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THE STUMP
(Based on a true story)
It taunted me in the night,
sleep intermittent, the specter of this daunting thing. Its fixed,
territorial and domineering presence, exactly where by tumid choice the
snowball perennial must be planted.
Aesthetic alignment with its
botanical brethren, barred by this remnant, solidly bedded to this rock
laden ground by aged tap roots, now the hardened ruins of a once
sheltering elm.
This stump, in my skittish sleep
personifies all the repressed fears, threats and intimidation of scary
childhood. Now, an opportunity for redemption that cannot be ignored----no
middle ground at this defining moment in life's twilight. A challenge to
manhood an imperative confrontation with a waiting foe where heart, muscle
and sinew would surely strain under the intense sun of infant summer. It
must be done with woodmans' tools or not done at all. My thoughts raced to
axes, hardly used, along the stacked cords, one longer and heavier than
the other---but, crimped and dull. My steel file! The joy of formulating a
strategy---first find that steel file. Sharpen both axes. The shovel. Need
to dig first, expose the tap roots. Self doubt-would this body cooperate
with familiar stiff back, deranged knees, arms unaccustomed to heavy
swinging, the kind that fells trees?
Marching to this nemesis at the
bottom of the hill, above Cape Neddick harbor, axes and shovel over
shoulder, gastric fluttering, that plagues gladiators and warriors
entering the fray, is worsened by the sight of innocent neighbors
relaxedly congregated at their stoop haplessly facing my battlefield, as
if spectators waiting to witness. Retreat impossible, failure unthinkable,
the first blows, cautious and restrained, with studious pauses as if
experimenting, embarrassment to be avoided at any cost. Voila--- no pam,
heart in cadence, confidence slowly rising, the swings harder with hips
twisting, the self image of a Ruth, sweet, dear flying chips feed the ego.
Must stop to breathe, walk nonchalantly to shade tree, wipe sweaty eyes.
On knees, bare fingers dig out black, moist, cool root soil---- a
communion of flesh and earth soothes the soul. Resume chopping, feeling
spirited, now with the blunt backside of the heaviest ax, frill force on
this gnarled firmly rooted lign urn, but no movement, no budge, no
yield---- despair beckons. A humorous chide from across the way, "And you
thought it was dead?". Rest, shade, water, think, repledge the
spirit----attack again, remove more dirt, expose the tap roots, the
bulwarks of its strength----chop here---hard, unresisting, keep chopping,
never surrender---roots sever, first one, later another, strength
draining, the last root finally---on knees push mightily, the beast
moves----blunt ax head, again and again---the beast is dying---on knees,
push hard. The distinct sound of splitting and splintering roots quickens
the blood, spews energy----victory is mine! Tired legs apart and bending,
a moment's kinship with Perseus, Medusa's head is lifted from its earth
matrix, the vanquished displayed high and proud Life has new meaning.
Paul Antinori, May 30, 1999 at Cape Neddick.
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