I'm a germophobe. I have been for a long time. They say that the first step to getting better is admitting that you have a problem. I don't like to take bites off of other people's food, and I don't want anyone attempting bites off of mine. I don't share beverages and I know that re-dipping is a cardinal sin (see Forbidden Act). I think feet - my own included - are incredibly creepy and if I had my way, flip flops would be abolished and replaced by protective, thick socks and heavy boots. The protection is not FOR the feet, but FROM them. I supply all the sinks in my house with anti-bacterial soap, against my pharmacist brother's medically sound advice that it kills good germs as well as bad. In the same vein, I have hand sanitizer on my desk at work, in my house, in my car, in my back pack, and in a handlebar bag on my bike. I'm a hand sanitizer junkie.
I consider hand sanitizer to be the be-all and the end-all, and it has multiple uses besides creating the apocalypse for all germs, good and evil, on my hands. For example, it is very handy when One is logging and needs to remove pitch from One's hands (if you are wondering why One would be logging, you haven't read this blog very thoroughly). Ditto for anything else that is sticky, including those nasty price tags that you try to remove from gifts before you give them. Also the unpleasant smear and residue that is left behind, after you have picked away the nasty price tag. Gum on your fingers? Hand sanitizer is the answer! Your pen exploded? Hand sanitizer is a great option! Leftover residue from that sandwich you ate in the car? Hand sanitizer! Slug slime? Hand sanitizer! Between frequent sanitization and washing constantly, I would argue that I have the cleanest hands around.
The other night I saw that the World's Dirtiest Man was showing on the Discovery channel. I was drawn to the program like a moth to the light. I was repulsed, yet could not tear myself away. I was mesmerized by the disgusting truth that no matter how clean I think I am, I am surrounded by, and covered with, germs. It was hosted by Mike Rowe, the host of the popular program, Dirty Jobs.
The first thing that I learned was to always put the lid down before flushing the toilet. The scientist on the program turned off the bathroom lights and turned on his special scientist light and then flushed the toilet, and along with millions of other viewers, I was horrified to see thousands of tiny droplets propelled up into the air from the toilet. These tiny droplets flew all over the bathroom in question, and even had the nerve to invade Mike Rowe's toothbrush. I'll let you do the rest of the math on that one. My mind immediately went to the automatic flusher that we have at work. Still relatively new to the employees, it startles most of us with its quick response. With my new knowledge about flushing, I am now falling over myself to get out of the stall before I am showered by, and with, the invisible germs from a community toilet.
Next, I learned that what my 1st grader told me last year is true: a human's mouth is dirtier than a dog's mouth. On a filth scale of 1 - 30, with below 9 being very sanitary, and above 30 being too germy to eat off of, the dog's mouth tested at 22. Mike Rowe's mouth was not exactly off the chart, but it was at a disgusting 31, a number that would shut down a restaurant. He didn't sugar coat his protests, pointing out that the dog's mouth could not possibly be cleaner than his, as it licks its hiney. The scientist stuck to the facts and insisted that these results were consistent with other, more scientific studies.
All beliefs regarding covering one's mouth during a cough or a sneeze were confirmed. A woman purposely coughed on Mike Rowe's face and then he was swabbed and measured against that filth scale I talked about earlier. His forehead measured 38. Interestingly, a cough can travel at 55 mph. You can be the life of the party with that sort of trivia. Add to it that a sneeze can travel at 100 mph, and you may even pick up a date at that party (besides some nasty germs, if you are on the other end of that sneeze). You guessed it, the woman then was coerced to sneeze on Mike's face. This time he topped out at 45. Pretty gross.
I can't even begin to discuss the demodicids that live on your forehead and in the follicles of your eyebrows because it makes my skin crawl so badly that my hands shake and I can't type. Nor do I wish to elaborate on the bed bug situation in America or the millions of dust mites that live in your sheets and eat dead skin. At this moment I am making such a face of raw repulsion that I can't even see the monitor. I am secretly hoping that the wrinkles and scrunches made by my face are trapping and suffocating the forehead monsters.
If you find these hygenic revelations interesting, you may wish to visit the Dirtiest Man in the World website and see some clips from the show, or take quizzes about parasites and microorganisms. If you need me, I will be in self-imposed quarantine, scrubbing with anti-bacterial soap, rinsing with bleach water, and following up with a hand sanitizer.
