You’ve got logs.
That’s the automated message that plays in my brain when I arrive home from work and see a pile of firewood, worthy of a woodchuck’s bachelor party, blocking my driveway.
See, Wife and I enjoy fires. Especially the ones that occur safely in our fireplace. So we did what any sensible New England family would do: we bought a shitload of wood.
Of course, the firewood store doesn’t sell “shitloads.” It sells “cords” and “half-cords.” Because, who doesn’t think of a giant pile of combustible timber when they see somebody plucking a harp?
Anyway, I’m glad we decided to go with the half-shitload, because a full one would have been enough wood to build one of those massive, 1970’s-era playgrounds – the kind that smells faintly of turpentine and gives you splinters when you look at it.
Even the half-shitload has taken me forever to stack. Sure, stacking firewood is in my DNA (between buffalo wings and sweating), but a man can only stack so much before he gets bored and goes back inside to watch TV.
I figure I’ve got a good four or five weeks before the first snowfall, at which point my driveway will be buried under both firewood and ice, and I’ll be forced to sell my car.
At least I’ll be able to purchase more firewood.