Firewood
Oak split-logs provide the
warmest, most even heat.
Hickory has the very best aroma
with adequate comfort
Ash split straight and true with
little effort from a wedge.
Cedar displays a “controlled”
mini-explosion with crackle.
Elm requires two years seasoning
and is still a challenge.
All wood splits at 10° F; elm is
still doggedly recalcitrant.
All releases heat
and comfort, even so-called “junk” wood.
Over seven decades, I have cut,
split, stacked and burned myriad cords.
For each dead tree I cut for
firewood, I planted many more seedlings.
In my time and space 10,000+
trees were given purchase-care.
No matter the What? Always---leave more…than you take.
Amen!
Plus:
Day 263
Cutting and stacking
firewood in the fall.
Brandy-dog was
always close by.
I
adore Mother Nature in all her glorious moods, sweetness, tempers, storms, ice
and snow.
Fall
reigns supreme in my complimentary lexicon of description; winter comes in a
close second, then, spring with summer heat and humidity bringing up the rear.
Actually, in plain fact, I love each of the seasons pretty much the same, but,
I do have slight preferences.
Winter
finds me regressing to my previous life as a “bear”; winter is for hibernating.
A
warm fire with a comfy sofa near-by is all that’s needed to survive the
harshness.
I
prefer oak, like the smell of hickory, ash splits nicely, elm is a disaster. A ten-pound
steel-wedge splitting-maul on a hickory handle with a little muscle-determination
does the trick. All result in cozy-warm
comfort while the snowflakes fly and accumulate outside. Lay a log of cedar on
hot coals, wait ten minutes and enjoy the exploding trapped water droplets
suddenly released by boiling-heat shoot red-yellow-orange mock fireworks up the
chimney.
Cutting
firewood in the Fall to see me warm and cozy through the “blizzard”-months has
become a rite-of-passage among the members of our family; none are afraid of
“work” and all willingly pitch in to accomplish whatever chore is at hand.
(Reckon I make a great supervisor!)
Our
Brandy-dog always accompanied the family on our adventures; what a good dog!
One
fine day we were up in the field cutting grape vine for Lady Candy to fashion
holiday wreaths from; Brandy was in the deep woods---hunting! All of a
sudden…she broke cover running flat out with her tail between her legs; right
behind her was an angry coyote! I yelled at the wild dog after my pet canine
and, luckily, the “cur” relented in its pursuit. Good ole Brandy!
My
Dad taught me the value of “work” beginning when I was a tender six years of
age; we had a lawn to mow, my grandparents had a “large” yard and my
great-grandparents sported a “lawn of about three-acres and “growing” every year.
I got the distinct “privilege” of mowing them all. Now, my parents helped with
the mammoth chore, at least, until I was around ten, or so; then I graduated to
“chief-slave labor” around the compound. Builds character!?
Dad
also taught me the “value” of a vegetable garden. Oh! Yeah! We had a “small”
plot on the back of our yard at our house in town; my grandparents had a good
half acre garden just down the lane from where we lived and, the
great-grandparents? Well? They had a real “farm”!
As
our neighbors in town tired of or just grew too old for gardening, good ole Dad
would acquire their “hobby”-plots; I believe he had his eyes on being the
“king” of gardens!
Or?
Maybe he thought such demanding activity might keep his eldest son on the
straight and narrow!? Nice try! Pops! Thinking back, he might well have
concluded that it would have been just a whole lot easier to go ahead and drown
me! Hmm! He never said---but…I wonder!?
I
“swore”-off gardens after my stint on the “garden-chain-gang”---until…daughter Rachel
decided in her sweet head: Daddy? Can we have a garden!? And---of course…we did! And how!
The
farm had “plenty” of work for a wild-ass
teen like me! One morning, Dad took me to the farm on a Saturday morning to
“hunt ground hogs”; we left before 7 am. I knew the critters didn’t get up that
early; I usually hunted them around mid-afternoon on towards evening.
When
we arrived at the farm, Poppy had the tractor out with an implement attached
which I did not recognize. Turns out, we had 7 ½ acres of straw potatoes to
dig! Wow! The job took us past noon and into mid-day. Yeah! I went hunting after the “Irish”-episode! C’est la vie!
Once,
Dad dropped me at the farm early on a summer morning before he went to work.
Oh! Boy! A full day at the farm! Grandpa had 300 tomato plants that needed
hoeing! Oh! Man!
But,
I have no complaints---I love work…I
can watch it all day! And, I am---a…character!
So?
(The acorn doesn’t fall far from the tree.) I instilled that “work-ethic” in my
girls.
A
man who cuts his own firewood---gets warmed by it…twice! And, I sure enough reckon I learned that lesson---over and
over and over…and over! But, in some self-satisfaction: I cut a “lot” of dead
trees for firewood and planted over 10,000 more. Ah! Ain’t life just---Grand!
Ah! Cookie Jar Sweet “Let’s go hunting!?”
Memories!
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