I started heating with wood half a dozen years ago as a way to forestall the propane truck. I keep doing it because it’s in my blood. I grew up helping my dad cut firewood, and I feel destined to inherit his wrecked back.
I burn about 10 cords of wood each year -- which I cut, split and stack by hand. It’s a pleasure to see the immediate result of one’s labor. How often can one work for two hours and see that much work lined up before one? It keeps me chained to the moment. When I’m cutting wood, I’m not fretting about white working-class voters or the 3,411 unread emails in my inbox.
There are also the myriad sensuous pleasures. I love the heft of a fresh split in my hand, and the hard grain of it on my nail. I love the pleasing thunk a round makes when it gives up its wholeness to the axe. I love the various aromas of freshly cleft hardwoods, the redolent wetness of red oak, the cottony sweetness of black cherry, and even the bitter licorice of black walnut.
Fire is the ultimate reward. Winter mornings before light I can be found with my head in the firebox, breathing life into stubborn embers. I layer on the kindling and the nicely seasoned splits.
By the time my young daughter comes downstairs to stand beside me, the firebox is radiant.
“How is the fire?” I ask her
“Good,” she says.
I’m Chris Fink, and that’s my perspective.
