Kindling

Three. Two. One. Let it go. Feel the air rush as you fall down for what seems like eons. Free fall forever. Then once you land, breathe for the one second you get before you rush down, just to jump off another cliff, the cliff of adulthood. Fall again, but not for quite as long, even though there is more depth than the first fall. Well, that makes sense since the first one is falling off a swing onto a sled, and the second is falling off a legitimate cliff. I hesitate before willing my hands to let go of the swing. I have two options: Roll off and be labelled the weeny of my family, feel the shame of the world bear down on me, then have to run off the cliff and get the sled. Or I could ride it out, holding back my scream as I fall, fall, fall.

My grandparents moved to the mountain home in 2007, leaving their California life in the dust. They thought the city I lived in was too crowded; too many people crowd the narrow roads, making life hard to maneuver. No room for them to breathe. They searched for a house in a small mountain town called Woodland Park, the city above the clouds. Every house they looked at lacked something, until they hit the end of the road. The world seemed like a gorgeous painting from the windows. The shadows of darkness mingled with speckles of light. This mountain home screamed out to them. Like my sliding down the cliff, they had no choice. The papers were signed, and this showed to be the beginning of the mountain people era. Every trial, from weather to the water pipes bursting, had been faced with a deep sigh, and more than a few curse words.

Jumping the cliff always seemed much scarier than it actually was, probably because the bottom was uncertain. Are there sharp spikes at the bottom, waiting for you to fall into their grips of cold death? Is there water, so deep that it sucks you down, suffocating you and denying you any chance of swimming up? Or is it a road, just a road? A road that drives you through the twists and turns of life? In every other case, everything seemed scary at the start, building up terror in me, just to leave me without fear at the bottom. I was only seven when they bought the mountain house, so everything up there was magical. The trees held fairies, especially in the early to middle spring when the silkworms flew through the wind and held onto the trees with strings of silk. The tall grass was perfect for playing hide and seek with my sister. I hid so well that I watched my Poppa chop wood. Once my sister gave up searching, I yelled, “POPPA!” He would spin in circles, looking for the small human who called for him. He looked into the grass, then immediately gave up searching. I’d call it again, “POPPA!” He spun again, this time looking deeper into the grass, as if his magic powers gave him a sixth sense. I jumped up, “Boo! I scared you, didn’t I, Poppa?” He would laugh his deep laugh–making his belly jiggle–turn, and go back to work.

For as long as I can remember, I have been a Poppa’s girl. Hanging on his every word, doing things that would make him proud, then attempting not to make him disappointed in me. When I was old enough to wield a machete, I begged and begged for him to let me chop down a tree. Okay, maybe not so much beg, since he let us do basically anything as long as we were safe. He reached for the chainsaw, “No, Poppa! The machete!” He never argued, never commented on how cutting down a tree with a machete could take all day, but above all, never judged. Within an hour we were hunting down the first tree to chop down. Out of every tree we found that could have been cut down, my sister and I chose the biggest one we could. It was giant! Ten feet (six inches) round, and thirty feet (maybe seven feet) tall. This tree was menacing to look at for us two small girls. We chose it, and there was no way we would give up. We were Griggs Kids, so we could do anything. Poppa let out a laugh when we showed him the one we wanted, “Go get it, girls.” There was no doubt in Poppa’s eyes as he watched us hit it over and over again, getting small chunks out at a time.

About two hours into chopping away at this tree, Poppa came out with water bottles and to see how we were coming along. “Have you sharpened the machete?” “Yeah! We aren’t dumb, Poppa!” “I never doubted you; you two are going to do big things in life. Just remember, your body is as much a tool as that machete is. Take a break and drink some water.” If he hadn’t told us to take a break, we would’ve kept going until our bodies couldn’t move any more. It was short, 20 minutes tops, then we got back to work. Our arms moved without much thought, until the tree finally started tipping. I yelled for Poppa and Oma to come out and watch it fall over. They didn’t make it in time, since my sister thought it would be cool to kick it off the stump. When they got there, I still remember how proud Poppa was. His eyes gleamed with pride that we were his grandchildren. We started this tree, and we finished it!

