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 I almost bought a hatchet
last winter. This may seem unremarkable to you, but for me, standing in
Wal-Mart, looking at what could have the been the largest display of hatchets
in the Western world marked a personal crossroads.
It started when I moved here from New York City in '93. I moved because of
family considerations, not because I wanted to leave the East. In fact, I had
no intention of ever giving up being a New Yorker. I was just going to be one
somewhere else. So I did not expect anything about me, except my scenery, to
change.
When I first saw my new apartment, a charming adobe with a kiva fireplace. I
envisioned cozy, romantic evenings at home drinking cups of hot chocolate,
maybe even roasting marshmallows, while outside I let it snow, let it snow, let
it snow. I did not think about the utility bills for a place where the heat and
the oven are electric. In New York, heat is included in the rent; a fireplace
is a rare luxury. In Taos, the nights get so cold no one can afford to stay
warm without a fireplace or woodstove.
My first electric bill was $138 during a particularly warm month. Susan, the
building manager, told me it was the highest bill in the complex. Until then, I
had not used the fireplace often. I was out most nights and I didn't really
like hot chocolate or marshmallows.
Eight days later, I got the flu. For more than three weeks, I rarely left my
bed. My life consisted of sleeping, reading, watching television and (because I
had nightmares of a four-digit electric bill) making fires. By the time I
recovered, I had begun to resent my fireplace the same way I once resented the
New York subways.
For one thing, fires made my home filthy. Soot and ash accumulated on my hands,
over the hearth and everything nearby more rapidly and more pervasively than
any New York grime. The woodchips littered the floor, got caught in the rug and
turned into splinters. Then, if the wind blew in the wrong direction or a log
rolled too close to the screen, the smoke forced me to open doors and windows
in the middle of a January night when the temperature was 12 degrees. As my
eyes burned and my throat constricted, I wondered: With all the hoopla over
second-hand cigarette smoke, how healthy could it be to burn four logs (each
hundreds of times larger than one cigarette) for six hours in your living room?
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Finally, fires were a nuisance. They took time to build, more time to heat the
room, and I had to drop whatever I was doing every half-hour or so to stoke or
to add another log. I couldn't even leave home with the fire going, so it was
tough luck if I needed something from the supermarket that evening. Once the
fire was extinguished, I had to clean out the hearth before making the next
one. But if I put the ashes in the garbage, they could smolder and set the
house on fire just when I thought it was safe to go back to the supermarket.
After I got over the flu, I ran into Susan on my way to the garbage dumpster.
"How's it going?" she asked. "Have you been making lots of fires?" I told her
that as far as I was concerned, central heating was one of the most underrated
inventions of the modern era.
"You might want to get yourself a little hatchet," she said. If you cut your
wood up into smaller logs, you might find it easier."
"You must be joking," I said. What would I, someone who could barely tell the
difference between a tree and a bush, do with a hatchet?
Not long after that, I was in Wal-Mart, searching for a barrette. I could not
find one designed for anyone over 12. I was becoming nostalgic for the discount
stores all over New York that stock a great selection of hair accessories.
Finally, I gave up. On my way out, I came across the hatchet display. There
were big hatchets, small hatchets, hatchets with wooden handles, hatchets with
covered handles and more. I stood there trying to console myself with the
thought that maybe Taos doesn't have great barrettes, but where in New York
could you find a selection of hatchets like this? This could be a sign from God
that I should buy one, I thought. I decided on a medium-size one that would
give me a moderate workout.
As I pulled it off the shelf, I caught a glimpse of myself in a nearby mirror.
I looked ridiculous, like some fresh-off-the-boat immigrant trying to hard to
look native. I put the hatchet back on the shelf. Maybe I wasn't quite the New
Yorker I used to be, but I wasn't going to turn into Paul Bunyan just like
that. After all, spring was not far off. Wouldn't God prefer that I spend a few
hundred dollars to save myself from splinters, second-hand smoke and all that
extra vacuuming?
I left Wal-Mart wondering what someone like me was going to do with her hair in
a place like this.
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