The Axe On My Bookshelf

Plus a wee update

This story first appeared in Dear Reader two days ago.

"A baby can show up any time in a new marriage," my father said. "The ones that follow usually take nine months." And he would know.

My older sister miraculously appeared full-term six months after my parents exchanged vows.

The baby girl wasn't the only thing he created when he was twenty-one years old. In fairness, my mom did most of the creating, but in 1966 he also made a small, exquisite carving of a block of firewood with an axe stuck into it.

"Covet" means "yearn to possess." I did not covet the carving, I adored it. My father carved it, and it was his. I only ever expected to be able to admire it.

My parents split when I was six and went in opposite directions. Mom moved us to the city and became a business juggernaut. Dad moved further into the middle of nowhere of Northwest British Columbia, building his own house that he heats with wood and still has no cell coverage.

Growing up, I spent most Christmases and much of each summer in that house, reading books and pulling rainbow trout out of the nearby river with such frequency my dad said I needed to take a break because he was sick of eating fish.

The house is small, and every space occupied. The living room is filled with books and knickknacks and vinyl purchased when that was the only music medium. The axe carving sat on the windowsill, and every time I visited, I would take it down and hold it, gingerly tracing the lines on the tiny block of wood. Dad could see how carefully I treated it, never worrying I might break it.

I enjoy adventurous vacations, but visiting my father is different. It is a place that I can just...'be.' There are no schedules or expectations or social media. The carving represented that sense of calm I experience in truly embracing my own self. It's as close to Zen as I ever get, which ain't easy for a guy with ADHD and anxiety.

For my fiftieth birthday party, we had a bash, and my father came into town for the event. As the party wound down and I was a few whisky deep, he gave me a small box containing the axe carving. Tears welled, because I never told him what it meant to me. In that moment, I felt like my father truly understood me.

The carving has a shelf all its own, near my computer. Whenever I feel the need to be transported back to my father's house, I only need turn my head slightly to the left.

Get my book On This Day in History Sh!t Went Down.

UPDATE: Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, creeps in this petty pace toward a pretty significant surgery that I’m really not looking forward to, but it’s gotta be done. Anyway, I’m gonna be out of it for a bit so it will likely be a few days until you hear from me again. But then you’ll probably hear from me a lot because I can’t work out or do anything else fun for a month so I’ll have all sorts of spare time for writing.

Speaking of working out, guess I’ll head into my home gym and do my last one until mid December. Also speaking of working out, please exercise that credit card and buy my book.

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