Chain Saw

The Cuts That Bind

By Glenn Theberge

Photos by Linda Theberge

The woodstove, there it is in the corner. Black, four-legged log-burner. I never lived in a house with one of these things before. Back when I was in high school, the Smiths had one. Their winter home was always so warm. The aroma of burning pine and the slight haze of smoke in their home made it seem so laid-back. Their clothes even had that woody scent they carried with them wherever they went. But that was fifty-four years ago, in 1965.

So here I am in our newly bought, baby-poop-brown home, a 1976 FHA breadbox cookie-cutter house in Wendell with torn-up vinyl floors, a dark wood-paneled accent wall, and low boy toilets. I tell Linda, “Well, if we have a wood-burning stove, I better get some wood. I better get a chain saw.”

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