Fire Hazard

Karen reported a warm 50 degrees (F) this morning. That, combined with her cleaning out the barns to add to the greenhouse compost bin, and a dwindling pile of properly sized firewood, pulled me outside.  I snapped on my Christmas coveralls, sharpened the chain saw, and set to work.  Suddenly it felt as though I was standing naked in cool air. "What is that cold stuff running down my leg?"  Colder than water, boom, my brain figured it out and shut off the saw.  If it had waited much longer this blog entry or any others might never have been conceived.  I changed into different clothes and tried again.

I don't know what got into me, burning through 4 tanks before stopping.  (Actually, 5, but we can't count the first one.)  Usually I'm spent after two.  The five truckloads of logs Adam and I collected a couple months ago have been reduced to 5 or 6 thick challenges.  After they're conquered, it'll be time to rent a logsplitter to finish off a big pile in the corner of the woodshed.

"Wuss," says Virginia. "Didn't I see a new awl leaning against the woodshed wall?"

Yes, pretty new, but I'm not a wuss -- I'm a realist.  As Hellgate demonstrated, this fellow has trouble staying upright.  Put an awl in his hands and, well, even Virginia better not come close.