Witty comebacks at the chopping block

Meditations and afterthoughts, an addendum from my couch

I was back at it today. (Splitting wood, that is, in case you missed the last post.)

For the record, it’s been nine days since I started. Though I did skip two days in that period. Just the same, seven out of nine ain’t bad, to badly paraphrase Meat Loaf.

¹

I had time to think while moving the logs and lining up my angle of attack, and I came up with some really good, interesting and clever ideas — which I’ve since forgotten. No matter.

Take this as the written equivalent of coming up with a witty comeback 5 hours too late (and then forgetting it). I’m sure I had more to say, more wisdom to to share, but the meditative groove has left me (for now).

Here, in no particular order is a list of additional things a beginner should know about splitting wood:

• I learned this one just yesterday: It’s not chopping, it’s splitting. Sure-fire way to announce to everyone what a noob you are is to call what you’re doing with the long-handled beast “chopping.” Zed’s dead, baby. But he wants his chopper back. Best give it to him.
  

• You really should take photos of the bugs and other weird stuff that grows on and in your logs. If nothing else, you can gross out your townie friends. But truly, insects are fascinating creatures and even somewhat beautiful — as long as they’re not crawling on you and you don’t accidentally brush a bare hand against them. You might even look them up and find out more about them, and what it means for the tree you’re about to burn for your comfort.
  

• Oh yeah, wear gloves. I don’t like wearing work gloves because they’re usually made for large man hands, and an ill-fitting glove is IMO worse than no glove most of the time. But you’ll save yourself some callouses and splinters and scrubbing with a pair of simple cotton gardening gloves. And, when you inadvertently stick a finger or two into the meaty body of a fat wood-burrowing worm, you won’t squeal like a girl — you won’t even realize what you’ve done! Besides, the back of a gloved hand is much better for wiping a dripping nose than a bare hand — no need to dig into your pocket for Kleenex either.
  

• Knotty “naughty” wood is the worst. The axe will bounce back off the log like a 5-year-old on a trampoline, and that might come as a shock the first time it happens. Even the sound it makes is like a dull “nope.”
  
  Nope. Nope. Nope.
  
  “Argh, shit, no” you will mutter as you push the offending log off to the side thinking, Well, this piece can be outdoor firewood, then.
  
  But you won’t get very far with an attitude like that, missy. There are at least 127 other pieces waiting for you to declare them outdoor firewood. Don’t take the bait. Keep swinging, but swing smart. You’ve gotta aim strategically. Look for cracks at the circumference. Aim for those to take advantage of the weakness of the grain. (I know, I know, aiming doesn’t mean landing the swing, but you will succeed from time to time, and it’ll be worth it.)
  
  Make your way around the circumference, spiraling inward until you reveal the dense, stubborn knotted core. Take a moment to look closely at that raw and ragged center. When have you ever been so vulnerable, so broken, and yet so unbreakable and strong?
  

• The opposite of the Teflon trampoline problem happens as well, and more frequently: You deliver a good strong swing, and the axe edge lodges firmly into the log without cracking it and then refuses to budge.
  
  This was the predicament I was in this morning when Csaba, our neighbour from two doors down, arrived to have a morning chat with Husband, who was still in his bathrobe but already working and right upset at the world.
  
  I couldn’t get even a wiggle. I’d tried prying the axe head back and forth, dropping the log down onto the block to shake the axe head loose, stepping on the log and working the axe as a lever. I was afraid to break Butch’s bright yellow handle — he is, after all, important and expensive. And I’m too much of a chicken-shit weakling to do “the Jozsi trick” of flipping the axe over and slamming it down upside down. Works amazingly well when strong man do it but I’m not about to try (at least not yet).

  
  While Husband and Csaba were having their chinwag, I made a couple more unsuccessful efforts to dislodge Butch. Afraid Csaba would come out of the house and notice my predicament, I busied myself with filling the wheelbarrow. But that was soon done, and with the wheelbarrow delivered to the door, I was at a bit of a loss for what to do.
  
  Soon enough, Csaba emerged from the house, pointed his chin toward the pile and asked if he could take a look. I ever so casually led him over to the wood pile, which I introduced somewhat nervously and with some fanfare as my “munkahelyem” (workplace).

  
  Csaba immediately noticed the stubborn chunk lodged on the business end of Butch.
  
  Not many people can resist a challenge like that.

  
  He gave it a go — initially with little effect. Then he did the Jozsi trick, and the wood cracked. He was pleased, and I cheered, and so he selected another “problem” piece, pointing out how to avoid striking the knots (görcs) before efficiently busting the wood apart with one blow.

  
  Things progressed like that until I started feeling a little chilled for not being the one doing any of the exercise and a little awkward for having my neighbour dispatch my chores so quickly. I kept thanking him — Köszönöm! Köszi! — and waving away any piece he pointed to that might be egy katasztrófa, saying they could be used as stools (samli), that they could be put aside — we already have so much, too much, to get through before we need to trouble ourselves with these tight, stubborn pieces. This seemed only to steel his resolve. And so, Csaba dealt with a few more of my tough customers before ambling back home.

---

A DAY LATER

This morning, I slept in. I slept like the dead until 9 a.m. and woke stiff and sore and groggy.

The morning was dreary grey and cold, and everything was wet. Even the dogs only barely poked their noses out of their house to inquire about breakfast. The yard has once again become slick with mud and puddles, and everything not put away is soaked and filthy.

It’s a bit like last year at this time…

Husband was in a mood (oh, he has many good reasons to be) and I had to help him load the lawnmower into the van, which is about as rude of a wakeup call as it gets. And then, I had to feed the dogs, who were as muddy as their kennel, and they jumped all over me and barked furiously.

And so, rather than split wood, I snuck back inside, into the warm, dry, quiet house, changed out of my grotty clothes, drank a hot cup of coffee and made myself porridge.

Some days, it’s best to mull things over from a distance. Take a step back, put your feet up, and fill your belly with warmth and gratitude.

Butch and his ilk will still be waiting for you (and me) tomorrow.

1. Worth noting: This is the first time I have ever seen a video or photo of the lead singer. Wow. That’s just about all I can say. Wow.