The warmth of wood

The fresh fallen snow blanketed the east field as I looked out the kitchen window this morning. Four inches of the soggy cotton clung to the firewood pile that is being worked up for next winter.

I guess firewood has been kind of way of life since my earliest memories. At an early age I remember helping my Grandfather and Father at the back of the saw rig, sawdust in my eyes and the constant ring in my ears. Working near the spinning saw was a dangerous job, but it also marked a sort of "coming-of-age" in my family. Today, chainsaws have become the primary tool in the firewood trade, but the hum of the old Farmall tractor and the song of the saw can still be heard in early fall as we work up the dry limb wood for the cook stove.

After a couple of years of burning wood that was not quite dry enough, we try to make cutting and splitting our firewood a high priority. We'll let the sun and wind of the upcoming Spring and Summer dry our wood again this year. I try to have about six cord of hardwood ready for the "people house" and about two cord of softwood ready for the sugar house.

For generations rural farm families have carefully managed their woodlots, taking what was weak or dying, and leaving the healthy growing trees. In the early days here in Maine, this natural fuel for heating the farmhouse was nearly as important as the vegetables in the garden or the hay in the meadows. A winter with little or no firewood meant hardship that cannot be imagined by us today. Often, the kind gesture of a neighbor would provide the wood needed to keep from freezing to death, but just barely.

In recent years, much like in the early years of my life, oil has become a natural resource with an uncertain future. We do have a fuel tank in our cellar, but the oil boiler has not been fired in months. The quiet energy released by my ax and our fire provides security that cannot be measured. Needless to say I have continued to value the trees in the our woodlot, their future decided by me and my saw alone.