“Do you need to go to the woodshed?” Those words carried great power at one time. Not many years ago parents wielded authority and spankings were a definite force in discipline. In my parents' time, the woodshed was more than just a storage shed for the woodpile and saws and axes. It was a site to obtain a switch for an errant child's instruction. The child was often sent to secure the switch himself.
The woodshed was a vital outbuilding on the small farm in the early to mid 20th century. Most homes were heated with wood and coal. It was essential to keep these fuels dry, as many learned to their detriment. Burning green wood presented a real danger. A buildup of soot and creosote within the chimney often resulted in a fire. On one occasion dad says a neighbour driving past hurried in to alert him to just such a fire. Dad rushed up onto the roof and dumped salt on the fire to extinguish it. He then used a chain rolled into a ball and dragged this up and down the interior of the stack. The residue dropped into the base of the chimney, which was fitted with a small access door from which dad was able to remove the debris.
After that episode dad was careful to age the wood. He made frequent jaunts into the back regions of the farm, cutting trees with the gas power saw and hauling in as much as the half-ton could hold. These logs were piled neatly and allowed to dry some months. Carol recalls huge sheets of plastic tented over the pile to protect it from moisture, then the sheets flipped back to let it breathe on hot days.
When pile number 1 was dried long enough, the logs were reloaded into the truck box, for a short trip to the woodshed. Dad attached a large belt to his Allis Chalmers tractor and with that power ran a small table saw. The machinery was lined up close to the woodshed.
Our shed was roomy, about the size of a small bedroom. It was constructed of roughly planed slats, some with bark still attached. The slats stood upright and formed a weatherproof enclosure. The front wall held a door and a large framed window opening.
When dad set to work cutting his load into foot-long pieces, he flung each piece into the shed through the window opening. One or two kids were positioned to stack the pieces of wood neatly against the walls. I don't recall having chunks of wood actually being chucked at me, so presumably he rested to allow the stackers to stack.
We always had a good supply of wood in storage, besides the second pile aging.
One of my chores was to split the wood into kindling, the smaller pieces necessary for lighting the fire in the stove. I also chopped lots of wood to fill the woodbox every day after school. (That woodbox sat beside the cookstove and was eternally hungry and empty.) The chopping block was usually a thicker log; it had to be sturdy with a very flat bottom to assist this junior woodcutter. I learned to wield the axe but didn't have a lot of power. I rarely split the log with one crack. The axe head wedged partway through and I had to work hard to finish the job.
I will confess my sad crime for which I still get teased by my siblings. Our loyal border collie, Tippy, was my best friend and we hung out together whenever I was outdoors. Maybe we were too close? I once cut poor Tippy's nose as she hovered nearby, helping me at the chopping block. I remember her yelp and my cry. She carried a scar the rest of her life.
The old woodshed has become a relic, a dim memory of days gone by. By now it has likely crumbled in upon itself. I thought it was firmly secure in my mind, but discussion with my sisters brought up different pictures. I can still hear the whine of the saw, the rhythmic thunk of the chunks of wood landing inside the shed and smell the clean, fresh scent of sawdust.
