“Forty bucks for the afternoon,” Dale remarked, casually dropping his palm onto the crimson wood splitter my late husband had purchased half a dozen years prior. Jim had only been gone for half a year, and now his very own brother was demanding payment to use our property.
I go by Becky Thorson. Following Jim’s sudden passing, I picked up extra shifts delivering propane to provide for our sixteen-year-old boy, Cole. We desperately needed firewood to get through the freezing months, so I choked back my rage, handed Dale the cash, and requested a receipt. Cole was boiling with anger, but I reminded him that having heat mattered more than picking a fight.
While hacking away at the oak logs, we stumbled upon Jim’s personal maintenance notes tucked inside the machine. Soon after, I uncovered his old ledger detailing three local widows to whom he had routinely supplied free firewood every winter. Eager to keep his legacy of kindness alive, Cole and I hauled a full cord to each of those women.
On Monday, I pinned a flyer up at the local feed store offering free firewood to anyone in need. Right next to it, I tacked up Dale’s receipt, which explicitly categorized my own late husband’s equipment as a rental. I didn’t write a single accusing word, but the message was crystal clear to anyone who walked by. By Wednesday, the entire town was buzzing with the news.
By Saturday, Mrs. Hartmann, a retired schoolteacher from down the road, walked with me straight into Dale’s workshop. She gently reminded him how Jim used to lend a hand to folks without ever asking for a cent in return. Cornered, Dale finally confessed that Jim had owed him $600 for an old truck repair. Not having the heart to hit a grieving widow up for the money, he had instead seized the splitter and dreamed up a rental charge.
Though I was still stung, the confession cleared the air. Jim certainly would have meant to square things with his brother. I pulled $600 from the savings Jim had accumulated selling firewood and paid off the old debt in full. Dale handed back my forty dollars, muttered an apology, and pitched in to hook the splitter back onto my truck.
The following weekend, Dale showed up at our place hauling his chainsaw. Side by side, he, Cole, and I chopped enough oak to last through our own winter and keep several neighbors warm, too. Bit by bit, the lingering hostility melted away, pushed aside by honest labor and cherished memories of Jim.
A year down the line, I updated Jim’s old service list hanging on the shed wall. Right underneath the names of the widows, I added a single line: “Dale brings the saw.” Outside, the engine roared to life, the oak split cleanly down the middle, and for the initial time since Jim passed, our family’s daily labor felt complete once more.