I Heard My Father Laugh

My father never laughed, and he rarely even smiled. He was not unhappy, just a product of difficult times. He was, what you might call, a serious person.

He was born the year that the 18th Amendment was ratified. For those who may be unfamiliar, that's the amendment that prohibited the manufacture, sale, or transportation of intoxicating liquors in the United States.

In the midst of prohibition, the Stock Market Crash of 1929 signaled the onset of the Great Depression. While this eased a bit, as a result of the repeal of prohibition and FDR's New Deal, times were tough right on through World War Two. That's when I entered the picture.

Never, from the day I was born, had I heard my father laugh. That is, until one December evening in 1978. And this is the story of the only time I saw my father laugh.

My older brother Malcolm and I were both raising our families in Charlotte, NC. Malcolm had a wife and three children, two boys and a girl. I also had a wife and three children, two girls and a boy. My father, who lived in Baltimore, MD decided to visit and spend the Christmas holiday with our families.

I had purchased some wooded acreage earlier that year in Catawba, SC so it was really no surprise that afternoon, when my father suggested that we drive down there to cut our Christmas trees for the holiday. My father, my brother and I got in my pickup truck and headed to Catawba.

After some time and discussion we all agreed on two very nice trees which we fell and topped out to use as our Christmas trees. As we were dragging them to the truck my brother said, "As long as we're here, how about cutting a load of firewood for me."

"I don't know if we have enough time," I replied. "We only have one chain saw and it's getting late. It gets dark early in the woods."

"Well, we can just cut some logs here, and we'll finish bucking and splitting at my house," Malcolm responded.

"Okay. Then let's get it done," I concluded.

That's just what we did. We filled the back of my pickup with logs that were about eight feet long, tied the two Christmas trees on top, and headed back to Charlotte.

Now it was half past dark by the time we had unloaded the logs and carried them to my brothers back yard. Malcolm turned on a couple of flood lights so we could buck and split the logs, and our sons had joined us now to assist in the task.

As we began, I was bucking, that is when you use the chain saw to cut the logs into fireplace length. Malcolm was splitting those logs with his splitting maul. Our sons were transporting and stacking. My father, now in his sixties and rather plump, was supervising the labor.

Splitting wood is more tiring than bucking, so after about an hour I asked my brother if he would like to switch for a while. He said he would like that, so we took a five minute smoke break and switched jobs.

I'm not certain what lunacy took possession of me, but as I began I called the boys over and told them, "Now, I'm gonna teach you boys how Paul Bunyan taught me to split wood."

I grasped the end of the long handled splitting maul firmly in my right hand and raised it high above my head. With a swift, smooth, solid stroke I swung the head of the maul down to the log. Unfortunately, the handle on my brother's ten pound splitting maul was several inches longer than the handle on my splitting maul. So the head of the maul extended beyond the log I was attempting to split..

With a thunderous crack, the hickory handle struck the log, and the head of the maul snapped cleanly free of the handle. Fate was not finished with me though as the momentum forced me to follow through with my swing. A second loud crack was heard as the hickory handle struck my right shin bone.

You'd think this would be sufficient punishment for my vanity but we all know that bad tidings come in threes. And so, as I unsuccessfully attempted to avoid the strike of the handle a third resounding crack echoed as I fell backwards breaking the gate free from my brother's fence.

As I laid there, trying to comprehend the multitude of all that occurred in those brief seconds, I became aware of an unfamiliar sound. It was the sound of sixty years of pent up laughter finally breaking uncontrollably free from my father's seriousness.

His hysteria was so vibrant that he could not continue to stand erect without holding onto something. "Aaahahahahaha... Paul Bunyan.... aaahahahaha... Paul Bunyan," burst forth powerfully from his hideous grin. "Aaahahahahaha, Paul Bunyan!"

Malcolm, considering that I possibly sustained injury, checked to determine if I was okay, and remarkably I was. My father's laughter continued unceasingly for a solid ten minutes, with sporadic outburst throughout the remainder of the evening. The fact of the matter is that he laughed so hard that he ruptured his abdomen and had to have corrective surgery... but that's the story about my relationship to "The Pillsbury Doughboy."

I never heard my father laugh again after that, but I often recall this memory with great pleasure. Though it was wrapped in discomfort, with a bow of pending misfortune, I still consider it the best Christmas gift I’ve ever been given.


Word Count: 936
For: The PDG Alumni Challenge Forum