My eighty-nine-year-old father is scheduled to get a knee replacement next week. Let me say that again. He’s eighty-nine and getting a new knee and is eager to return to his very active life when the pain subsides. He’s done this once before and wants the same results.
People stop me nearly every day to ask about my father. They comment on how healthy he is and how he never slows down. This is true, though I can attest to him slowing a little over the past several years. He is eighty-nine after all. Over Christmas holidays, my brothers and I were with him at his property in Clarke County. We were all sawing on an oak tree that we were sectioning for firewood. We’ve done this nearly every Christmas time for about forty years now – felling the tree, cutting it into pieces and then splitting those pieces and stacking them in a rack near the camp. It will become the wood we’ll burn next Christmas, letting it age about a year before burning, and we cut a lot of it every year. Dad has always led the way on the firewood. He finds the tree and leads the way on the cutting. His use of a chainsaw on a tree is the equivalent of Michaelangelo’s use of a chisel on a block of marble. His dissection of the tree is a work of art. This past year, though, with four saws all buzzing at the same time, I heard one stop, saw dad put his saw down and step back and rest. “I’m going to let you all have at it,” he said over the noise of the saws. "Good," I thought. My brothers and I are beyond capable, but it may have been the first time I ever saw him step back.
A story lives in the lore of that cabin in the woods. It comes from when I was a pre-teen, and I had a friend there with me. Dad started cutting trees for firewood. Our job was to drag branches, do our best to split the logs, and put the split pieces in the trailer, then unload and stack the wood in the rack. It was hard work, and we were tired. We had gone through three trees, and Dad stopped. My friend’s face showed relief. "Finally," he was saying, "enough." We had some water, maybe a sandwich, then Dad cranked his saw up again and said, “One more” and marched off towards another oak tree. My friend’s face fell and we all heard him say over of the noise of the saw, “Another tree??” That line lives on today when we’re cutting wood. Another tree? Yep. Another tree.
I don’t know of any other eighty-nine-year-olds getting knee replacements. It’s remarkable. He’s always been able to outwork me, and in a few weeks, he’ll be back to blaming his partners for losing at pickleball. He’ll be sharpening his chain saw, and he’ll be eyeing another tree.
I’m Cam Marston, just trying to Keep It Real.
