As a ten year old, one of my daily winter duties was to fill the hoop-like fire ring beside our Ben Franklin wood stove with firewood.
But on one particular morning, the weather made the task an impossible situation. For almost three days it was abnormally warm and with it came the dreaded January rains.
Then, as if by magic, overnight temperatures dropped below zero.
As I glanced outside in the early morning light I could see that the world was frozen solid.
It seemed as if time itself had paused all the movement in my woods.
The trees failed to drip and were wearing thousands of short icicles. The driveway and walkway were like a skating rink.
As I made my way across them in my boots I could only take short steps to stay aloft.
When I reached the great heaping pile of wood covered by a canvas tarp, I could only shake my head.
The tarp was stiff and frozen, unwilling to be pulled back no matter how hard I tried.
It held to the pieces of firewood underneath as if it were the bars of a prison with no chance of escape.
I trudged over to the garage to get a hammer or any other tool that might help me out. But when I tried to pull up the door it too was attached to the cement by a layer of ice.
I kicked at it hoping that it would free itself but it was steadfast in its resolution to stay shut.
I made my way back to the pile of wood, which from a distance looked more like an ice sculpture than a soon-to-be source of heat. I saw the bottom of a wood maul peeking out from under the tarp.
I was able to pry it free and pounded it on the canvas like a boy possessed, ripping it in a few places where it curled over the sharper wood edges.
Finally I had beaten enough of it free to get at some firewood which was also frozen and in need of some smashing.
To my dismay, I discovered that the wheelbarrow propped against the wood pile was also frozen solid head down in an ice puddle.
My whole world seemed to be locked up and imprisoned by winter’s bond.
I piled as much wood as I could in my arms and made a few trips back and forth across the icy black driveway, trying not to slip.
Once the task was completed I was happy to peel off my outdoor clothes. I sat on the edge of the hearth and enjoyed my work warmed by the popping and crackling fire.
Mitch Lee, Adirondack native & storyteller, lives at Inlet. ltmitch3rdny@aol.com