Yes, I’m talking about cord wood. Just came in from burning up a few tanks of 2 stroke in my chainsaw. A couple of weeks ago I had a load of log length dropped off at the house ($600) and I’ve been cutting it into 20 in. lengths for the wood stove. Ah, wood heat! A love hate relationship if there ever was one. Cutting,splitting,stacking, hauling inside in -20 windchill, and finally burning. It really does heat you up more than once. Coming down on a brutal late January morning at 430am, stirring the embers, and loading the stove does something inside that dormant hunter gatherer in me. Providing the lifesaving warmth, light, and protection to ones family that a fire brings. How long has man had this ability? I’m not going to check but it must be 800.000 years or more. Here I am, nearly a million years later, turning wood to ash. Not much has changed in all that time. Sure, the pit has turned into an air tight box of cast iron, but that’s about it. Once reloaded I leave the door cracked to get it roaring again and burn off any creosote that may have built up, heat up the stove, and build a new ember base for additional wood. Load it to the top, close it down, pour a coffee and try to not pull a muscle patting myself on the back. Of course, come late March, we all look out at our diminished supply and wonder ” do I have enough wood?”
Stopped the car on the way home today to watch a snapping turtle burying her eggs at the sandy edge of my country road. I’ve watched this ritual along this stretch of road for many years. One year I removed a few eggs and my two young sons and I brought them home, placed them in a large glass container filled with the same roadside soil, buried it in the garden next to the rhubarb and waited. If I recall correctly it was early October (I’d been checking every day for a couple of weeks) when the first and sadly only, little guy?,gal? broke through the surface. The expressions on my sons faces that day are something that I’ll remember the rest of my life. We took ” Snappy” back down the road and put him/her into the pond from whence his mother came. And life goes on.
Wondering how those I come in contact with see me. Everyone does to some extent. I know I act differently depending on who I’m talking to, It’s only natural. We all do it. The auto mechanic who’s putting struts on the car, the physician friend whose take on the future of medicine, the guys at the bar bitching about women,jobs and sports. I know I’m entering each encounter on a different tact. It’s only natural that their read of me is based on my interaction with them. Witch one is me? Or they all?