Creative Nonfiction: Selections From David Sapp

Splitting Wood

                                                                                   

It wasn’t when I got the hang of cursing, exquisitely and generously, tutored by the bigger kids at the back of the school bus. It wasn’t when I puffed on my buddy’s mom’s unfiltered Kools in the woods – throat raw, lungs afire, coughing triumphantly. It wasn’t when I thumbed through Dad’s Playboy magazines and delighted at the sight of nipples peeking through an open plaid flannel shirt. It wasn’t when I thought I was the last one on the playground to know where a penis goes. (There was some confusion after a night in a tent in the backyard with two older boys.) It wasn’t so much when I first kissed Patty under the wild cherry tree or when I touched Penny’s soft, tiny breast somewhere beneath her shirt (also flannel) – trying desperately to distinguish between grope and caress. And oddly, it wasn’t when I pulled Mom off Dad – when she flew at him in one of many paranoid rages, screaming and ripping, shredding Dad’s shirt. Flannel, by the way.

It was when I learned how to split wood that I began to know something of becoming a man. Or at least clearly saw the outset of the endeavor. It was in those chilled November days, frost settling on the weeds behind the chicken coop, when, instinctively, it was time to hunker down for the winter – when I’d see a pile of coal dumped near the basement door of my grandparents’ farmhouse. But coal was only a backup for the wood that needed to be cut for the furnace. Cords of timber magically appeared. I don’t remember helping Grandpa fell the trees in the woods at the far edge of the pastures. God knows he needed the help, but he’d go out alone with his chain saw, this terrifying machine from the 1930s which looked like it used a Model T engine to power it. I could barely lift it let alone wield it for its purpose.

The segments of wood with a larger girth needed splitting to fit through the furnace door, and they were relentlessly there like any chore on the farm, waiting to be tended to. The work nagged at me from just below my bedroom window where I was more interested in how oil paint spread on a canvas, discovering the differences between Ultramarine, Cerulean, Prussian, and Cobalt Blue.

It was then that I recognized in my limbs what it meant to be a man. It took a while to become unafraid of the sharp axe. I was warned about chopping my knee instead of a log, and the fear made me too cautious and ineffectual. It took even longer to master the undertaking – to split a piece in one stroke. It was frustrating, loosening the axe when it caught, hopelessly lodged in the wood. And then, angry, with a little more force, the log placed perfectly on the stump, and swinging the axe high over my head, I cleaved it cleanly, the two halves falling away. Soon, I found a rhythm, and the pile of split wood grew. With sweat running down my back, it was satisfying to remove my coat and swing in only a shirt – a flannel shirt. And it was perversely fulfilling when blisters erupted on my hands and every part of my body was sore the next day. I hoped for the eventuality of callouses.

But it wasn’t necessarily at that moment that I became a man. I think it may have been years later when comprehension set in. It was simple. The wood needed splitting, Grandpa needed my help with it, and I stepped up to do it.

 

 

 

Fight! Fight! Fight!

                                                                       

Most all the boys my age watched Big Time Wrestling on Saturday afternoons, the Sheik and Bobo Brazil, their oiled, sweaty bodies colliding in the ring. I feigned an interest but couldn’t see the point – one person demolishing another – even if it was fake. And, as a family in 1971, we watched Ali and Frasier pummel each other on our television. Boomer and Doug and I often wrestled – or rather I was expected to wrestle. They were older and bigger and pinned me every damn time. Fun, fun, fun for them. No fun for me. I loathed wrestling in gym class, a sanctioned brutality apparently essential for my education.

There was that time when my cousins Carl and Clara came to visit. (They were my mother’s brother’s kids. Uncle Perry married Rosemary while he was stationed in Germany in the 1950s during the Cold War.) At nine or ten I often dressed in miniature army fatigues, a marine cap and an army shirt with pins and badges that were Dad’s from his service in the National Guard. These uniforms could be bought in any Sears catalog at the time. I was obsessed with war, with killing Nazis and the slaughter of Vietnam on the evening news every night after supper. As soon as they disembarked from their car, Clara snatched my cap and tossed it to Carl. They laughed in well-intentioned comradery. I chased Carl around the yard until I caught up with him. By the time I recovered my hat, my mild annoyance had turned to fury. I pushed Carl to the ground, straddled him and lay fists into his face and chest. A parent, his or mine, pulled me off him. Everyone was surprised. Me too. But other than this anomaly, I don’t remember getting into any fights as a kid unless you count the time in third grade when Miss Smith was out of the room for a minute. Tim, an enormous, relentless bully, started in on me again. I shoved him; he lost his balance and crashed into a row of desks. I like to remember that my classmates cheered, but I don’t think that actually happened. He never bothered me after that. But it wasn’t truly a fight.

