Fragments From Floyd

On the top of the ridge that forms the eastern boundary of our land, after a thirty minute huffing climb we stand panting for breath two hundred feet above the creeks and pasture. Dead and down-- locusts, oaks, hickories-- lie heaped like pickup sticks after decades of lightning strikes, gale force winds, ice storms and natural tree mortality. Countless cords of good, solid wood are heading for decay because it's just too steep to get up there with anything short of a dozer to bring it out. I'm especially tuned in to potential firewood this time of year when it is disappearing into the stove by the cartload every winter day. All that heat, wasted.

Ann said with a smirk after we caught our breath yesterday, walking the ridgeline-- "if all this wasted wood here is really bothering you that much, you could backpack up a chiminea and use up at least a little of it."

So, if you see a little trickle of smoke coming from the rim of the pasture, it's me-- singing camp songs, eating s'mores and feeling warmly frugal. Come on up. Bring more marshmallows.