Hauling Lumber on Independence Day

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“Hey baby, it’s the Fourth of July.”

— Dave Alvin

I began Independence Day as any other day, walking Sam through the neighborhood while listening to NPR. As they have for the past 29 years, the announcers were reading the Declaration of Independence, familiar voices taking turns reading Thomas Jefferson’s literary shot across the bow toward the British. I later learned NPR also tweeted the Declaration in 140-character bursts, which alarmed a number of people who did not recognize what it was. It took 113 tweets, and by the end a number of people — who apparently skipped the Declaration of Independence lecture in their American history class — tweeted that public radio was blasting out propaganda against the current occupant of the Oval Office.

Sad, as our Tweeter-in-Chief might say.

After breakfast, I donned my only pair of overalls, some sensible shoes, a sweat-stained ballcap and grabbed my work gloves. I cranked up our 1965 Ford F100 (still for sale — you know how to reach me) and headed to the country. The weather was atypically pleasant for early July. That was a blessing since the truck has no air-conditioning, just a $12 fan clipped to the ashtray and plugged into the cigarette lighter.

My mission: To retrieve my load of rough-cut black walnut and red oak lumber from where it has been stored for several years, since the place is being sold. Over the years, I collected this lumber from barns across East Texas. I started building furniture 20 years ago and have turned the lumber into a dining room table with six chairs for my oldest daughter; coffee tables for several family members and my self; the Mission-style desk on which I write this, accompanied by a sofa used exclusively for naps, a Morris chair and ottoman for reading, and a side table that holds the printer, junk drawer and books being used for my biography project. The lumber pile is not as large as it used to be but still substantial.

The truck doesn’t have a working radio, so I was content to listen to the wind rushing through the windows and smell the freshly cut hay fields on this drive down various farm-to-market roads. This is a lovely drive past impressive ranches, groves of live oaks, thick stands of pines, only an occasional truck coming the opposite way, its driver and I exchanging the time-honored one-finger salute. The index finger, that is.

The traffic was considerably heavier crossing the spillway at Lake O’ The Pines, boats being hauled to the landing, families preparing to grill and swim. This was the first lake my parents brought us to after we moved from New Hampshire to Longview. I admit to being a bit disappointed, having been raised in a state dotted with clear, cold water lakes where one can see the bottom even at a dozen feet. This lake seemed murky, the water warm, my feet invisible even at waist-height. After nearly a half-century, Lake O’ The Pines looks pretty inviting. One adapts.

The lumber has been inside an unused horse stable, off the ground and covered with a tarp. A few yellow jackets greeted me from a distance, and I mentally kicked myself for not bringing a can of bug killer. I ran into a swarm of those buggers last year and ended up with five stings and an emergency room bill. But they decided to go elsewhere.

So did the two rats that had taken up residence in my lumber pile. They scurried outside, and my heart rate quickly returned to normal. I started loading lumber. One of the great aspects about this truck is the extra-long bed. Much of this lumber is 10-feet long. One slab of black walnut has traveled across East Texas as I moved about — a half-dozen times or so. It is 4-inches thick, 12-inches wide and 12-feet long. Someday it will be a fireplace mantle in what will be our last house — whenever that occurs. I have no idea.

Nearly two years of CrossFit training paid off when it came time to wrestle that nearly 200 pound slab into the truck. It took 15 minutes and a few false starts, but finally I succeeded. I worked slowly, drank lots of water and rested often, enjoying the silence and solitude. The rodents made an impressive nest right in the midst of the pile, which I kicked clean with my shoe. Finally, the truck bed was full, the lumber ready for its next destination — another spot in the country.

As always, moving my lumber stirs the woodworking juices. Maybe I will finally start on that barrister’s bookcase I have been mulling over building for the past few years.

There is no hurry. The wood will be there.

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