Earlier this morning, in a light snow Todd and I split wood for an hour before I had to break for work. It’s cold and grey, but the grass is still green. The wood splitter is old and puts out a nasty gassy fume, but it is a small beast that doesn’t quit. This morning’s wood was giant rounds about 2 feet in diameter. Todd lifts them on the bar and I push the lever that sends the metal blade into the disc. They’re frozen and unpredictable. Once broken in half, the wood splits with a “pop”, sometimes flying forward and landing several feet in front of the splitter. Years of manning a splitter each Memorial Day Weekend at Camp Manito-wish in Northern Wisconsin has taught me how to keep the splitter moving, staying efficient, and safe. To be honest, anyone can master it in a hour. But as the morning slid along, I daydreamed about splitting wood next to my daughter. With Mary O. With Ned Schley. I don’t know when I’ll be back to Camp, but this new farm lets me daydream.
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Peg