Living The Moment In Libby

    Libby, Montana was once a booming little logging community, as well as, my home town. The tiny town lays low in a valley which is smack-dab in the middle of the Rocky Mountains. Therefore, Libby’s location affords a stunning panoramic view of high-reaching mountains in whichever direction one looks. In the summer, the sun illuminates the luscious green trees that reside on the surrounding mountains and once fueled Libby’s local economy. In the Winter, on the other hand, deep blankets of snow don the mountains in pure white, like a bride’s veil as she walks down the church’s aisle.

     There are only three roads to get out of Libby. Needless to say, any major crime that requires fleeing from the scene was next to impossible. Of course a masked scallywag may initially succeed confiscating the only bank in town’s, however, there is no way to escape without detection once the robber acquired his new found fortune.

    My parents, sister, and I lived in an enormous blue house lined with white trim. At least, it was enormous to my toddler eyes. More important than the size of our home is the fact that it was right around the corner from my Nana and Papa; my father’s parents.

    Nana was a Southern Bell and local substitute teacher. Papa made his living by owning his own logging truck. He set out each morning to drive his 16-wheeler out to the narrow dirt roads to load the logs that others had already cut. He then would haul the logs into town to be processed at the local saw mill. My father followed in his footsteps, although not for long.

    Since Libby is so small and remote, there was not a lot to do as a child except visit my grandparents and do chores. Papa especially enjoyed bestowing the value of hard work on his grandchildren, especially splitting wood for the fireplace. In hindsight, I know that he just wanted me to learn the family business, whether I decided to pursue that path or not.

I was eight years old the first time Papa told me to cut up some firewood. My tiny hands barely had the strength to pick the axe up over my head. When I did muster the power to bring it up, my downswing was so inaccurate that I would simply chip off the edges of the log, and that only occurred if I even hit the log at all. That was the first time I had ever developed blisters and I quickly understood why my grandfather’s hands were so rough and callous.

    Throughout the day I repeated the process over and over and over until I actually starting hitting the center of the logs and split them in two. Oh the pride I felt when I eventually split a log with one mighty stroke of the axe.

    “Papa!” I yelled from the garage into the house, “I did it! I did it!”

    My grandfather was at the door looking out at me. He wasn’t a big man, but somehow he always managed to fill the doorway.

    “Good,” he said, “that should make the rest of them much easier.”

    Turning around revealed to me that I wasn’t even a third of the way done and all of that excitement from my single accomplishment drained from my body. Yet, he was still right. I maintained my focus on each log one at a time and it the task did become easier, but still not easy. By the time I got to the final log my arms were jelly. Sweat, dust, and wood chips covered my face, and the excitement of finishing the task exuded from within. My excitement did not stem from the learning how to chop wood. Rather, I was happy the chore was over and I assumed I would get something out of all of this hard work.

    As I thought about the riches that were inevitable after such a long day of hard work I raised the axe and swung down harder than I had on any other previous piece of wood. With all of my might I reigned the axe down and missed the log and the chopping block completely, striking the concrete floor of my grandfather’s garage. Intense pain ran through my hands, into my arms, and exploded through my shoulders. The axe dropped from my hands and fell to the floor. Tears swelled up in my eyes as Papa picked up the axe. I hadn’t noticed that he stood right next to me. My full attention was focused on the pain that ran through my body. He simply held the axe out to me and said, “Finish up, it almost time for dinner.”

     Fine dining is limited in Libby, Montana and there is only one grocery store, Rosauers. Nana told me that since I did such a great job splitting the wood we would have fried chicken that night, which was my favorite meal from our limited options. Nevertheless, today nostalgia prances through my heart when I look back at that day in Libby with Nana and Papa. I would give anything to struggle with the axe all day again, if it meant just one more moment with my grandparents. It taught me that every moment is special, even if it seems turbulent at the time.