The Power of Logs and Their Splitting

 We split logs. 

It was among the coldest days of winter thus far – bitter, but at least sunny and still; unlike the previous day of breeze and freezing rain.  Multiple mounds of oversized logs had languished for months, long after the more readily useable ones had been claimed following the tree trimming and removal in the fall.  This was to be the day for dispatching the formidable remains.

 

It was new territory for me, and I’ll admit to some trepidation. For a city kid more accustomed to books and guitar strings, power equipment intimidates me.  My dreams toss with anticipatory calamities involving broken bones and crushed extremities from hydraulic force gone awry.  But John had booked the rental of the splitter, and we were anxious for the wooden rubble to be gone.  He eyed the wood as fuel for the wood stove heating part of his house.  Our socially centering fire pit could use the rest.  All that, plus the prospect of physical activity was compelling.  Holidays aren’t known for their exercise, and these days had been illustrations of the point.  Too much kitchen time, followed by too much table time had led to too much sofa time.  My body ached for a change.

 

Never mind, then, the cold; I picked up John in the pickup, headed over to the hardware store, and hitched up the splitter which looked like it had seen better days.  That, of course, only added to my apprehension.  Back home, we abandoned caution, pulled the engine rope, and set ourselves to the task at hand.

 

I will say that, despite the age and state of this particular piece of equipment – hardly a model of maintenance - the splitter is a marvel of basic ingenuity – marrying power and physics in a productive partnership.  Position the log on the platform, pull the handle, and the modest lawn-mower-sized engine animates the hydraulics to slowly propel the iron wedge up against and then through the wood, grain divorcing grain, cleaving the whole into dismembered sections.  Fellowship and warmth, the benefactors.

 

The work went quickly, methodically.  By the time Larry joined us late morning to contribute an extra set of hands, the project for which we had set aside the day, was largely accomplished.  Oak and walnut and Osage orange; log by half, by quarter, by stack.    And it felt good, this active exertion on a holiday morning, gloved and frosty breath, recycling the farm’s woody harvest with friends, in embodied anticipation of life in the new year.  

 

Towing the splitter back into parking lot, unhitching and paying for the abbreviated day, we drove away, smiling; as warm inside from a day well spent as the fires and the friendships our labors would fuel.