Open Letter to the Old Geezer
Dear Old Geezer,
My daughter and I had been looking forward to our day off for a long time. After considering all of our options, we had decided that we wanted to go to a movie. Our dream come true would have been to go see Puss N Boots, but it wasn't out yet, so I checked to see what was playing in our neck of the woods. Luckily we were able to agree on A Dolphin Tale. As a rule, I don't like animal movies - I am a cryer. Flash back to Bambi, Old Yeller, Black Beauty, Marley and Me.... animal stories in general are bad news. I wasn't looking forward to it, but I was happy to spend some time with Sofie and to have a good time.
At the concession counter, I broke down and bought the kid box, with popcorn, a soda and some Skittles. We were seeing it in 3-D, so we juggled the straw, napkins, the precariously filled box of popcorn, and our 3-D glasses down to theater number 8. We were overjoyed to discover that we were the only ones in the theater. We debated which seats were the best in the house, and did a jig down the aisle in celebration of getting the prime real estate in the theater. As we watched the preliminary ads reminding us to turn off electronic devices, Sofie happily told me that we could text or talk or dance to our hearts' content, as we were alone. We contentedly hunkered down for the previews when You walked in.
I am sure that you could see all of the seats in the glow of the previews. How many seats do you think there are in a theater - 100? 200? A lot, that's for sure. You must have seen us, our faces bathed in the dim light, the 7-year old gobbling up the popcorn and the mom relaxing in the reclining movie seat. It really is beyond my understanding why you chose to sit right in front of Sofie. After you had made yourself comfortable, she and I looked at each other in disbelief. I raised my hands, palms to the ceiling, and shrugged, shooting daggers at the back of your head with my eyes. "I CAN'T SEE!" Sofie hissed at me. You may or may not have noticed that we had to move down a few seats. We were disgruntled that we were no longer in the exact center of the universe.
I was convinced that you were a pervert, waiting for the right moment to jump up and expose yourself to us. I made a mental note of all of the exits, and what I had in my purse that would make a good weapon if I were in need of one. I spent the entire first half of the movie peering through my 3-D glasses, and then lifting them up for a better view, keeping a squinty eye on you. I was sure that your nearby presence was somehow going to further mar our moviegoing experience in a manner which I was not yet able to imagine. It was bad enough that you started off in our space bubble, I hated to try to think up what else you were capable of doing. Don't think that I ever forgot you were there. There wasn't a moment in that Dolphin Tale that I wasn't aware of you, two seats over and in front of us, the only other patron in the audience.
Old Geezer, I have my eye on you. It may be dark, and my 3-D glasses may or may not be scratched up, and it's possible that I might have tears in my eyes (it is an animal movie, after all), and my contacts may be acting up if my eyelids happen to be puffy, but Old Geezer, I am watching you.
My daughter and I had been looking forward to our day off for a long time. After considering all of our options, we had decided that we wanted to go to a movie. Our dream come true would have been to go see Puss N Boots, but it wasn't out yet, so I checked to see what was playing in our neck of the woods. Luckily we were able to agree on A Dolphin Tale. As a rule, I don't like animal movies - I am a cryer. Flash back to Bambi, Old Yeller, Black Beauty, Marley and Me.... animal stories in general are bad news. I wasn't looking forward to it, but I was happy to spend some time with Sofie and to have a good time.
At the concession counter, I broke down and bought the kid box, with popcorn, a soda and some Skittles. We were seeing it in 3-D, so we juggled the straw, napkins, the precariously filled box of popcorn, and our 3-D glasses down to theater number 8. We were overjoyed to discover that we were the only ones in the theater. We debated which seats were the best in the house, and did a jig down the aisle in celebration of getting the prime real estate in the theater. As we watched the preliminary ads reminding us to turn off electronic devices, Sofie happily told me that we could text or talk or dance to our hearts' content, as we were alone. We contentedly hunkered down for the previews when You walked in.
I am sure that you could see all of the seats in the glow of the previews. How many seats do you think there are in a theater - 100? 200? A lot, that's for sure. You must have seen us, our faces bathed in the dim light, the 7-year old gobbling up the popcorn and the mom relaxing in the reclining movie seat. It really is beyond my understanding why you chose to sit right in front of Sofie. After you had made yourself comfortable, she and I looked at each other in disbelief. I raised my hands, palms to the ceiling, and shrugged, shooting daggers at the back of your head with my eyes. "I CAN'T SEE!" Sofie hissed at me. You may or may not have noticed that we had to move down a few seats. We were disgruntled that we were no longer in the exact center of the universe.
