The first of a series of pieces from the Queen Mother of Small Things. Written over ten years ago now, it was a time when we were helping my Granddad live through terminal cancer. Mum has written a lot about this time in her life.
Woodworm
I am helping Dad in the garage, sorting out his wood for the fire. It is in the middle of July and the weather is cold for him, and there’s a lot of rain about. Dad is feeling miserable and needs some cheering up. He is old and very sick with cancer and it is a matter of a short time and he will be gone from us.
What is upsetting and a long pause for thought, is that this wood he will burn, he has been saving up for forty years. Being a carpenter, he used to make furniture at home in his spare time: tables, bookcases and cabinets to mention a few. So over the years he had acquired a great deal of wood under the floorboards, in the garage and in the outhouse.
Beautiful reddish brown mahogany, yellow-brown teak and various other timbers, all had been saved for better usage. All these off cuts are free from woodworm and still have their original smells.
Now with feeble hands, this wood will go to keep him warm or be given away. The task of cleaning out and getting rid of this wood nobody wants is going to take a long time but it is so urgent for him to sort out his prize possessions. Who has the skill to use it? Who has the room to store it? What is the point of hoarding things up?
So I’m helping him, I’m looking at his tired face and thinking that God in his great love and mercy has stricken mankind with sickness and death.
Dad is chopping, sawing and putting the broken pieces in piles for the fire. I’m nearly in tears and pause again for thought. What is the point in being careful?
Dad is shutting the green garage door and walking up to a small seat by the garage window. The thoughts that are going through his head are of sadness I expect. The day is not that cold but Dad’s illness is playing tricks with him. So I pretend to have a shiver “Let’s go in and light that fire”.
I’m opening the back door for Dad as he carries a small bundle of kindling wood towards the Truburn.
I suppose in days gone by, things were in short supply and they got handed around. But today, in this land of plenty, the old values are long gone. As the old folk die so do their stories – and photos too will be destroyed. Once again, a new age of humans will bring in vast changes.
Julia Goldsmith
