I'm From a Logging Town

I am learning to split wood. Despite all my crowing about my pickaxe/mattock skills, I really stink at splitting wood. Mostly, I hack up my “chopping block.” I surround the term with quotation marks because I don’t think a rotten tree round really qualifies as a chopping block, but that is how I use it. I’m already on my second “block,” having chopped the first one to pieces. I just add the "chopping block" bits to my hacked up logs and carry it all in to the fireplace.

In an effort to cut our heating bill this year (last year was $200/mo.) our thermostat is permanently set at 62 degrees. This is usually a comfortable temperature for me, because I am rarely still. Mike, though, is freezing his arse off as he sits and studies for school/plays on the internet. Although using the fireplace for heating purposes is incredibly inefficient, the wood is free, so what have we to lose? (In fact, we have an overabundance of wood thanks to our dead tree and routine pruning.) Mike’s usual seat is close enough to the fireplace to feel some of the warmth.

Some find it surprising that I am splitting the wood, and not Mike, but the truth is, I enjoy it. I don’t even give Mike a chance to help. I run out to the wood pile every evening and swing the axe around like a madwoman. If my mom witnessed my reckless behavior, she’d definitely have a heart attack. I have to admit to having very little control over the axe at times. My legs are bruised from flying wood and the kitties know to steer clear. Every once in awhile though, I manage to (1) hit the log and (2) split it cleanly. When the two halves fly to either side, I feel like a true woodswoman.

While I am ostensibly outside cutting wood to keep my husband warm, I have found a second benefit to my axe flailing. The exercise warms me up to the point where I find our 62 degree house sauna-like. Mike objects, though, when I want to open windows to cool down.