A few years later, tragedy struck. It was a hot day, one full of wood chopping and tree falling. We each had our own station that we worked, then helped one another if we needed it. I was at the kindling splitter. Place the log on the splitter, line up the pusher, move your hands, push the button, rotate and repeat. Each log made about 10 pieces of kindling, depending on the size. These motions were robotic to me now, so I made a game out of it. I would make more kindling faster than the last time. I was sweating bullets by the time Oma came to collect everyone for lunch. Everyone gathered inside to eat hotdogs and cool down a bit, except for Poppa, who wanted to finish setting up one last tree to fall. He climbed up the ladder, like he had hundreds of times before, to tie the ropes around the trunk to lead it away from the house. I watched him from the window, admiring how high he went with such confidence in his tools. “Olivia, how about you come finish your hotdog?” Oma called me away from the window. “Okay!” I went to scarf down the couple of bites it took, then went back to the window, Poppa and the ladder were not up high anymore. They both lay motionless on the ground. “POPPA!” I screamed, pulling open the door and running to his side, Oma on my heels. He did not move when we got to him. “Go call 911,” Oma directed me. My sister came running to the phone with me, but stood as I dialed the numbers 9-1-1.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“My grandfather fell off a ladder; he’s not waking up.”

“What is your location?”

I told them the mountain address, the same that had been drilled into me for years now.

“Emergency vehicles are being sent to your location as we speak. Who all are there? Are you okay?” She asked me questions and assured me that my calmness will help everyone in the process. “Has he woken up yet?” I told my sister to go check on Oma and Poppa. She came back telling me that he had awoken and sat up.

“Yes, he is sitting up now.”

“Can you have him lay back down? If he hurt his neck, we need him to be stable. Okay, sweetheart?”

I directed people as I was told to, until the sirens came blaring up the road that led to the house. The woman on the phone was notified that they had arrived and told me that Poppa would be in good hands. I hung up the phone. Poppa was taken away in the ambulance on the stretcher while my sister and I stayed at the house, waiting for Oma to call and tell us what happened. We didn’t get a call. Instead, a couple hours later, the familiar black truck they owned came up the road. Oma got out and walked around to the trunk to get a wheelchair out. Poppa was going to be fine, she said, his straw hat protected his head from the brunt of the force, and he broke his arm. She pushed him up into the house, stopping right in front of me. Poppa reached out, grabbed my hand and said, “You make me so proud.”

Looking back at that moment, something reigns over me: we never chopped down that tree. The rope still hangs from the high branches, slowly mending to the tree. My grandfather has been constant in the inconsistencies of life. He was the one who told me to go experience life, not just live it. Even though I knew I was making him proud and I was doing what he had always told me to do, I still felt like I was letting him down. Every bit of worry that had built in me subsided when Poppa sat beside me, not a hint of disappointment or judgement, but a whole world of pride shining through his eyes.

I push the swing as high as I can, grab on and fly. Fly through childhood, fly through the pains of loneliness, fly through my life. Everything blurs behind, under, and beside me. The only stable things that fly with me are the people I chose to stay, but especially my Poppa. With him, I know that the bottom will come. That comforting thought gives me the courage to let go and fall into the world around me. Into adulthood.

Olivia is an unpublished author of twenty-one years of age, located in Cedar Rapids, Iowa. She is studying Creative Writing and Psychology at Coe College. Olivia sees graduation in May of 2022, then continuing forward to Ashland University's MFA program in Ashland, Ohio. Kindling is a piece near and dear to her heart as it is a memoir about her grandfather. Poppa has been beside Olivia through every turn of life and continues to cheer her on through each new adventure. He has wanted to read this piece ever since Olivia wrote it, but she will not allow that until she can give it to him in publication. I love you, Poppa!