Friday, September 16, 2011
A man may always look with pride...
...upon his woodpile.
Every stick in it I have personally handled at least twice so far and will do so again at least once, twice if you count disposing of the ashes after I burn it.
I split every piece that has been split and did so the old fashioned way with a only a maul, sledgehammer, and wedges.
There's some degree of pride in taking a big stick and, with a single mighty blow, cleaving the offending oversized piece into just the right sizes to burn. OK, Plodder admits that sometimes it takes several mighty blows. I admit also delivering a pathetic, anemic blow at times. No one's perfect.
Come cool and cold weather, I will make a game out of not using my HVAC system to heat the house but rather burning wood. It offends me to hear my system come on; however, if the-woman-who-shares-my-name wants it on, it comes on.
Some months my sattelite TV bill is larger than the power bill for my all electric domicile.
Working on the old woodpile is therapeutic. No, I don't feel the need to work out ecclesiastical agression with my maul but it does give one a feeling of satisfaction to end a woodpile session and gaze upon one's work: There stands a nicely stacked row of firewood that wasn't there an hour ago. I did it all myself.
Every pastor understands the frustration of ending a church work day and not seeing anything having been accomplished. Not so with the woodpile.
Plodder heartily recommends the woodpile to all of his brethren.