Thursday, February 19, 2009


It seems that winter and the past have caught us short this year: we are nearly out of firewood, yet the snows are still falling. Can't we get things a little better coordinated around here, weather?

I did my part, I thought we'd made it with no problem a couple of days ago, when the warm zephyrs of spring were already wafting their heady way through the sunny, musk-laden air as I worked practically shirtless in the garden, all meteorologically in sync, as I thought, then a couple of nights ago Siberia did a u-turn and dumped a couple of feet of snow on top of us up here.

So now in addition to digging us out I have to dig into my private cache of wood, the bits and chunks of special interest that I've culled out for my own private use on several projects of a creativo-esthetic nature, that cherrywood tray idea, that ironwood vase concept, that curved beech bannister proposal etc., like I have the time anyway, but what is life without dreams.

I know, I know, there will be other uniquely interesting pieces of wood in my future, there will be other gifts of bent cherry, knotty oak, hollow hardwood, more inspiring treasures that nature will lay at my feet, sometimes even on my feet, which is why the steel-toe boots, and I will ramp up the firewooding another notch to accommodate the massive whims of Siberia, but somehow there is a special place in one's heart for primally beloved things that are even now going up in flames, my version of Rosebud.

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