Marvin C. Hoffer

January 26, 1990

Lewistown, MT.

EVER STROKE A MISERY WHIP??

Winter on the Dakota Plains can turn a freshly washed pair of long johns into crystallized Bavarian china when hung o a cloths line. The old kitchen stove and living room coal heater had appetites for fuel that were hard to satisfy. Coal was the premium fuel for the central heater, as well as any large chunks of wood. The Home Comfort kitchen range, cast iron, big and heavy, gobbled about anything you dropped into its insatiable firebox. Therein lay the challenge. How to gather and prepare the mountain of wood for those long winters on a largely treeless Plain? Uninsulated homes and -80 F blizzards made wood for fuel a critical element in the survival on the Plains.

Grandparents had hand-planted green ash seedlings to "prove-up" their homestead claims. About five acres of hardwood trees, 12 inches in diameter or less, with some box elder and cottonwood scattered about. Took 60-80 hot summers and bitter cold winters to grow that size on a steppe not suited for trees. Here we found most of our winter firewood. Age, drought, and insects took their toll of those precious few trees. They stood there dry and hard as flint, awaiting an axe, saw, and buckets of salty sweat.

My Dad believed in sharp tools and painstakingly carved each tooth on a saw and every axe edge into surgical steel sharpness with a hand file. Slowly and carefully, each ancient tool was readied for the chore, and chore it was. Among the more famous tools was a two-man misery whip, about six feet of steel ground on one side with about 120 buckteeth. Upright wood handles allowed any man to test his staying power, for 10 hours of continuous s sweat. CanÕt recall which man, back a few generations, devised that saw, but it did a great job on wood, and man. The job was not to cut small pieces of firewood from large trees, but to pit a man against steel, and determine which survived, man or saw. Lay a green ash log across the sawhorse, eyeball an 18-inch piece, then lay the misery whip across it. With practice rhythm two experienced men would make sawdust and sweat a ll day. Slowly the flint-hard logs gave way to piles of firewood, neatly stacked by the younger set or sometimes the lady of the house. WomenÕ lib hadnÕt reached the Plains, and a mother, wife, lady of the house, pitched in knowing that Old Man Winter would come from Arctic Lair, woodpile prepared, or not. The grown men eventually tired and took time to satisfy their thirst form the water jug and wipe heavy, salty sweat from their brows and eyes.

That is when the "would-be men" about 15 years young or so, were "allowed" to show their mettle. With a nervous grin they grabbed the misery whip handles with soft h ands, an began pushing and pulling. Looked like two fellows trying to push at the wrong time and pull just as much out of rhythm. Lots of sw eat, shuffling around for footing, and darn little sawdust or wood for the pile. After a time of grunting and snorting, a hunk of firewood dropped from the log to everyoneÕs surprise.

Slowly they got a system going, and slopped fighting the saw, and themselves. After an hour, hands had blisters that pained all the way up to their eyeballs. Smiles had faded long ago, thirst had replaced spit, salty sweat poured down foreheads into their eyes that made them blink and sting. Work it was, and that old misery whip just kept bucking at every stroke. Two h ours, or was it two days, after their first hesitant strokes, the grown men slowly waled over to appraise the accomplishments, and to give advice. "DonÕt push on the saw, pull like your hear was int it." After another pull on the warm water jug, the men spoke words that were a god send. "Here, weÕll finish it up." DonÕt know hey they never said, ÔWeÕll finish it down"> We stopped that misery whip in mid-stroke, and almost collapsed as the rhythm left our bodies. Salty sweat had blinded me half an hour ago. I was sure I would have to have help to find my fork at the supper t able tonight.

We hobbled over to the water jug, melted down onto the soft grass under a shady tree, and bit our lips till they bled as hands full of blisters sent hurt down into the roots of our soul. Blisters big enough to blot out a two-bit piece and make a grown many cry. Buckets of fresh s sweat rubbed into raw blisters added pain to hurt. Took years before I could muster a full day on the misery whip without pain. By then my Dad was "idling" on the other end of that old whip, willing, but not as able. I had to lay on the wood in earnest knowing that we would run out of firewood halfway through the winter if we didnÕt work hard at it. Old fence posts, some railroad ties, and old building lumber added to our woodpile. It all was used, as well as a load of corn bobs for starting those early morning fires in the kitchen stove. Cow chips and bricks of dried manure were no longer used as they were by our grandparents, a generation before. The German homesteaderÕs "micsth Buchse" (manure box) had given way to the wood box. A full wood box gave a person courage and warmth to over come the bitter winters.

I still have a misery whip which I handle now and then just to remember, and remain humble. If you havenÕt stoked a misery whip, try it. It will drive you to your knees the first time around, and give you a heavy ration of pure, undiluted misery to boot at no extra charge. DonÕt fight it, learn to work with it. Eventually you will respect that misery whip, and yourself for having mastered it.

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