Page 5 of His Wood Her Fire
Yep.Life was going along predictably.I accomplished a lot this year work wise, and sales looked promising.
But all my hard-earned peace was threatened when I received notice from Jenny that she’d rented out my cabin to a couple she knew for the holiday season.
“What the fuck, Jenny?”I snapped.
“Oh, don’t be such a grump, Bo.The guy is my neighbor, and he wanted someplace special to propose.It’s true love!I can’t stand in the way of that, and neither should you!”
Of course, I was a sucker for a proposal, so I didn’t argue with her any further.Despite what people thought about me suddenly packing it up and moving from the city to the sticks, I wasn’t a people hater.
Well, I wasn’t a people hater.Not really.
It was just, I’d had enough of the glitz and glamor.I couldn’t stand mendacity in any shape or form.In my line of work, people could be very sneaky.
I was sick of it.Of being used by all the fakes.They were so damn pretentious and self-important, always presenting their best, most doctored side.
That was why I stopped doing portraits.When I took photos, I demanded realism.My work was authentic.It was raw, showing every crack and blemish.Every spot and speck of dirt.Every so-called imperfection.
That was my thing.None of those intensely superficial, plastic-looking, super fake filters for me.
It was only natural for my clientele to recede.So, I rarely shot people anymore.
Most surprising was how freeing I’d found it.Being a photographer was not something I’d planned, but it happened sometime after I dropped out of college and backpacked around the world when I was in my twenties and full of energy and zest.
Nowadays, I’d graduated to shooting life without people.But even my landscapes were raw.I refused to falsify nature, or rather, what I saw in nature.
Taking photos was immensely personal.My art was mine.I didn’t ask for suggestions on how I should go about my business.
That was how I’d gotten labeled difficult to work with.
I no longer did work on commission.I just shot what I wanted to shoot and if people bought it, great.
If not, well, suffice it to say, it no longer bothered me.I wasn’t some green kid looking for acceptance.
Not anymore.
Besides, I had plenty of money.
Huffing a breath, I grabbed my old Thermos and opened it.The smell of strong, freshly brewed Italian Roast greeted me, and I took a long pull of the piping hot black coffee.
Perfect.
The morning sun was low, casting long shadows across the forest floor, and the scent of fresh pine and damp earth filled the air, grounding me in the present moment.
I looked down at the log, now halved neatly in front of me, its inner wood a pale, raw contrast to the rough bark on the outside.
My fingers itched, and I wished I had brought my camera with me.
Next time.
With a grunt, I secured the top on my coffee, and shifted the two halves, adding them to the stack of freshly split wood beside me.
The temperature was dropping and my breath clouded in the cold air as I moved.
Each piece of wood was carefully arranged, a bit like a puzzle, the logs leaning against one another in a growing stack that would eventually season over the coming weeks, curing and drying in preparation for winter fires.
There was something almost meditative about the process—each swing of the axe, each log added to the pile, was another small victory.
It wasn’t just about the work itself.I never minded physical labor.Plus, it was a good fill in for other things.