As I reminisce about my childhood, one particular memory stands out vividly—the cherished tradition of embarking on early morning woodcutting expeditions with my family. It was a ritual that unfolded on countless summer Saturdays, when the world was still asleep, and the promise of adventure hung in the air. Those trips to the mountains, armed with enthusiasm and a pickup truck, forged bonds and created memories that would last a lifetime.

In the quiet hours before sunrise, my younger sister, brother, and I would eagerly, sometimes not so eagerly, gather with our parents, ready to embark on our woodland escapades. The anticipation was infectious as we piled into the pickup truck, knowing that a day of hard work and joyful togetherness awaited us. Our destination? The majestic mountains that would yield the firewood we needed to keep our home warm throughout the winter.

Our living room boasted a beautiful travertine fireplace, a labor of love crafted by my dad and uncle. It became the heart of our home, radiating warmth and love. Adjacent to the fireplace, a wooden box stored firewood to save us from frequent trips to the woodpile during the winter months. But before the fireplace could bring comfort, we had to gather the wood ourselves.

In the 1970s, my dad and uncle were pioneers in our area, devising a clever solution to maximize the amount of wood we could bring back in a single trip. They built wood rails in the back of the pickup truck, allowing us to stack foot-long cut tree logs higher than the truck bed’s confines. This innovation meant more wood in one journey, reducing the number trips to the mountains.

With permits in hand, our family rendezvoused with my dad’s brother and sister-in-law in the mountains. The task was clear: Dad and his brother would fell the trees, while Mom and my aunt took charge of stacking the wood in the back of the pickup trucks. As children, our duty was to carry the cut logs from the ground to the trucks as best we could. We relished the opportunity to contribute and be part of the team. Never mind the complaining that usually took place when first arising from our beds.

As we immersed ourselves in nature, surrounded by tall grass and winding dirt roads, the scent of pine enveloped us. The woods became our playground, a place where work and play intertwined. We would help each other haul logs, and our mother and aunt would lend a hand, not only with the heavy lifting but also with stacking the wood.

With the pickups loaded and ready to make the journey back home, a well-deserved lunch break beckoned. Cold wiener sandwiches, accompanied by chips, fruit or potato salad, and fizzy drinks, awaited us. This simple meal held a special place in our hearts, signifying the culmination of our efforts and serving as a treat we eagerly anticipated after a morning of labor in the woods.

The memories of those early morning woodcutting adventures remain etched in my mind, a testament to the power of family traditions. The hard work we put in, the laughter shared, and the bond we formed amidst nature’s embrace shaped us in ways that transcend time. As I recall those days, I am reminded of the value of unity, resourcefulness, and the joy found in even the simplest moments. Those Saturdays in the woods exemplified the magic of childhood and instilled in us the importance of family and working together to achieve a common goal.