February 13, 2021

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As I hauled in the evening cart full of dry seasoned wood, munitions for yet another long night of barricading the homestead against outside temperatures joyously plunging below zero, like children jumping off a cliff into a new-found swimming hole, I took pause for a moment to reflect on my reluctance to simply turn on the gas-fired furnace. This load of firewood, which most likely originated from some section of a wind-broke, dead or dying tree somewhere in our woods, took me at least one hour to get it honed to a consummate state of perfect readiness (cut, throw, haul, throw, split, throw, stack, unstack, haul, stack) for its one splendiferous overnight of heating glory in our woodstove. And yet, this morning, unless you are standing in front of the stove like Carolyn tends to do on these mornings for some unknown reason, the house is only about as a warm as a cool November morning. After a rainstorm. And you forgot your raincoat. So when the sun came up-my first thought was “so THIS is what eggs feel like when someone opens the door of the refrigerator and the light goes on!”