On the playground, a fight was entertainment. Two combatants were circled by a crowd and their chant, egging on the violence, “Fight! Fight! Fight!” A bloody lip or nose was a desirable outcome for onlookers. The appearance of a black eye the next day was a badge of pride or fodder for a new round of teasing – and sometimes another altercation. In elementary school these bouts were brief as the boys were reluctant to suffer injury, and Mrs. Keck, the lunch monitor, was quick to intervene. We were all more afraid of her than a potential nemesis. In my freshman year of high school, I witnessed two fights in the cafeteria, the Serengeti of adolescence. Why always the cafeteria – interrupting lunch and attracting the largest audience possible other than an assembly in the gym? The first was an all-out brawl between a teacher and student. I never saw so much hate between two people. There was shoving and fists and thrown chairs across the length of the cafeteria. Only at the end of the scuffle, when the teacher became aware of the incredulous stares of students did he get control of himself and act more in keeping with his position. The student was a troubled kid. But I was a troubled kid. This prospect frightened me. The second was between two girls, two Beckys, Becky Ball and Becky Grant. There was a lot of screaming, scratching, hair pulling and shirt shredding. The profanity was profound and original. It was nearly impossible to pull them apart, the hate more visceral than boys. Boys could be friends again the next day while girls were enduring enemies for life.

In art class a girl in a desk behind me made fun of my painters’ pants as they were light blue. Painters’ pants were popular high school staples at the time along with bib overalls, but they were always white. Mine were probably put in the wash with something blue, but they looked like an intended fashion trend. She said something like “fancy pants.” I later learned she was merely being friendly, but I didn’t know her, and it was horrific at home at the time – my emotions raw. I turned and said unnecessarily and viciously, “Shut up, freak!” Freak? What was I saying? I probably identified with freaks more than any other clique in the school – the crowd desperate to drop out – who smoked in the parking lot. The next day, her boyfriend caught me in a doorway and demanded, “Who you callin’ freak?” He had an elaborate earring dangling from one lobe, and he jiggled it at me. This was at a time when earrings among high school boys were rare. I thought, “What a nice earring.” He was ready to defend the girl. I offered an apology to his girlfriend (but not him) and after witnessing previous fights, declined to engage. I walked away. After a quick risk assessment, it just didn’t seem worth expulsion, suspension or bodily harm.

On a Friday night when I couldn’t sleep, one of those hot, muggy nights when everyone is miserable and edgy, I walked downtown to watch the traffic on Main Street. Teenagers cruised between Beck’s Point Drive-In and the town square. A monument, a tall column topped with a Civil War soldier, was circled by waves of randy teens. A few couples staggered out of a bar called The Office. A man was crossing the street and a car pulled into the crosswalk nearly hitting him. I think the pedestrian may have slapped the car and swore at the driver. (It was a very nice car, a restored muscle car of some sort.) The driver put his car in park, got out and gave the man a shove. The driver was clearly the more experienced combatant. The fight ended quickly when the driver punched the pedestrian in the face and broke his glasses. The driver got back in his car, the pedestrian screamed additional profanities, and the driver was willing to return to the fight. The pedestrian retreated when the door opened. He never crossed the street.

When driving the yellow van for Fletcher Pharmacy one afternoon, delivering oxygen, walkers and hospital beds, a car pulled up behind me, laid on the horn and dangerously tail-gated my bumper. Hurry, hurry, hurry. I slowed down, nearly stopped for them to pass, but instead, the driver became more incensed. He swerved around me, crossing a double yellow line. (Of course there may have been a bit of rude gesticulation on my part.) He braked and stopped on the highway – also hazardous. The driver and his buddy charged out of their car and rushed the van. Clearly, their honor as gentlemen was questioned. Did they require satisfaction? A duel to the death by tire irons? I locked the door and looked straight ahead while they beat on the door and cursed me – waiting until their options for vengeance ran out. But seriously, what would they have done if they got hold of me?

Then there was the time when I invited trouble. I was at my locker between classes. Matt (or was it, Mark?) shoved past me, jostling my books. It seemed rude and intentional. No “sorry dude.” After he retrieved his things, I backed into his path, and there it was. We could be the servants of Mercutio and Tybalt, Montagues and Capulets. “Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?” “I do not bite my thumb at you, sir, but I bite my thumb, sir.” Matt or Mark sat across from me at lunch. He rarely spoke. Never laughed. Like me, he lunched there because there was nowhere else. We hovered on the periphery of two groups but belonged to neither. I remembered him as being rather swarthy as he was favored with facial hair when those around him could barely muster a bit of fuzz beneath their noses. At the lockers, Matt grabbed my shirt and spun me around with staggering swiftness and skill. I was abruptly confronted with his fist aimed at my face. His arm was more muscular than I remembered. There was no crowd craving mayhem. I did nothing. Said nothing. Just waited for the blow. And without saying a word, he released me and walked away and that was that. I’d like to think that a small measure of civilization passed between us. Or maybe he recognized the same pain and desperation in me that was in him. We shared the same universal rage. Why hit a brother? Maybe.

 

 

 

 

 

David Sapp is a writer and artist, who lives along the southern shore of Lake Erie in North America. A Pushcart nominee, he was awarded Ohio Arts Council Individual Excellence Grants for poetry and art. His poetry and prose appear widely in the United States, Canada, the United Kingdom, and Asia. His publications include articles in the Journal of Creative Behavior; several chapbooks; a novel, Flying Over Erie; a book of poems and drawings, Drawing Nirvana; and three books of poetry and prose, Acquaintances, A Precious Transience, and a memoir titled The Origin of Affection, winner of the Violet Reed Haas Poetry Award.