Stacking Logs

Southeast Ohio in the early fall is a fairy tale, or more bluntly, a lie about being midwestern. It is not. Most years, the Cincinnati summer lingers late into September. This month is not usually the place of crispy falling leaves, sweaters, and hot cocoa. But this year, for some reason, a cooler air has settled in the Ohio River Valley, much to the delight of its inhabitants. It has seemingly made people happier, or at least more polite. At convenience stores, we smile and talk about the weather, noting how wonderful it is.

The lower temperatures have triggered some sort of deep impulse in me, an ancient urge to ensure we have wood to burn. We have a small fireplace in the living room, and a radically underused fire pit on our stone patio. I am determined to use both more frequently this year. This will be possible, in part, because my wife and I presume to have more time on our hands this fall and winter. There will be no evenings on fields or in gyms around southeast Ohio, as it has been for the past four years.

Our children (twins) have moved away. They are off and running on their next, and best yet, adventure: college. Here on Locust Run Road, they have left a wake of quietness and uncertainty. What just happened here? Where did those eighteen years go? What will fill that time? More books, more cooking, more exercise—who knows?

Let’s start with fire. Warmth and light in the darkness, the deep quiet blackness of winter. I don’t love that time of year. But in the same spirit of there-can-be-no-virtue-if-you-do-not-know-sin, I will put on a brave face and make a fire.

There are enough trees that fall on our five acres every year that could likely support the minimal amount of firewood we need. But my list of excuses runs long: axe is dull, chainsaw isn’t working, no time, etc. It would be good for me. Making firewood warms you multiple times. Felling a tree, splitting the logs, stacking the wood, and then the fire. That’s four sessions of warmth provided by your efforts.

But for today, the closest I can come is buying bulk firewood from a local landscaping company. I do have a (sort of) truck, so that’s something. At least I’m not asking to have it delivered. I loaded the bed this morning, and after weighing it came to a whopping $35, about half of what the industrious young man up the road has posted near his house front stacks for sale.

After driving home, I stood in the truck bed and threw the logs up the stairs by the garage, next to the metal rack where they will be stored. After emptying the bed, I climbed up and stacked the logs. The rack is small, just a half-cord, and it didn’t take long. I worked up a small sweat.

It felt good. The air, as I mentioned, was cool. The sound of the logs landing on one another had a wooden plink, a rugged marimba of random tones, an autumn percussion. Some of the logs had stringy strands of wood and bark that dangled down, and I could see how quickly they would light and burn. The fire isn’t far away.

I thought about sending a picture of the stack to my kids. They would remember the fires we had together, I thought. The marshmallows are never as good as you want them to be. The sparks and smoke are lifting into the night sky. Or the evenings inside, with the hearth glowing, music playing. We could remember all those times.

I didn’t send a picture. When I finished, I covered the stack with the blue tarp, the one with small patches where mice had chewed through, and darkened with the old sludge of dirt and rain. It folded nicely, and I laid two logs on the top to hold it in place. It made me smile to see this project complete. The stack meant something to me. It meant that winter was coming, and that I was ready. I am not certain that I am ready for whatever else the months ahead bring, but I can make a fire.