90-some degrees, humid enough to stick a knife into, and here I am stacking billets of firewood. I must be insane.
The old mulberry tree stood at the corner of the fence for probably 45-50 years, chance-sown, no doubt, by some bird. Every May it besplattered the sidewalk beneath with profligate bounty. Ten years ago it died, and has been drying in place ever since.
Monday we cut it down, and cut it up. Now I'm stacking the fruits of our labor.
Yule-logs for the next 10 years here, if not longer. Some say oak, but I think that fruitwood makes the best Yule-logs. You have only to think about the symbolism to see why. Not to mention that fruitwood burns sweetly, fragrant.
I like to have known the tree that my Yule-log comes from. The Old Ways are all about relationship. In the Old Days, you had a relationship with nearly everything in your life: the food you ate, the wood you burned, the clothes you wore.
I wipe my brow, re-seat my bill-cap, and resume my stacking. There's an art to stacking wood: you want the bark side up, to shed the rain.
Late July, but Winter's coming. Here in the North, Winter is always coming.
No, not insane: just Minnesotan.