A big goof: that is what I am. Or so says a girl with whom I work. To be sure she spoke only in jest, but as
the saying goes: “Many a truth is spoken in jest.” Nonetheless, I suppose that it can be assumed that I am
one big goof. Some even question my manhood. After all, I have found a way to inundate my life with a
collection of raggedy, discarded, unwanted, and otherwise unloved vagabonds. At latest count there are
11 dogs and 13 cats.
Well, I don’t fear for my manhood – after all I am a steak and potatoes, cigar-loving, woman chasing, regular
kinda guy, but I am also a regular pushover when it comes to rescuing nearly every stray dog or cat that I
can manage to catch. But the Big Goof does not stop at rescuing dogs and cats. I recently rescued a
beautiful black game hen from the jaws of a neighbor’s dog. Fortunately for me, since I know nothing about
chickens, I have a friend who agreed to take the bird off my hands and nurse it back to health. Imagine
that. Rescuing a chicken!
Well, I am happy to report that the bird has regained its good health and its feathers (it was pretty badly
chewed up), and she has even managed to acquire a name: “Grace.” I saw a recent picture, and Grace was
happily pecking away at the floor of her chicken pen along with a flock of other likewise, busy birds.
But dogs and cats and chickens aside, I found myself recently staring into and studying with intent interest
some activity that I happen to observe taking place inside my fireplace. I have a very nice fireplace insert,
and I use the fireplace often. More than just often, since my fireplace is the main source of heat that I use
in my house during winter. I am a throw-back. If I didn’t have indoor plumbing I would be satisfied to use an
outhouse, if I had one. Sans a good-ole’ outhouse, I could get along just as well with just the great
outdoors; and in my place that would not be an inconvenience, seeing that I live in a rural part Alcorn
County, Mississippi, on my 16 acre farm I call “Willow Oak.”
Anyway, as I was saying, I had the fireplace going really good, and I was doing what I often do – sitting in
front of the fire with the doors of the insert open, watching with intent interest a certain drama that happen
to be unfolding before me. I cut my own firewood. One of the most gratifying things about living the way I
do is that I probably spend less money on amenities and utilities in six months, than most people spend in a
year. The fireplace allows me to save much money in electricity, and cutting my own firewood from the
trees that surround Willow Oak, saves me the expense of buying wood.
On this particular occasion I had brought in a log that had been lying among the wood pile for the better
part of a year or so, and it had acquired an advanced state of deterioration. I sat and watched the newly
placed log settle itself in among the orange-hot coals already in place. At first there was the familiar and
very discernable and quite delectable hiss that always emanates from somewhere within a newly placed
log. After some additional minutes, during which time the log continued to hiss, there appeared the hint of
smoke, accompanied by a most delicious cracking and popping. After another bit a time the underside of
the log began a gradual change of color, eventually matching that of the coals -- pink at first, then yellow,
then orange. Small flames began to make their appearance, extending themselves toward the flue, dancing
with no fixed rhythm -- only the chaotic dance of uncertainty. But long before the log began to glow I
noticed some movement among and within its rotted bark. As I sat there and stared it became apparent to
me that the log that I had placed into the firebox was alive, swarming with the frantic activity of little bugs
and “things.” At first I hardly gave it much thought, but after a few minutes it occurred to me that I was
observing the disarrayed panic of a group of citizens are they scurried about looking for a way to escape
their apparent calamitous position.
Bugs. Who in the world cares about bugs? Surely, I thought to myself, I am not beginning to feel bad about
the sure demise of these insignificant, little pests? The log had only recently been placed into the fire, and
was perhaps still cool enough to be retrieved in time to save the poor little creatures, but should I bother?
I grew up in the home of a Victorian era Baptist minister who also happened to be a tail gunner on B29
bombers during WWII. I grew up listening to tails of dog-fights over such exotic-sounding islands as Tinian,
Okinawa, and Quadjalein, located in the vast Pacific Ocean. In addition, my father had managed to acquire
quite a library of books – some 30,000 volumes. Among those was a book, which described the fire-
bombing of Dresden, Germany. I won’t go into details about the event, but the book made quite an
impression on my young mind, and every time I see a fire I think about and contemplate the horror of the
human experience that must have existed among the many people who perished the awful night that
Dresden was bombed.
There were many cities – on both sides -- that were bombed into oblivion during WWII, but there were two
cities that were specifically targeted for the kind of bombing that took place in Dresden. The other city was
Hamburg, Germany. In each case, the only bombs dropped were incendiary bombs, designed specifically
for the purpose of starting a fire, and specifically for the purpose of creating the firestorms that destroyed
the citizens of those cities.
There I was sitting in front of my fireplace watching a firestorm of sorts, and watching the bugs scurrying
about, much as the citizens of Dresden and Hamburg must have done, trying to find a way out, but meeting
only with failure, as every possible path of escape was blocked by deadly flames.
I am not a pacifist by any means. I understand that what was done during WWII had to be done, but thinking
about such horrifying events as the firebombing of cities and the regular citizens who would perish,
including innocent children – growing up that way, has instilled in me a keen appreciation for the
preciousness of life. Life is precious, and all life is a precious gift from God. I do not think that God looks
upon the life of any of his creatures as being more or less precious than that of any other of his creatures.
To God, all life is equally precious, be it the life of a child, the life of a woman or a man, the life of a dog or a
cat or a chicken …, or the life of a bug.
As I have mentioned already, I cut my own wood for my fireplace from the woods that surround my house. I
have a nice, dry place to stack the wood and store it out of the weather. If you ever visit my place you will
almost always find a nice stack of fire logs awaiting their turn to be incinerated. Among the stack of fire
logs can be found red oak, white oak, pine, and even some cedar. And – if you look closely enough you
might be able to find one log with some slight charring on one side.
Please take a moment to read or leave a comment in my Guestbook, or read more about daily life at Willow
Oak in my journal, or email me one of your own stories.
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