Log Blog

I owe my Dad a log.

Going home to my parents' house is usually a vacation for me. The folks are quite low-key, and my biggest stress is wondering whether it's OK for me to be doing as much Nothing as I'm doing. There aren't any entertaining fights; we're not a "puttin' the 'fun' in 'dysfunctional' " crowd. We're one of Tolstoy's boring happy families.

However...
On Thanksgiving day, my Dad had fires going in two fireplaces. After dinner I was a little chilly and went to stand in front of one of them. It was down to orange embers, so I grabbed the biggest log from the pile and put it on. It caught fire quickly and was very nice. A few minutes later, Dad walks by the room, asking, "Why does it smell like the house is burning down?"
Proud of myself, I said, "I put another log on the fire!"

"Wait, you didn't put my favorite log on, did you?" He looked. "You did! I was saving that log for years! I was going to turn it into a candle holder."

"Uh..."

He walks out of the room and proclaims to no one and everyone, "She burned my favorite log! I can't believe she burned my log. Years I had it." My Dad gets upset and he starts sounding like a Jewish mother.

It might help if I explain that my Dad has a visually creative side. He can draw and take nice photographs and decorate the house. He really did have a plan for putting holes in the side of this log and sticking candles in it, making a Yule Log. He also has the melancholy temperament to go with that creativity, because this loss of his log hit him hard. It was the refrain of the evening.

[Aside: Dad knows I'm writing this, and he says it sounds stupid if I just say it was a log. He says I should refer to it as a "Prize Birch." Big difference, apparently. If you know your wood, perhaps you can appreciate this. Here's what I know about wood:
1. It's brown.
2. They make trees out of it.]

At least now I know what I'll be getting Dad for Christmas -- a replacement log. And I'm getting a head start. Yesterday, Mom and I were out walking our dog when Mom spotted a fallen birch tree. "Holly, look! You have to pull off some bark for your Dad." I thought that was funny, so I grabbed some. It came off like paper. Then Mom one-upped herself and said, "You know what you should do? You should get a regular log and duct tape the birch bark on!" Oh, she's an evil genius, my Mom. After I'm done with this post, I'm going to go do just that, and make the presentation this evening. Here's my prediction: He'll look at it, laugh a little, and look up at me and say, "You think you're pretty smart, don't you?" To which I'll reply, "There were two of us involved, and yes, we are."

Just so you know, Dad and I did patch things up on the day of the Incident. Toward the end of the night, I stopped being annoyed (after all, the Prize Birch was right there in the log-holder thingy), and said, "I'm sorry I burned your log."

He said, "I'm just bustin' your chops," and held open his arms. We hugged.

"But it was my favorite log."

Since then, we've begun discussing how to deal with this loss. Dad wanted to have a burial.

I suggested we just cremate it.