My woodpile ain’t pretty, bent, forked, not sawn square short, long, fat and gnarly like an old wizard’s hair. Stacked cut colors aren’t even ends dapple the rack tan, red and yellow and old cuts are black. My firewood looks like me dry, wrinkled and crochety bad joints and old bumps and a certain obstinacy. When the dead tree is standing and the bark gone for good that old, light, dry timber Roger called “Biscuit Wood.” Attacking big chunks when wielding a maul Roger said yell “Wenh!” and give it y … (read more)
