Stanley's Heart

[Motorboat Cruiser]

“Stanley’s Heart”


The frigid South Dakota wind sliced through Stanley Gardener’s weathered cheeks with little mercy as he closed the rickety wooden shed door and headed towards the house, the frozen earth crunching under his boots. Under his flannel-covered left arm was a large piece of wood that he had been saving for this special occasion.

The sun reflected haphazardly off of the icy ground, momentarily blinding him along his path. The thermometer read in the low thirties at noon, which was downright tropical, compared to how it would feel when the sun stepped aside for the moon and the wind chill kicked up with a vengeance. No matter. By then, he would be sleeping soundly next to his wife of 47 years, warm as a bug in a rug with not a care in the world.

In the meantime, he had one important task left for today, a handmade gift to create. From this gnarled ugly wood, he would carve a special wooden heart, then present it to his wife after dinner as a token of his continued love and devotion to her. Perhaps it wasn’t much of a gift and certainly she deserved better. A fine silk dress, perhaps, or maybe a fox coat to keep her warm. Unfortunately, his meager funds dictated otherwise. And besides, he knew she would understand.

She always understood.

And so, with the sharpest knife at his disposal, gripped firmly within his chapped hands, he sat on the back porch and dug deeply into the wood, determined to remove each and every part from it that wasn’t a heart. These were the words of advise his father had given him many years ago when he was first learning to work with wood. “Remove all the parts that don’t belong until all that is left is what is supposed to be”, his father had said. Stanley had passed the same words of wisdom down to his own children. Someday, he hoped that they would be sitting on this very porch passing them down to their own kids.

Occasionally, Stanley would stop to take a hearty swig of whisky, to steady himself and help warm his soul. Truth be told, it would have been far more comfortable to do this work in front of the wood burning stove but then he would miss the favorite part of his day, not to mention the mess he would make in the living room. Lydia certainly wouldn’t approve of having her favorite area of the house turned into a woodworking shop, even for a gift as special as this.

No, as he did each and every day, he would watch the sun as it began its slow descent under the horizon, blanketing his beloved farm, the one that had fed his family for the better part of 70 years, into darkness. It was like watching God paint a masterpiece in front of your eyes. Missing the sunset meant you didn’t care; that you took such beauty for granted. Stanley took nothing for granted.

As he whittled away, he couldn’t help but ponder why someone as amazing as Lydia had chosen someone like him to spend her life with. Unlike her, he could barely make his way through the simplest of books and didn’t have an ounce of good looks to make up for it. All he had going for him was the strength (and looks, as it were) of a grizzly bear, coupled with a profound devotion to his family. Somehow, that was enough for her. Thank God that was enough for her.

As the carving took shape, and the whiskey bottle grew empty, he held up his creation, brushing off the excess chips of wood. The edges could have been smoother and it wasn’t perfect, by any means, but she would still love it because it came from his very own hands.

He could relate. The peaches that he had eaten this morning were especially sweet, juicy and flavorful, simply because they had been canned by Lydia’s loving hands. In fact, when he was done with her present, he decided that he would finish the jar he had opened earlier and savor every bite as if it were his last.

As the trees along the desolate farmland danced back and forth in a mock waltz, and the last remnants of the brief winter light gave way to the long and bitter cold of evening, Stanley finished up by carving a short and simple message into the wooden heart.

“My heart is yours”, it said.

Stanley smiled and finished off the last swig of whiskey, his legs feeling a bit shaky from the effects. Overall however, he felt better than he had in years, maybe even a few years younger. Entering through the back door of the farmhouse, he placed the heart on the kitchen table, took his time finishing up the jar of peaches, and then headed upstairs to the bedroom. Opening the closet, he grabbed two of the softest quilts he could find, ones made by the same loving hands that had canned the peaches. They would be perfect to share with Lydia tonight. He wandered back through the kitchen, quilts under his arm, grabbed his last bottle of whisky and the gift he had made, and headed back out the way he came.

He carefully spread the blankets out on the frozen ground and in the solitude of this winter’s eve, laid down upon them, cradling the wooden heart close to his own. He drank as much whiskey as he could muster and unbuttoned his flannel shirt.

“It really isn’t that cold tonight”, he decided, knowing that, if he were lucky, a feeling of profound warmth would soon spread throughout his blue-tinted skin, aged from three years of misery that seemed like eternity.

Gently kissing the carved wooden heart, he said aloud “Happy Valentine’s Day, my dearest Lydia. We’ll be together soon”. Smiling, he reclined next to the snow-covered tombstone and gently drifted off silently into the frozen Dakota night.