Okay, so I will not exactly be chewing my cud here, but the pic fits when I am on the contemplative side of life.

Its funny the routines that grow comfortable. Take one of the changes (or returns) that moving back to New England and slight out in the country makes.

Such as heating with wood.

Okay, so Karen and I don't EXACTLY heat with wood but the wood goes a long way towards stretching the propane dollars. And while the propane prices haven't bled over as badly into the insane as oil prices have, at 2.75 a gallon having alternative sources makes some sense.

I know it probably doesn't really reduce our collective carbon footprint, but the guy that brings the wood is the same guy that plows the driveway (it is long enough that shoveling is not a realistic option)and his wood travels less that 30 miles from where it comes from private landowners and landscaping tree removal. Nothing is clear cut to get it so that has to count for something.

Last year when we started this, I began to learn slowly why people often move back to more "civilized" mods of living.

My other wood guy was a crook, bringing short cords and green wood.

I also was a idiot, unschooled in the use of the tarp to keep wood dry. Weeks of kicking ice blocks away to get at the wood pile has largely accelerated that learning curve. While the first load of this season did not get completely piled post delivery, I did at least heap the bulk of it under the tarp before the first "wehtha" hit.

Next step in this education will be asking the delivery guy to strategically place the pile closer to house level, so that hauling wood can have a distinctively absent phrase "up the hill". Currently, all wood hauling includes that reference. Woof.

Karen is off doing what we refer to as "making the donuts". Most days I am the one haring off to the cold dark world, but she happened across a paying dog-handling job a few weekends back. So today I am tending fires and caring for dogs while she had the commute east into Boston to show a six month old German Wire Hair Pointer puppy named "Doc". He is 6 months old and a stomach on legs.

I took my life into my hands by refilling the bird feeder in the middle of Chickadee breakfast. They are bold. On the way back to the tree with feeder in hand I almost had company from one of the little mad-black caps.

The simple things. They still amuse.



June 2009

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