I was convinced that you were a pervert, waiting for the right moment to jump up and expose yourself to us. I made a mental note of all of the exits, and what I had in my purse that would make a good weapon if I were in need of one. I spent the entire first half of the movie peering through my 3-D glasses, and then lifting them up for a better view, keeping a squinty eye on you. I was sure that your nearby presence was somehow going to further mar our moviegoing experience in a manner which I was not yet able to imagine. It was bad enough that you started off in our space bubble, I hated to try to think up what else you were capable of doing. Don't think that I ever forgot you were there. There wasn't a moment in that Dolphin Tale that I wasn't aware of you, two seats over and in front of us, the only other patron in the audience.
Old Geezer, I have my eye on you. It may be dark, and my 3-D glasses may or may not be scratched up, and it's possible that I might have tears in my eyes (it is an animal movie, after all), and my contacts may be acting up if my eyelids happen to be puffy, but Old Geezer, I am watching you.
Forbidden Act
It's a sin to double dip. I know this because as a child, I was warned not to on a regular basis. You may think you know what I mean, but let me clarify for you. First of all, I am NOT talking about using a tanning bed AND a sunless tanner to achieve a very dark tan (if you could see the luster of my skin, however, there would be no doubt in your mind that I know this is a sin, too). I am not hinting at the practice of simultaneously holding multiple elected positions. Nor am I alluding to the meteorological phenomenon of an "early high" temperature and a "late low" temperature in the same day.
I am referring to the dangerous act of poking a food item, such as a small vegetable or a chip, into a diplike substance, taking a bite, and then inserting same food item back into the dip. The diplike substance may be any creamy concoction, a salsa or guacamole, and extends into the dessert world to include puddings and chocolates that may be available for dipping. A person may be able to avoid the status as a "double dipper", for indeed the scornful label exists, by turning the chiplike item around, so as not to insert the "bitey" into the dip. The "bitey" is the problem, you see, for popular belief is that the "bitey" is adding disease-causing bacteria from the double dipper's mouth back into the dip. Thus it is classified as one of the most dangerous acts to mistakenly execute.
There are many factors that influence the danger classification level, including the formality of the event, the number of guests, the level of intimacy between said guests, as well as the social rank of the offender. As you can imagine, as the levels of these factors rise, the danger level ramps up exponentially. The exception to this axiom is the last factor mentioned, the social rank of the offender. Generally speaking, if it is Grandma or Grandpa double dipping, or the President of the United States, observers will say nothing. The universally unspoken rule is that only persons of equal or higher ranking may call out the double dipper.
Consequences have the potential of being quite severe in the event of being caught double dipping. As stated earlier, the mere label as a "double dipper" can be devastating to the accused. In extreme cases, the person may be shunned from further events involving dip. It is very difficult to shake the label and make a comeback after being identified as a double dipper, and many people have remained on the outskirts of the chips and dip displays for the remainder of their party years.
There are other, less obvious, consequences to consider in the event of a double dip. In most incidents when the infraction is witnessed by multiple people, the dip is seized and inspected. The bitey is isolated and removed. Further inspections ensue to assure all witnesses that the dip is bitey-free, and safe to consume. It is imperative that these inspections, as well as the disposal of the bitey, are done in front of the witnesses. Preventing mass hysteria is crucial, and the reputation of the dip must remain intact at all costs. In unusual cases with multiple or repeat offenders, the dip has been known to be discarded. This can occur with or without the approval of the dip maker. Even with precautions taken, it is still possible that the dip may be avoided for the rest of its table time by guests who suspect that the removal of the bitey was not adequate.
With the holidays rapidly approaching, there are double dip, or "re-dip" patrols on the rise. These clandestine units are generally self-appointed vigilantes who fear bacterial pandemics of the worst sort. They carry Handi-wipes in their purses or man-bags, and have hand sanitizer at the ready in their pockets. Mouth rinse lives in the glove boxes of their cars. There is no spotting these agents ahead of time. You will only know their presence by the calling card left standing in front of the dip bowl. In bold, colorful lettering, it will say, "NO RE-DIPS, YOU DIP!"
