Out in the mid-winter silence, the wood cutter refines his trade
It’s a graveyard I’ve entered, a tangle of white ash tree limbs killed by emerald ash beetles. Main trunks remain standing, some two feet in diameter at the base.
They still reach for the sky, but the life-blood of nutrients once flowing just under their bark has been halted. I look up to see gaunt silhouettes.
Creating this hodgepodge of wood all around me are branches of these ash skeletons. Knocked down by wind, or just time and decay, some have landed on previous victims. Propped up, they jut out at improbable angles. A jumble of Pick-Up-Sticks should paint an accurate picture.
The breeze and the dirt are both soft on this mid-winter’s day. Forty-seven degrees, with a hard rain last night, has created mud season conditions.
Fortunately, I am driving a woods-friendly utility vehicle. It boasts many perks this senior wood cutter requires to keep plying his trade.
These include a comfortable bench seat for the taking of breaks. If the old hip starts twanging, I just call a time out, take a seat and let things settle down.
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My vehicle also features a handy cup holder. Iced coffee in summer, hot coffee or tea in the winter.
As I sit and sip, a roof overhead keeps snow and rain, twigs, even acorns sometimes, from finding their way to my noggin.
This rig does not have doors. Open sides let me see and hear into the woods while I’m taking a break. Creatures often come close, because the vehicle is camouflaged: dull green in color, like some kind of olive-drab stump.
When I get back to work, my electric chainsaw runs when you want it to; then turns off when my finger lifts up from the trigger. Instantly, silence ensues. There’s no sputtering idle, no gas and oil fumes in the air.
No wonder I like being out here.
And, of course, there’s the wood. Today’s ash I cut into 14-inch Tootsie Roll sections. White saw dust flies. Tree rings tightly encircle each other. The branches are 30 years old.
I stack these in the bed of the Ranger and trundle for home.
There, my splitting maul swings into action. With a sharp crack the even-grained ash sections fly apart, ready for wood stove insertion.
If I’m flush with firewood, I will stack this new stuff by the stove and allow it to dry a few days. But remember, it’s dead and was not on the ground when I cut it. It would burn bright and warming today.
You know the old poem about ash wood? Written by Celia Congreve, a Brit, and first published around 1930? Her estate has allowed use of it for educational purposes. As you know, I strive to educate. Here are the last few lines:
Apple wood will scent your roomWith an incense like perfume.Oak and maple, if dry and old,Keep away the winter cold.But Ash wood wet and Ash wood dry,A king shall warm his slippers by.
E-mail Rick at rmarsi@stny.rr.com
This article originally appeared on Binghamton Press & Sun-Bulletin: Out in the mid-winter silence, the wood cutter refines his trade
