Fifteen years. That’s how long we’ve been using a wood burning stove in this household. And believe me, I adore the toasty warmth of a wood fire. In addition to the stove we frequently utilize our wonderful fireplace—it’s all good.
Of course, wood does not magically appear on the homestead all split, dry and ready to burn. Ohhhhh noooooo.
There are tons of steps to follow before kindling and a simple match required for the fire up—and they’re all majorly labor intensive.
First, the logs. Big long trees which need to be “blocked.” Boy job.
Then, the splitting of the logs. Again, boy job, because PR refuses to allow me to operate the splitter. The unspoken fear is that I may lose a hand or two, therefore totally hindering my ability to prepare meals.
Now comes the fun part. The hauling of the split wood to its perspective pile locations, of which there are several.
The cellar pile, the lower woodshed pile, the upper woodshed pile, and eventually the garage for the fireplace supply.
Here’s where we seem to run into a snafu, and wouldn’t ya know it would coincide with MY piece of the wood puzzle?
I’m finally allowed to use Deere John for hauling, (yup, the bucket) but only after such detailed instructions that all the fun is sucked right out.
I mean really, does the machine really care if the idle is turned down before shutting off the key? I think not.
All that shouting—coupled with hand gestures familiar only to machine operators—is extremely distracting when the operator happens to be Yours Truly.
Not gonna lie here, I’m a master at ignoring PR’s ridiculous antics because after all, I’M RUNNING SOME BIG EQUIPMENT HERE!!
Can’t hear you, can’t see you, I’m paying attention to my load!
Again, fifteen years. Me, the primary stacker of all piles, still subjected to criticism of my stacks.
“Gee, looks like you’ve got a bit of a bow on the upper left side there honey…” That’s right—hours and hours of piling this wood so carefully and he dares to offer up suggestions.
In all these years I’ve lost but one pile and that was totally not my fault. I’d been hauling and stacking all day when I paused for one little sip of Sambuca.
My body is not accustomed to much sugar, therefore its immediate reaction is similar to that of a five year old on Halloween—out of control.
I became the Bat Girl of the wood pile—must’ve stacked four face cords in record time.
And yes, the pile was definitely bowed. It crashed to the ground a day later.
This was some years ago and I have yet to live that one down. Therefore PR feels it necessary to inspect each and every pile I make and has dubbed himself Quality Control Master of Wood.
Needless to say, this does not sit well with me, but I do so adore the wood heat that I magnanimously tolerate the criticisms.
So far I have not been tempted to toy with the thermostat but I’m not gettin’ any younger here—or taller for that matter.
I fear for future piles which will no doubt be a mere two feet or so tall.
But on the bright side of that issue there is no bow, no threat of crashing—just miles and miles of little baby piles everywhere.
Okay, maybe just a touch of the thermostat…