At least we had chainsaws.

While I lived in Missouri, Grandpa and I and my brothers and sometimes my deadbeat dad would go out into the forest every fall and start cutting firewood. The trick was, you had to cut it two years ahead of time in order for it to cure adequately for the stoves. We already had this year's wood stacked but we needed to get on with next year's supply. On the average, each tree would yield about a cord of wood. (Despite what people may say, it isn't physically possible to get a cord of stovewood into a standard 8' pickup truck. Sellers will sell a pickup truckload as a cord but believe you me, it ain't a cord.)

It took 23 cords for each of our families ours and grandpa's to stay warm through the winter, so we would cut a minimum of 50 trees every year, just to be sure we had enough plus a little extry. Needless to say, we only cut dead trees of which there always seemed to be plenty. Wood heat was the only heat we had for the winter, hence, the large amount of cutting we needed to do. Also needless to say is, wood heat is far more satisfying with which to warm up next to a Franklin style stove. Yet, I remember several occasions when I would wake up in the middle of the night due to the freezing cold because the fire had died out. A stack of six blankets made it possible to roll over and go back to sleep, however.

You may be familiar with the ferocity of Missouri winters in the Ozarks. One night, I jumped out of bed - and nearly right back in 'cause the floor was so cold - to find that the fire had gone completely out. Since I had to pee, I shivered my way downstairs to use the bathroom. Ever been so cold you could move around the house without walking? All you have to do is let your shivers vibrate you in the direction you're going.

Anyhow, I went over to restart the fire but the woodbox was empty. Dang. I went running back upstairs hoping the exertion would help warm me up a little. Glanced at the clock in my room as I put on a pair of pants: 2:34am. Sheesh. I stopped at the pants 'cause I figured the trip to the woodpile was going be relatively quick. I opened the door to the house and was confronted by a near-gale force wind. (Later the next morning, the weatherman announced that the temperature the prior night had dropped to -40F with a wind chill of -72F. I figure at 2:34, I hit my front door at the coldest possible part of that night.)

I nearly froze to death in the short, 100 feet to the woodpile, filling a wheelbarrow and bringing it back to the house. Remember I was only dressed in my Wranglers. No shirt, no shoes, no gloves, no coat. I barely was able to carry one armload into the house and fortunately, I had the presence of mind to bring some small pieces in with me to light a new fire. Lighting a match was a problem though. When your fingers no longer bend, you can't grip a little tiny match any more. I went to the kitchen with a tightly rolled newspaper and lit it at the stove. Dangerous, to be sure. I could've burned down the house along the way. But I didn't. Got the fire going and fortunately, it took on the first try.

An hour later, I was still warming myself by that fire. The cold was more than I'll ever be able to forget. Of course, the family was unaware of what I had done, not that it mattered. It did make me realize that over the course of the time we spent in Missouri, my father had basically kept that fire going every night for all that time and we never knew it, really. Except to complain every morning about having to refill the empty wood box and to notice we were warm and mostly toasty when we got up. When you're poor as church mice, having "free" wood heat was about as much as you could ask for.

--Wag--