Whistle while you work!

          All last summer I didn’t cut a lick of firewood, and that made me happy as a lark. Or, actually, it didn’t, since I was busy with worse things than cutting firewood, but still the concept of not having to cut any was a tiny little lamp of goodness burning in my heart on low. Over the years I’ve come to see cutting firewood as a chore, involving all sorts of gear which inevitably fails only after you’ve driven umpteen miles into the wilderness, after having surmounted fourteen hundred obstacles just for the pleasure of being there in the horsefly-infested woods to then have to turn around and go home without any wood at all and figure out why the infernal chainsaw would not operate. It wasn’t the work I didn’t like, it was the gear. Chainsaws are not my friends, for the most part. To me, they’re like those officials I used to have to bribe to get basic necessities when I Continue reading


My friend Bob has a particular genius for naming things.  He named his metal gas can that had a dint in it “Dent”.  He named my toaster “Chromie”.  His big red truck is called “Big Red”, whilst the small red truck is called “little Red”.  One day he took Dent up to the top of the pass in Big Red to fill him up with gas.  When he got to the top, Dent was gone.  Some weeks later someone had deposited Dent on Bab’s back door step. Dent knew how to find his way home. Continue reading