Clearing a Path



We were hacking our way through the thick underbrush. The land had been logged some years prior, and now hearty undergrowth was competing for the available sunshine. 


Mom led the way with her small chainsaw, followed by Grandpa with his machete. At a safe distance behind him was Grandma with her handsaw, followed by me, wielding a non-threatening pair of nippers. 


We rediscovered a crude road that had been created when the downed timber had been hauled out. But rainy seasons followed by growing seasons had allowed incredibly dense foliage to flourish.


Mom did a wide perimeter with her saw, and we all worked to gather up the downed limbs and brush. She’d exposed the view of Freshwater Bay. We stood and admired the light blues of the sky meeting the dark vibrant blue of the water. Behind us we could see some of the Olympic Mountain range.


I looked back at the swath of underbrush we’d cleared to get here. It was August, and even in the woods,  the afternoon sun was hot. We were sweating from our efforts. 


Mom opened her backpack and pulled out the makings of a picnic. Grandma spread a blanket and sat down. Grandpa took the chainsaw and went to a nearby tree stump. He began sawing and created a flat spot. Then taking the chainsaw sideways he created a small back. It was a chair in the woods.


He finished, and with a satisfied nod, suggested Mom try it out. She sat and her smile revealed a joy I hadn’t seen in quite a while. We all smiled back. 


It may have taken an effort to hack our way to this point on her new property, and much more work was ahead, but we took time that August afternoon to celebrate the small victory of getting here—together. 


Together—things work better that way.


I miss you Mom, and I thank you for clearing a path for me to be here today. August 9, 1991




 

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