I am referring to the dangerous act of poking a food item, such as a small vegetable or a chip, into a diplike substance, taking a bite, and then inserting same food item back into the dip. The diplike substance may be any creamy concoction, a salsa or guacamole, and extends into the dessert world to include puddings and chocolates that may be available for dipping. A person may be able to avoid the status as a "double dipper", for indeed the scornful label exists, by turning the chiplike item around, so as not to insert the "bitey" into the dip. The "bitey" is the problem, you see, for popular belief is that the "bitey" is adding disease-causing bacteria from the double dipper's mouth back into the dip. Thus it is classified as one of the most dangerous acts to mistakenly execute.
There are many factors that influence the danger classification level, including the formality of the event, the number of guests, the level of intimacy between said guests, as well as the social rank of the offender. As you can imagine, as the levels of these factors rise, the danger level ramps up exponentially. The exception to this axiom is the last factor mentioned, the social rank of the offender. Generally speaking, if it is Grandma or Grandpa double dipping, or the President of the United States, observers will say nothing. The universally unspoken rule is that only persons of equal or higher ranking may call out the double dipper.
Consequences have the potential of being quite severe in the event of being caught double dipping. As stated earlier, the mere label as a "double dipper" can be devastating to the accused. In extreme cases, the person may be shunned from further events involving dip. It is very difficult to shake the label and make a comeback after being identified as a double dipper, and many people have remained on the outskirts of the chips and dip displays for the remainder of their party years.
There are other, less obvious, consequences to consider in the event of a double dip. In most incidents when the infraction is witnessed by multiple people, the dip is seized and inspected. The bitey is isolated and removed. Further inspections ensue to assure all witnesses that the dip is bitey-free, and safe to consume. It is imperative that these inspections, as well as the disposal of the bitey, are done in front of the witnesses. Preventing mass hysteria is crucial, and the reputation of the dip must remain intact at all costs. In unusual cases with multiple or repeat offenders, the dip has been known to be discarded. This can occur with or without the approval of the dip maker. Even with precautions taken, it is still possible that the dip may be avoided for the rest of its table time by guests who suspect that the removal of the bitey was not adequate.
With the holidays rapidly approaching, there are double dip, or "re-dip" patrols on the rise. These clandestine units are generally self-appointed vigilantes who fear bacterial pandemics of the worst sort. They carry Handi-wipes in their purses or man-bags, and have hand sanitizer at the ready in their pockets. Mouth rinse lives in the glove boxes of their cars. There is no spotting these agents ahead of time. You will only know their presence by the calling card left standing in front of the dip bowl. In bold, colorful lettering, it will say, "NO RE-DIPS, YOU DIP!"
An Alarming Episode
My daughter was going to be gone for the weekend. The bright spot in this was the fact that in the middle of the night, no one would be crawling over my head to get to the other side of my bed, or poking me and whispering urgently, "MAMA!", or jumping on the snoring monster in my bed. For the most part, I am able to ignore and sleep through those sorts of interruptions, but that last one was especially scary and it hurt, too. I was looking forward to sleeping until the morning sunlight, or semblance of it, danced around my room, and I could luxuriously stretch from one corner to its diagonal opposite without encountering any small limbs, or raising the ire of a small sleeping child. In short, I couldn't wait to go to bed and stay there for a really long time.
Before my daughter left, we had emptied some things out of the car, in preparation for the weekend soccer game, shopping trip, etc. You know how the car gets after a week of frantic running. One thing that I took into the house was a box that had been in the car since the road trip (see Three Mules Abreast). It contained the AAA travel books for Idaho, Oregon, Utah and Arizona, as well as the corresponding maps. As the box was not totally overflowing, I had stuffed a couple of random items in it from the back seat. This may or may not have included a jump rope, a cell phone that didn't work, a deck of cards, some candy wrappers, and a thing that I can only describe as part calculator, part electronic demon. This box was part of the mountain of things that I brought into the house on Friday afternoon, and it landed in a temporary spot in the hallway, outside my bedroom door.
My Friday night plan consisted of eating enough chicken nuggets to make me full, correcting tests, and drinking Mike's Pink Lemonade. I only achieved two of the above action items. However, I did them extremely well. I tried really hard to stay awake for the entire 2 hour special of Prime Time, but as always, I fell asleep and didn't learn how the woman in New Mexico killed her mechanic husband. I knew she had done it from the beginning, because whenever they interviewed her, it was a super-close-up shot of her face, so as to hide her prison uniform. By the time Prime Time was over at 11:00, I was alert again, proud to have detected that it was the wife that did the guy in, but disappointed to have missed the gory details.
