Beginnings

“The Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC) was a voluntary government work relief program that ran from 1933 to 1942 in the United States for unemployed, unmarried men ages 18–25 and eventually expanded to ages 17–28. It was a major part of President Franklin D. Roosevelt’s New Deal.” [Wikipedia] In St. Lawrence County at that time many families had gone broke. The County took possession of their lands, and the CCC planted many of those lands with trees.

While at CETA (Comprehensive Employment and Training Act), Bob had created a program that hired people to thin trees on the County’s land. Much of it was mature gray birch. It was cut to 4′ lengths, and then sold at a low price that helped offset the cost of the program.

Those of you who know firewood know that gray birch is a poor choice for home heating. That said, it works quite well in a fireplace because the usual purpose of a fireplace is to create a cozy, somewhat warm situation to enjoy on a chilly evening. (Wine helps). Bill Morrissey wrote a song about that., and you can read the lyrics at the end of this post

A scheme was hatched. We would buy some of that birch and cut it to 16″ wood that we could take to Rochester (where my parents lived at the time) and sell it to people in the suburbs for their fireplaces. We began looking for a truck and eventually found a yellow Ford F-600. It had an 8′ x 12′ flat bed. We built a hardwood rack for it, and when finished, it could carry 8 face-cords to a load.

We ran an ad for birch firewood in one of the Rochester area newspapers, and my parents took calls and let us know when they had 8 customers for 1 cord each. Bob then drove the loaded truck the 200 miles or so to the city and delivered the goods.

It soon became pretty clear that this was a hard way to make a living, and as Christmas approached there were fewer and fewer answers to our ad.

We came up with another idea: we would create “Birch Bundles” that were tied together with 3/8 sisal rope. The rope also passed through each end of a piece of thin split birch, creating a ‘handle’ for carrying. They were decorated with a red cloth bow. We created maybe 20 or so of these, loaded the truck with wood for the orders we had, and drove both products to Rochester.

It was the day after Christmas. We left the kids with my parents and headed to the suburbs. Maybe it was the sight of our truck stopped in front of their houses, or maybe we had been wrong: only one person wanted to buy a birch bundle to decorate his hearth, despite my big smile and cheery pitch. I suspect that he saw through that and felt sorry for me. Eventually I got back in the truck, and I cried. The next day we made the drive home with $29. in our pockets. (To be continued).

Birches (Bill Morrissey)

They sat at each end of the couch, watched as the fire burned down,
So quiet on this winter’s night, not a house light on for miles around.
Then he said, “I think I’ll fill the stove. It’s getting time for bed.”
She looked up, “I think I’ll have some wine.
How ’bout you?”
She asked and he declined.

“Warren,” she said, “maybe just for tonight,
Let’s fill the stove with birches and watch as the fire burns bright.
How long has it been? I know it’s quite a while.
Pour yourself half a glass. Stay with me a little while.”

And Warren, he shook his head, as if she’d made some kind of joke.
“Birches on a winter night? No, we’ll fill the stove with oak.
Oak will burn as long and hot as a July afternoon,
And birch will burn itself out by the rising of the moon.

“And you hate a cold house, same as me. Am I right or not?”
“All right, all right, that’s true,” she said. “It was just a thought,
‘Cause,” she said, “Warren, you do look tired. Maybe you should go up to bed.
I’ll look after the fire tonight.” “Oak,” he told her. “Oak,” she said.

She listened to his footsteps as he climbed up the stairs,
And she pulled a sweater on her, set her wineglass on a chair.
She walked down cellar to the wood box — it was as cold as an ice chest —
And climbed back up with four logs, each as white as a wedding dress.

And she filled the stove and poured the wine
and then she sat down on the floor.
She curled her legs beneath her as the fire sprang to life once more.
And it filled the room with a hungry light and it cracked as it drew air,
And the shadows danced a jittery waltz like no one else was there.

And she stood up in the heat. She twirled around the room.
And the shadows they saw nothing but a young girl on her honeymoon.
And she knew the time it would be short; the fire would start to fade.
She thought of heat. She thought of time. She called it an even trade.