The Wood Pile

The Wood Pile

In truth, firewood collecting is mostly a hobby because in reality it makes little economic sense in a world of give-away natural gas. One does not have to be a hoarder to enjoy this activity, really. Some of us just love wood heat.

Recently, I had the opportunity to bid on a pile of accumulated timber harvested here in town. It was difficult because determining the content, both in quantity and quality, was like studying a mish-mash of pick-up sticks. My brother, who admires fire wood, encouraged a low bid approach, noting that the huge mound looked a great deal like “work” and why would anyone want to buy work. I now realize the disparaging comments directed at me had made some note of my age. I was undeterred as if blinded by love--or was it lust.

The winning bid was confirmed and a few realities set in, including, but not limited to, the fact that all the pile had to be removed in ten working days---WORKING DAYS!---I don‘t really work. I am retired. DURING NORMAL WORKING HOURS!

The pile was again approached, with the eye of a winner, and the realization that truth can be a cruel mistress. While it was obvious there was a species mix, it now became clear willow, cherry, and a “delightfully” large elm also graced the huge morass.

With that aforementioned mistress grabbing my aging arm, one had to start considering the actual cost for this hobby, this $276 pile. The presence of a fair amount of sand & dirt on the wood gave the saw’s chain a shutter and after the first cutting, it was obvious that Dave of Small Engine fame was going to be making a few bucks keeping me sharp. Still, there was no alarm because it’s good to support the local business that offers a great service. Then, I found our old F-150 had a suspension that was amuck , a cool $500 would make it whole again---but one could amortize that out through the years of use---and T & T would be happy with the income. Purchasing fuel for the saw and the gas-guzzling Ford has to make  Dave at the One Stop smile?  Another $100!

After a few hours of pushing chain saws at the pile with brother Jeff, he uttered a not so subtle comment about my ability to split the wood, that is splitting it small enough to lift it in the truck. He thought I was beyond being a splitter though it is part of the hobby I genuinely enjoy.  Ronald Reagan loved to split wood---but 5-6 cords! Jeff then affectionately described the merits of  OK Hardware’s wood splitter and how they can be rented for a modest price----$100 should cover it. He seemed to think I could sit down and just pull a lever.

My other brother, John, volunteered to help cut and split. In the discussion he thinks we need younger help, one with muscles and a willingness to actually do something---without getting hurt. He knows just the person and he will work for a very reasonable $10-15/ hr. He thinks that with, say, 8hr he can load the truck unload it, move huge bolts of 100lb. oak. $100 should cover that. Two days? I’ll have to buy an Ambrosia lunch no doubt,  $30?

In the mean time my wife, who very much enjoys wood heat, is running figures in her head, and decides the total to be around $1000, and if true to my past, there will be another hernia operation, or another joint replacement.

Even if I will be able to buy off my brothers with a purchase of Central Waters Brewery’s finest ($46) this firewood purchase is taking on a whole new meaning.

With these figures recklessly floating about, I was forced to re-evaluate the decision---not that I could change it. I do like supporting local businesses, and don’t mind giving the village a few dollars because it will be well spent.  In a moment of composure, I realized there has to be more than money in this endeavor.  That is when I turned to spirituality, and blind rationalization.

The wood does represent  a primal form of warmth, one that accompanies with it a multitude of olfactory delights and memories. It is not just stolen gas from a long distant pipe. It is an in-hand object that not only connects directly to the land I stand on, but one that has with it, the smells of life.

Cut and split, the firewood has a freshness, an odor of moisture and mold and earth all filled with mysteries. The white oaks provide the magic hint of forest flavor found in a fine dram of whiskey.

Then, there is the smell of  wood smoke that has the way of creeping into the house which, for me, is a flood of memories flowing from communal gatherings by a beach-side fire, of visions of a hidden blaze in the dead of winter on Goat Island, the lonely destination of our youthful skating adventures, and cottonwood fires on the Republican River in Colorado, the land of the Northern Cheyenne. Today, I heard again the metaphorical song by Morrissey called Birches which in its grace confronts the hot fire of the birch and the slow steady fire of the oaks--asking which do you choose.

The old stove will be hungry tonight like it has been for over 100 years and while the decision may at one moment seem misguided, the next it seems reasonable, maybe pathetically nostalgic, maybe momentarily magical, but definitely worth it. Stepping into the rainy backyard, the drifting smoke whispered across the fallen leaves and left no doubt there was no other choice.

Local Gardener Adjusts to Frost----Harvests Vegetables to Hold off Winter Death

The time arrived two days ago when the frost slapped down the last of the garden growth. I had held out picking any living plant that still was in a growth mode. This included the squash, the peppers, the sweet potatoes and all of the root crops, including but not exclusive of, parsnips. The later are all referred to as famine food around here in that rutabagas and turnips are only eaten during the most difficult of times such as the great famines of Ireland---and the one in Rosholt a few years ago.  Ann thinks I grow them in anticipation of troubles but the English will not drive me from my land. Up the Republic!

It was a good run this year and never once did the buggy vermin take umbrage with us. Other than skimpy tomatoes and the cucumber's belligerence, all went well in the patch. The sweet potatoes, a new offering this year, took advantage of the space allotted and spread out like migrants out Syria, but with less suspicion cast on them. During their robust expansion over an area of some 400 square feet, it began to concern us they were all hat and no cows, or as we might say here, "All leaf and no fruit". They were it turned out, like, partying down. It was not until today I dug them out---not realizing these things like to go down and not so much out. I had to do a major excavation, say down in the area where years ago the locals buried some of their dead. You know, Boot Hill was right here, so there was some fear. However, the land was fertile and the tubers abundant, fed by residual nutrients.

Years ago I did some volunteer work digging graves for the departed, only on one occasion to have the floor cave in as we got deeper. There was a burial under the one we were doing and thus,  I found myself unnerved digging sweet potatoes. I did discover a departed chicken I submitted to a nice Christian burial only last year.

The point is, today was the day to lay away some of the crops into cold storage, In addition to cold storage of fresh crops, the days following will be perfect for cooking vegetable/venison stew for the cold winter days. Ya, the fall is now here and the leaves are still in full color, the vegetables are fat, the wild rice partially processed, the potatoes slowly being cleaned and dumped in bags. All indications are we will make it through another winter---if I can now just get the hard cider up and working, the winters will be warm and slightly tipped over as I drive the cider to 20% by freezing off the water.