Old farthood and wood

By Doug Page | Thursday, May 15, 2008, 11:23 AM

There’s a lot in this world I don’t understand.

I try to have coffee weekly with three other middle aged guys to solve all the world’s problems.

Recently, one handed in his retirement papers, moving from middle-agedom to old-farthood.

The conversation turned to what the old man was to do with all his extra time.

“Oh, I guess I’ll be making an end table for my daughter. I have some cherry from a tree my father cut down back in Iowa.”

As the only nonhandyman of the group, I felt obligated to ask the question.

Old dude, you mean to tell me that you’re hauling around a 50-year-old piece of wood? What are you thinking?

“No, no,” the old boy responded, “it’s probably closer to 80 years old.”

It was then the second woodworker of the foursome butted in.

“I’ve got some walnut boards my grandfather cut.”

You mean you’re hanging on to antique lumber whose value is suspect and — given the projects your wife says she wants you to do — whose use this decade is doubtful?

For what possible purpose?

“I love wood,” the second woodworking hobbyist responded. “No, I treasure it.”

The third member of our group — he who makes his living remodeling houses — then chimed in with great pieces of lumber he had known and loved.

Who were these loons, and what had they done with my friends?

I said my goodbyes when the conversation devolved into the intricacies of using warped lumber in end-table making.

What am I missing here? I asked the wife that evening.

“Once again, you aren’t seeing the forest, only the boards, so to speak,” she said.

Please, this is serious. Do you, for instance, treasure any particular pieces of wood?

“No, but I do treasure the quilts from my father’s family. We never use them. They rarely come out of storage.”

I have been meaning to speak to you about that. It really doesn’t make much sense to hang on to those old things, does it?

Rather than respond, she simply looked at me for 10 seconds — a very, very, very long 10 seconds.

Then she arose from the couch, climbed the stairs and went into our bedroom. She did not slam the door.

The dog went into the bathroom to cower from the approaching storm. The daughter turned off the TV and stood in the doorway between the family and living room.

“I gotta see this,” she said.

The wife returned carrying a frayed and tattered T-shirt.

“I’ve been meaning to speak to you about this,” she said in a frightful, calm voice. “You never wear this. It really doesn’t make much sense to hang on to this old thing,” she said as she tossed from hand to hand a 1986 Minnesota Twins World Championship official commemorative T-shirt.

I kept a careful silence.

“Do you treasure this dirty old rag,” she asked.

Yes, but not as much as I treasure you.

The daughter giggled.

“There is a box in the garage. It is filled with 50 pounds of mountaineering equipment. Yet it’s been three decades since you last set foot on a summit. Do you treasure that 50 pounds of junk?”

Yes.

“Then answer me this: Why does a man who is over the hill, need mountaineering equipment?”

To remember?

“Finally. There still may be hope for you after all.”

The daughter giggled.

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