slammed the earth. We had five thirty to forty-
foot spruces down. We began to trim the branches.
Grandpa said that Willie would be there Monday with the ox and haul the logs to our house. I knew that meant more work for me,
sawing, splitting logs, chopping blocks and kindling.
While I trimmed, I saw Grandpa look at me from time to time. Then he shouted, “Stop swinging the hatchet upward while holding the
branch with your other hand.” He demonstrated. “The hatchet could slide upward and cut your left wrist.”
I heard what he said but it didn’t change my way. Three limbs later, “clunk.” Mitten slashed, I gazed at a gash on my left thumb, close
to the hand joint. I dropped the hatchet, pulled my mitten, and stared at the pink cut, tendons, and bone. The flesh showed little meat
and bled lightly. The ends of the ligaments retracted under the skin. Grandpa and my brother came to look. I pulled out a handkerchief
and wrapped the wound.
Grandpa said I needed to see the doctor.
Holding my injured hand, I started toward the main road while Grandpa and my brother continued trimming. The hike through the
wilderness seemed longer than it had been that morning. At one point, I thought I had lost my way. My eyesight shimmered. I felt
lightheaded.
At the road, I trailed the shoulder toward town, eight miles away. With my good thumb, I hailed the next car that drove by. It picked
me up. I told the driver my situation.
In town, Docteur Généreux saw me almost immediately. With his thick, pinkish hands, he examined the cut, moved the thumb a bit,
and said if I helped him, I would not have to go to the hospital.
“We’re going sew the cut, young man. Okay?”
“Okay.”
The physician got a syringe and stuck the anesthetic needle in the flesh. The sight and the feeling sent my mind in a spin, my eyes
rolled, and I was on the verge of collapse.
The doctor grinned and told me to sit down. “Here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to cut the skin perpendicular toward the wrist
and grab the retracted cord with clip-scissors, you with your right hand and another clip pull on the other end of the tendon, from the
thumb. When we have the two touching, I’m going to sew them together.”
Half hour later, before I stepped out of the office, a splint wrapped along my thumb and wrist, Docteur Généreux advised me to not
play baseball and come see him next Wednesday when he would be in the village on his weekly visit.
I bummed a ride home. While I huddled in the back of the pickup, I thought what if I’d fainted in the woods.
stove wood.
From the main road, a mile away, we had carried two axes, a hatchet, and a two-man saw. We lumbered through bushes, vines, and
towering timbers. Snow covered tree limbs and several inches carpeted the ground. Grandpa and my brother, their hands on the
handles, sawed through the trunks. The giant arbors spattered clouds of snow as they slammed the earth. We had five thirty to forty-
foot spruces down. We began to trim the branches.
Grandpa said that Willie would be there Monday with the ox and haul the logs to our house. I knew that meant more work for me,
sawing, splitting logs, chopping blocks and kindling.
While I trimmed, I saw Grandpa look at me from time to time. Then he shouted, “Stop swinging the hatchet upward while holding the
branch with your other hand.” He demonstrated. “The hatchet could slide upward and cut your left wrist.”
I heard what he said but it didn’t change my way. Three limbs later, “clunk.” Mitten slashed, I gazed at a gash on my left thumb, close
to the hand joint. I dropped the hatchet, pulled my mitten, and stared at the pink cut, tendons, and bone. The flesh showed little meat
and bled lightly. The ends of the ligaments retracted under the skin. Grandpa and my brother came to look. I pulled out a handkerchief
and wrapped the wound.
Grandpa said I needed to see the doctor.
Holding my injured hand, I started toward the main road while Grandpa and my brother continued trimming. The hike through the
wilderness seemed longer than it had been that morning. At one point, I thought I had lost my way. My eyesight shimmered. I felt
lightheaded.
At the road, I trailed the shoulder toward town, eight miles away. With my good thumb, I hailed the next car that drove by. It picked
me up. I told the driver my situation.
In town, Docteur Généreux saw me almost immediately. With his thick, pinkish hands, he examined the cut, moved the thumb a bit,
and said if I helped him, I would not have to go to the hospital.
“We’re going sew the cut, young man. Okay?”
“Okay.”
The physician got a syringe and stuck the anesthetic needle in the flesh. The sight and the feeling sent my mind in a spin, my eyes
rolled, and I was on the verge of collapse.
The doctor grinned and told me to sit down. “Here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to cut the skin perpendicular toward the wrist
and grab the retracted cord with clip-scissors, you with your right hand and another clip pull on the other end of the tendon, from the
thumb. When we have the two touching, I’m going to sew them together.”
Half hour later, before I stepped out of the office, a splint wrapped along my thumb and wrist, Docteur Généreux advised me to not
play baseball and come see him next Wednesday when he would be in the village on his weekly visit.
I bummed a ride home. While I huddled in the back of the pickup, I thought what if I’d fainted in the woods.
| ~ Other Shore ~ |