Golden Leaves-Firewood Day

The cottonwood tree carries more than wood, shade, and seasonal color within my memory. It holds the story of my family, my childhood, and the quiet spaces where love existed beside addiction. As a child, I knew Red Bridge as a place where my sister's and I helped our father gather firewood so our home would remain warm through the winter. As I grew older, I began to understand this place through a deeper lens. The cottonwoods became witnesses to our poverty, our father’s alcoholism, our moments of safety, and the substance use struggles that later entered the lives of my siblings. Their roots seem to hold what our family often struggled to speak aloud. Returning to Red Bridge as an adult brings me back to those memories while giving me another way to understand them. The cottonwood represents endurance, kinship, grief, and healing. Through its changing leaves and deep roots, I see how memory remains connected to land and how the places of our childhood continue carrying stories long after we leave them.

Golden Leaves-Firewood Day

At the age of 10, my sister and I had weekly chores, helping our father cut firewood. We were raised with a wood-burning stove, which provided warmth for our home during the winter. This method allowed my parents to save money rather than installing a gas line. They preferred using wood from cottonwood trees, claiming it burned particularly hot. 

Our days began with my father gathering and cleaning his old chainsaws, both secondhand and assembled from various parts he had scavenged from the backyard of one of his friends in town. This became our routine, as my sister and I took on this responsibility while our little brother was just a year old. I looked forward to our time with my father; it was the only occasion he would engage with us and give us guidance without the influence of alcohol. 

My father drove an old red truck with a wooden rack in the back to hold the freshly chopped wood. He often spoke about his favorite spot for gathering firewood, called “Red Bridge,” where a grove of tall cottonwood trees flourished. In the fall, the leaves shimmered under the sunlight, glowing with hues of gold. The distant hum of a chainsaw drifted through the air. My sisters and I escaped into our world for a fleeting moment, imagining a life beneath the canopy of golden cottonwoods, a life untouched by chaos and dysfunction. In our minds, we lived in a grand mansion, free from the need to chop wood for warmth. However, the spell broke when our father called us to start loading the cut logs into the truck. With a sigh, we set aside our fantasies and returned to reality. 

Growing up with an alcoholic father deeply affected our self-esteem and sense of identity. We wrestled with feelings of guilt and shame about our poverty, which left us vulnerable to developing substance use issues as we got older. My older sister encountered these challenges first, and later, in his teenage years, my younger brother began drinking at just 14. My sister also struggled with substance use until she found sobriety seven years ago. 

Not long ago, I drove home from work on the back roads, crossing the Red Bridge and the Duchesne River. As I did, I noticed the cottonwood trees adorned with vibrant golden leaves, indicating that autumn had fully arrived. This beautiful scene reminded me of my father and the cherished moments we shared. It also prompted thoughts of my brother, who, at 48, continues to struggle with addiction, now battling substance and alcohol use disorder. I find myself worrying about whether he has enough firewood to keep our parents’ old home warm. 

I recall how this tree comforted us during the winter, its intense fall colors fading from greens to radiant gold. In the wild, cottonwood trees are known to colonize areas susceptible to flooding and soil erosion. Though this land may appear ordinary, the seeds that blossom into these trees carry an extraordinary story of healing and resilience. They embody a history woven with the struggles of addiction and substance use. In this space, we serve as the unseen roots that nurture and uphold this powerful narrative, reminding us of the strength that can emerge from even the deepest challenges.

Conclusion

When I think about the cottonwoods at Red Bridge today, I see more than the trees my father cut to keep our house warm. I see them as part of my family story. They stood beside us during moments of hardship, laughter, imagination, poverty, addiction, and love. They remind me of the rare moments when my father was sober enough to teach us, speak with us, and simply be present. Even within the instability of alcoholism, those memories remain meaningful because they reveal the father I wanted to know and the connection I needed as a child.

The cottonwood also helps me understand addiction through a deeper and more compassionate lens. My family’s experiences grew from layers of grief, shame, poverty, family wounds, disconnection, and experiences we often lacked the words to name. Like cottonwood roots buried beneath the soil, many of the forces shaping our lives remained unseen. Those hidden roots still influenced how we grew, how we survived, and how we searched for relief from pain.

For me, returning to Red Bridge becomes an act of remembering and reclaiming. The golden leaves remind me that places marked by pain still carry beauty, teaching, memory, and belonging. Cottonwoods survive along riverbanks shaped by flooding, erosion, and changing soil. Their endurance speaks to me because my family has also lived through seasons of disruption, addiction, grief, and loss. Some found sobriety. Others continued to struggle. Through all of it, our story remains rooted in something deeper than addiction.

The cottonwood teaches me that healing includes remembering where we came from and learning how to return with new eyes. Healing asks us to listen to what the land remembers and recognize the roots still holding us. Red Bridge remains a place where my childhood, my family, my grief, and my understanding of addiction come together. When I see those cottonwoods glowing gold in the autumn light, I remember who we were, what we endured, and how even wounded roots continue carrying life toward another season.