Vermont poet David Budbill – whom I never met and know only through his poems, a birthday tribute earlier this year, and the stories of a mutual friend – recently passed away. He said that stacking firewood was one of the great joys of life. A NYT obituary is here.
I suspect he would immediately understand that the wood in this photo was not put up for personal use, but for commerce. From what I glean from his poems, his firewood aesthetic was more akin to ours when I was growing up: the wood stacked neatly in a barn, with kindling in a separate adjoining room. Our stacks were easily eight feet high at the start of the season. I have no idea how many cords we used, but it easily could have been six a season; the wood stove was the only source of heat in a two story house up until I was ten or so.
There really is nothing like wood heat to take you through a long winter.
Rest in peace, David, and may your continued journey be filled with Light and Love.
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