Weapon: Chainsaw
"Why do you go away? So that you can come back. So that you can see the place you came from the new eyes and extra colors. And the people there see you differently, too. Coming back to where you started is not the same as never leaving."—Terry Pratchett.
Most people spent their whole lives searching for the purpose of their life without really understanding what they wanted.
I don't know when I started realizing things. Maybe it was back when I was in high school, when I first learned from my friends how to smoke cigarettes, and I realized that it wasn't really the fire that will get us killed, it's the smoke. We were just looking at the wrong angle in life. We were reasoning out for things we do not really understand.
So when I told my mom during my second year in college that I would stop studying and would settle in our old house with my grandfather two hundred miles away from the city, she was furious.
"What will be your future in the woods, Aaron? There's nothing to be done there. You need to finish your study. No, you have to! Stop wasting your life over nothing, Aaron!" she had said.
What will be my future? It might be different from what she had imagined. But, no, I'm not wasting my life.
But I could totally understand her frustration.
It was every parent's dream to see and hear their child's own version of success.
I felt guilty that I have to take that dream away from her. It's like stealing a piece in her almost done puzzle.
But when she woke up the next day, I was gone. No, I didn't run away from home. I just simply disregarded what she has to say, and told my plans to my dad. How I don't want college to define who I wanted to be and who I could be.
He was so cool about it. He had said, go on.
I was amazed. He had said it doesn't make me less human and it doesn't make me less of his son. He even hoped I would find what I was looking for in life through this. That somehow I would find peace and happiness.
He took a day off at work even though he had a lot of works to do and drove all the way to grandfather's house—his father. He dropped by to say hello to the other people in the small village, stayed for a moment to have some tea with grandfather, and then he left.
When it was just me and grandfather in the kitchen, he looked at me from the other side of the table. He smiled and asked how my life was. I said it was good. And it really felt good that time.
And then he had told me what dad told him was the reason why I wanted to be here. He laughed.
"You know the saying was true. When you are doing something you love, you would never have to work for the rest of your life. That's how I feel now. I hope you will someday. Welcome home, buddy!"
And just like that my grandfather's home felt a home for me.
The house was warm. It smelled sawdust and woods from all his carvings. It smelled nostalgia. Like walking and looking around takes you to a memory lane of the past. As if I had existed before.
And all his masterpieces, from the small wood statues to big furnitures, makes you feel like you are wandering inside a museum.
I didn't know why, but grandfather used chainsaw in carving that's why the floors were always covered in sawdust. He owned more than ten chainsaws. It served different purposes to him. There are saws he used during winter, saws he used during summer, and saws he used for carving big statues.
I had been meaning to ask him if there is a particular reason why he used chainsaw, but I would find myself retreating. Maybe that is something important to the artist. Maybe the tools he used are also the key which gives the masterpiece the sentimental value.
So I spent my first week listening to the sound of engines and the roughness of the wood as he worked.
His artworks must be very expensive, I had thought. When I watched him work and saw all the sweat he had finishing one in a day, I realized it took a lot of effort and hard work. But looking with the way my grandfather live, it looked like he didn't get paid that much.
I had asked him about it one day. "Some pay well, some just right," he had said.
I had asked him what he meant by that.
He had said he doesn't really put an exact amount for his masterpiece. He just let the customers give how much they think he deserve to get paid.
He was so cool. Just like father.
And truly, when a customer had visited to ask for a customized rocking chair, my grandfather asked him how much he deserves to get paid. The man gave him thirty dollars which I don't think was really enough, but I smiled.
Grandfather was smiling, and then he tapped me on my shoulder.
"Everything isn't just about money, buddy. That man spent a lot just travelling here for a gift to his mom. It took a lot of effort. It means something to both of them. Maybe everything?" he had said.
And that's when I realized, I have to do this. I don't just want to live a simple life and do farming. I want to learn the art of chainsaw carving.
So every morning I would wake up early to help him. It was his routine. He would wake up early as six and start cleaning his chainsaws. At first, the smell of the petrol made me dizzy. He used traditional engines which is why he always reeked with gas and grease until I get used to it that it didn't even bothered me even when we're eating together.
At noon, we would start collecting woods in the forest. After lunch, he would start working. Sometimes, when he's not in the mood, he would only make small statues of himself, or me, or just random things. Other times, he would make furnitures and would teach me how to do it.
It was only after five years that I had finally mastered the art of chainsaw carving. It wasn't easy. It took a lot of patient and self-control not to destroy the wood. When my first masterpiece—a lion—became successful, I made a small statue of myself, mom, dad, my sister, and grandfather.
I had intended to give it to them someday when I visit them, or if ever they would find some time to visit me.
But another five years have passed without news from them, without seeing them.
Time came by so fast. I was 32 then. Grandfather and I were sitting on the front porch. There was a slight shower early in December.
He was holding his two-stroke engine chainsaw, wiping it with a clean cloth and I was reading the Sunday newspaper.
"Are you going home on holiday?" Grandfather asked.
It was a question he never failed to ask every year when December comes.
"I was planning to, but..." I stopped.
"But you still don't have the courage to face Alice, am I right?"
I nodded. He knew exactly what I feel.
"I feel it. I know mom still thinks I'm a big disappointment. I don't think she would ever want to see my face again."
Grandfather held my hand. "Ten years have already passed, buddy. I'm sure Alice has forgotten it already. She's just waiting for you to come home and greet her."
"You think?"
He nodded. "I'm sure your family and friends miss you, too, Aaron. When I was studying college, I was just like you. Torn between doing what I want and what I think I am called to do. I decided to finish college even though it felt a waste.
"I am proud of you, buddy. You had the courage to stop and forget what others think is a waste. I'm sure your mother would be proud of you, too. You're a great artist now and you have finally done what you wanted. You're in your thirties now, you have to view life in another angle again and make another dream come true."
I smiled.
Maybe it's time for me to go back from where I started and see life in another angle so I can move forward.
