The Felled Oaks

By John Hodnette

Category: Fiction

In autumn of 1952, the whole family met up at Grandpa J’s farm in the south-eastern bit of Virginia. I was about twelve at the time: small and quiet and bookish. I was told that Grandma had passed away by a sickness, but that was about it. The drive took hours and hours and it was hot in our Ford. Mom talked the entire trip about Grandpa J.
“…well he should have sent her to a specialist and not tried to nurse her himself, is all I’m saying, Michael. I mean really, the man can barely take care of himself! He’s out there working his fields like it’s still the 1800s and I really don’t think he should keep doin’ it. He’s out there in the middle of no-where, he won’t see anyone and I really don’t…” And so on. Pa just nodded most of the time. I looked out the window at the autumn colors while we were in the mountains, but as we went down towards the farm, everything turned green and swampy. The roads were bright red clay.


It was dark when we finally got there and I must have fallen asleep because I don’t remember it exactly. We went in and I was told to share a bed with my cousin. I climbed in and closed my eyes immediately.
“This place is a wreck,” I remember hearing Mom say before I drifted off, and then it was morning and Grandpa J was standing in front of me with an axe in one hand. It was just barely light and he was shaking me softly. He was a powerfully built man with a short grey beard and bright eyes.
“I’m gonna go chop down some firewood,” he said gruffly with a frown. “Tell them if they ask.” I nodded and was asleep.


It was much brighter when I opened my eyes again and the smell of bacon and eggs was in the air. The whole family was up and bustling around the small farmhouse: my little cousins were playing with the model automobiles that lined the shelves in the sitting room, knocking over Grandma’s needlework (Home of James and Alice Street); Uncle Paul and Pa were sitting at the small kitchen table in the next room, talking between bites of breakfast about how much the farm might be worth; Uncle Paul’s wife was doing the cooking and nodding solemnly as Mom talked more about Grandpa J.
“…He really should be here to greet his family. I don’t know what’s gotten into him, sneaking off to be alone when we’ve come all this way to be with him. I really don’t think being alone is what’s good for an old man when something like this has happened, I mean, really there have been studies that say being around your family will help it go smoother an’ everything but he’s gonna just disappear on us instead! It’s just rude, really and—“
“He told me he’s gone out to get firewood.” Mom glared at me as if I were trying to play a joke.
“Now why would he do that, Patrick?” my aunt asked, putting some eggs and bacon on a plate for me.
“Why does that man do anything?’ Mom started, turning back to my aunt, “I mean I told him long ago that he doesn’t have to keep plowing with that mule of his like it’s still the 1800s; he’s got plenty of money for a tractor, but he’s…”


After breakfast, I headed into the green woods. They were so quiet after the house. The only sound was the gentle swaying of the trees in the wind and the distant rhythmic chopping. I followed a path that Grandpa J had made, towards a swampy area with nothing but water oaks, until I saw the bright red of the handkerchief he always kept in his front pocket.
“Hey Grandpa J.”
“What are you doing here, boy?” He had felled at least thirty small trees already, more than he could possibly carry back. His face was bright red and damp with sweat.
“They want you back at the house.” He coughed hard into the handkerchief and quickly stuffed it into his pocket. His name, James, was sewed into it.
“I ain’t going back there,” he said, wiping the sweat off his face with his sleeve.
“That’s probably a good idea,” I said. “It’s crazy back there.” Grandpa J laughed and patted me on the back.
“Ha, at least you get it, boy. Those people are crazy. I’m never going back to have them ship me off to somewhere else and sell our farm. I know what they want, but they ain’t getting it….my farm.” He mumbled the last two words.
“So you’re gonna just live here?” I motioned around.
“Sure, why the hell not?” he said and started chopping again. I sat down and waited. “Why the hell not?” he muttered, swinging hard.


By twilight, Grandpa J had cut down every tree around us. He sat down next to me and spun one of the oaks’ little branches in his hand. The leaves were shaped like drops of water. They were dark green on one side and paler bluish-green on the other. There were two acorns stuck right next to each other and Grandpa J stared at them for a while and then threw them away.
“What? Are you still here? Go back to the house.” He said to me.
“I don’t want to, any more than you do.” .
He smiled. “We’ve gotta face the music eventually, boy.” He stood up. “Come on.”
“Should we grab some wood?” I nodded to the fallen trees.
“No, leave it.” The sun was setting as we walked, and across from it, a half moon was rising. Grandpa J stumbled a few times. He must have been tired out from all the wood chopping. “Are you good in school?” He asked, after a while.
“Yes.”
He patted me on the back again.“Good…good. You’ll make a good man.”


We found him in his chair the next morning, the red handkerchief clenched in his hand. Same as the wife, the doctor said.