In Praise of Firewood

I had been putting off the task of buying firewood for far too long, due to COVID, the holidays, and simple inertia. We'd been burning up odds and ends from the yard and a few bundles we'd purchased from the DNR but never used. And we'd been having fewer fires, too. But the pile was dwindling.

There was a time when I considered buying firewood a sort of quest, or a game, where city folk buy things from country folk, trying to be friendly while not getting swindled. There was a time, in fact, when woodcutters would go from door to door selling their nicely split but perhaps slightly green product. If you bought some, they'd make a note of it and come back again a year later.

The men who cut, split, age, and haul the stuff around are a breed apart, only one step higher, perhaps, on the ladder of atavistic trades than the men who apply hot asphalt to warehouse roofs in the summertime. Yet I feel that I’ve got a lot in common with them. I love the woods, I love the trees, I’ve cut and split plenty of wood myself, in my time, and feel an almost Hamsun-esque attachment to individual trees, living and dead.

The chain saw and the power-splitter have no doubt changed the industry somewhat, but the men who come around to drop off the stuff don’t seem to change much at all. They typically don't care to chat about trees—unlike the arborists at Rainbow Tree Service—and there isn't really much to say. Oak, maple, birch. Brainerd, Little Falls, Deer River. How long was it aged? Is there any point in asking, now that a ton of it is sitting in your garage?

I had some wood delivered this morning, quick and easy, from Five Star Tree Service. Friends had recommended it. I spoke to "Greg" yesterday, and he quoted a price somewhat lower than Ron's, a suburban firm with a cadre of woodcutters and a paid customer service rep with an agreeable voice.

And the wood looks good. By this stage in life my attention has shifted from healing the urban/rural divide to fully appreciating the wood itself sitting in a beautiful stack inside my garage. It's a sacred moment, a moment of subtle rejoicing and heart-felt awe, and it will be repeated again and again each time I bring a few more pieces of wood into the house

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