Such drudgery, waking up at three in the morning, cold, half asleep, dark, stumbling down into the basement, cursing under your breath, trees, coal, dinosaurs, bark all over the floor, tubs of ashes, the clang bang of metal and the grinding and scraping, trying to stir the coals, arrange the logs, all for a patch of orange flame to keep the blood flowing, the eyeballs from freezing solid.
Everyone sleeping cozily and you are bent over in the basement peering into the bowels of an angry warrior, poking and prodding his intestines, agitating him, trying to keep the houseplants from dying and the baby from frostbite. The cat peering through the basement window wondering what all the fuss is about and why the light is on, while you are thinking, "Maybe next year we will move to Florida". But knowing you never will, because this kind of life has been in your blood for generations and to move away to a more temporate climate would be to tread on your dead ancestors.
You can't go because every misery you feel now, the cold, the tiredness, the strain on your back as you bend stirring the coals, are the voices of your ancestors. They are all around you, remembering for you and your children. You can feel them in the strain of lifting the coal, you can hear them in the murmuring of your thoughts and you can see them in the activity of your hands and arms: as your elbow bends, so bends the elbow of your grandfathers and grandmothers, your great grandfathers and greatgrandmothers and all the more ancient ones from both sides of your family and their families. Their blood is your blood. The room is crowded with everyone helping you.....and when you finally mount the stairs back into the world of the living you are satisfied and whole again. Life is good as you crawl into bed, pull the covers up high and snuggle next to your wife into the warmth she has kept for you while you were gone communing with the ancient earth and your prehistoric family.
