Donovan Kelly

(Editor’s note: Kelly wrote a version of this Weekender story for us 10 years ago. Not much has changed, except his hair and winter woodpile have grown even thinner.)

Mid-November and my woodpile runneth about two cords short, and so do I. To keep the cabin warm through a normal, not-too-cold, not-too-snowy winter, our woodstove and fireplace will eat about three cords of wood. We might need a few emergency booster shots from the electric baseboard heaters, but three cords of dry oak and hickory, carefully cut, split and stacked a year ago, should keep our winter weekends cozy and free of frost bite.

That’s the theory. Like many theories, the proof is in the pudding, or in this case, in my woodshed. Alas, the November winds blow freely through an empty woodshed. The chainsaw has grown heavy with rust and dust, the engine clogged with last year’s gas and the blade dulled by inaction. Meanwhile, the weekend wood-carrying truck remains in intensive care and the mechanics are shaking their heads sadly.

And that’s just the good news.

The bad news is me. I too have grown heavy, accumulated too much rust, clogged by old gas, dulled by inaction and surrounded by people who look at me and shake their heads sadly.

Too much time in the flatlands has taken the edge off my woodcutting skills. I do not cut much, therefore I do not cut well. Trees I cut down tend to fall where they should not. Worse, the passage of too many winters has slowed my woodcutting endurance. Now at best I can cut and split wood for about an hour at a crack. And that hour includes four coffee breaks. Maybe two such cutting cracks per day. Maybe four crackable weekends before the first big snow. Somehow that doesn’t add up to three cords of firewood cut, split and stacked.

In this, the winter of my dis-cut attempt, I do not see a woodfire-warmed cabin. Already the power company is licking its chops at all the expensive electricity our baseboard heaters are about to consume. They have sent us an easy payment plan that could wipe out both us and the national debt faster than the promises of an October politician.

But the mountain gods do grant miracles. They give us strong, stouthearted sons. Male heirs who are happy woodcutting machines. Willing male hunks who can’t do enough for their aging parents as the cold winds of winter approach.

Mike, old buddy, old pal, first born of our lives, please call home. Dad needs you.