Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: SUNDAY, October 31, 1993 TAG: 9310290005
SECTION: CURRENT PAGE: NRV-2 EDITION: NEW RIVER VALLEY
SOURCE: STEVE KARK
DATELINE: LENGTH: Medium
The grasshopper squanders his summer away. He spends his days in wasteful indulgence: lazing about the hollow, eating, sleeping, and listening to old Dolly Parton records.
Meanwhile, the ant wears a path between his hill and the garden. He cans beans and tomatoes. He rolls insulation in the attic and puts up the storm windows. He stocks the woodpile, even on days he'd rather do something else.
Needless to say, when winter does arrive the grasshopper finds that while Dolly's singing warms the heart, it can't heat a two-story colonial. Because he didn't cut enough firewood, the grasshopper runs the electric heater all winter. It plays hell with his bill.
The showoff ant, as we know all too well, hasn't a thing to worry about. Warm as toast, he sits by his wood stove and reads the latest Tom Clancy thriller. His wife bakes banana bread. They do the dishes together.
From where I stand, the moral of the fable is clear: neglecting the woodpile is asking for trouble. At least that's the way it's supposed to work. But I've always thought the ant a bit obsessive. He needs to loosen up. He needs to cut himself a little slack or it's an early grave for him. The woodpile can wait.
With that said, I don't mind telling you that I haven't been drawn to this woodpile out of any sense of obligation or guilt. I do, however, understand the ant's point of view. Stacked wood is a little like money in the bank; it increases in value the longer it sits. Seasoned wood burns better than green.
There's an old saying, popular with folks who cut their own firewood. It heats you twice, they say - once when you cut and stack it, and once more when you burn it.
I'm tempted by this frame of mind. Indeed, there is a warming sense of security in standing here and admiring the woodpile, like a miser contemplating his money. I want to lift each chunk of split wood, to feel its weight, to calculate its value.
But I catch myself in the nick of time. Like the grasshopper, I know my priorities. There are days for oiling up the chain saw, but this isn't one of them.
I've been lured outside not so much by this woodpile as by the colors in the trees around it.
This is one of those perfect fall days, when the colors in the leaves stand out against the bluest of skies. It is a day for sitting on the back deck and watching the birds at the new feeder, a day for watching the way the leaves shimmer in the sunlight.
There is a time for cutting trees, and there is a time for admiring them as they are. The consequences of our decisions are rarely as clear-cut as those suggested in the fable of the grasshopper and the ant.
There is a time for diligence, and there is a time for indulgence. We should allow for both.
This, then, is a time for listening to Dolly Parton.
Steve Kark is an instructor at Virginia Tech and a correspondent for the Roanoke Times & World-News. He writes from his home in scenic Rye Hollow, in a remote part of Giles County south of Pearisburg.
by CNB