A Memory of My Dad
I don’t have a lot of fond memories of my Dad, but there is one that I can remember with a smile.
My dad used to go to local orchards to cut down trees for fire wood. He always took me along with him. As I sat on the tailgate of his white Chevy pick-up, I watched my dad as he pulled the cord on the chainsaw. After a few pulls, the chainsaw roared to life.
My dad carefully began to cut the tree, branch by branch. Sawdust sprayed all over him and onto the ground. When the tree was all cut up into small logs, my dad let me help him load the pick-up.
After more than thirty years, I’m still reminded of those times by the sound of a chainsaw and the smell of sawdust.