After completing my evening ablutions, I snuggled happily into my flannel sheets and grabbed a book from the nightstand. I read for a while until I realized that I was reading with my eyes closed. This is a frequent phenomenon that happens to me, and I may have also mentioned it in a previous post, Sleep Becomes Me. The story was going along quite nicely, until I realized that I was one of the characters and about to come to a bad end. At that point I gave up trying to read and I turned out the lights, looking forward to unlimited, and uninterrupted, sleep.
Imagine my discomfort and confusion when I awoke at o-dark-thirty, to a tinny, obviously battery-operated rendition of The William Tell Overture, by Gioachino Rossini. You may know it better as the theme song from the Lone Ranger radio and TV shows. Gioachino will roll over in his grave when he discovers that his musical picture of life in the Swiss Alps has been programmed into a calculator, battery-operated, electronic tool of the devil. The odd thing is that even at that hour, I clearly and precisely knew that the name of the offending tune was the William Tell Overture, and that it was coming from that box outside my bedroom door. I covered my head with pillows. The finale penetrated the synthetic down blockade. The sound was like the buzz of a mosquito, piercing my brain. I convinced myself that it would come to an end, but it tirelessly started up again. This process repeated itself for what seemed like hours. I knew that if I got up to turn it off, I would not resume my relished slumber. I also knew that I would be rendered senseless if I had to listen to it until the morning sunlight danced around my room. With this music, the sunlight would gallop.
With what I am sure was a heavy, disgusted sigh, I heaved myself out of bed and fumbled toward the doorway. Without contacts, and at that hour, I was not at my light-footed best. I rifled through the box, throwing maps here and books there. Grabbing the devil's device, I stabbed at it with my finger, squinting through the dark, jabbing every possible button that I could detect. The sound stopped and the welcome sound of the silence roared in my ears. Throwing the offending instrument down, I took two large steps back to my bed and thankfully slid in. I closed my eyes. William Tell and his cavalry charged through my head, circled around and came at me again. I opened my eyes. The morning light had snuck in while I was fighting William Tell. "Roll over Gioachino, it's time to get up", I grumbled.
Before my daughter left, we had emptied some things out of the car, in preparation for the weekend soccer game, shopping trip, etc. You know how the car gets after a week of frantic running. One thing that I took into the house was a box that had been in the car since the road trip (see Three Mules Abreast). It contained the AAA travel books for Idaho, Oregon, Utah and Arizona, as well as the corresponding maps. As the box was not totally overflowing, I had stuffed a couple of random items in it from the back seat. This may or may not have included a jump rope, a cell phone that didn't work, a deck of cards, some candy wrappers, and a thing that I can only describe as part calculator, part electronic demon. This box was part of the mountain of things that I brought into the house on Friday afternoon, and it landed in a temporary spot in the hallway, outside my bedroom door.
My Friday night plan consisted of eating enough chicken nuggets to make me full, correcting tests, and drinking Mike's Pink Lemonade. I only achieved two of the above action items. However, I did them extremely well. I tried really hard to stay awake for the entire 2 hour special of Prime Time, but as always, I fell asleep and didn't learn how the woman in New Mexico killed her mechanic husband. I knew she had done it from the beginning, because whenever they interviewed her, it was a super-close-up shot of her face, so as to hide her prison uniform. By the time Prime Time was over at 11:00, I was alert again, proud to have detected that it was the wife that did the guy in, but disappointed to have missed the gory details.
After completing my evening ablutions, I snuggled happily into my flannel sheets and grabbed a book from the nightstand. I read for a while until I realized that I was reading with my eyes closed. This is a frequent phenomenon that happens to me, and I may have also mentioned it in a previous post, Sleep Becomes Me. The story was going along quite nicely, until I realized that I was one of the characters and about to come to a bad end. At that point I gave up trying to read and I turned out the lights, looking forward to unlimited, and uninterrupted, sleep.
Imagine my discomfort and confusion when I awoke at o-dark-thirty, to a tinny, obviously battery-operated rendition of The William Tell Overture, by Gioachino Rossini. You may know it better as the theme song from the Lone Ranger radio and TV shows. Gioachino will roll over in his grave when he discovers that his musical picture of life in the Swiss Alps has been programmed into a calculator, battery-operated, electronic tool of the devil. The odd thing is that even at that hour, I clearly and precisely knew that the name of the offending tune was the William Tell Overture, and that it was coming from that box outside my bedroom door. I covered my head with pillows. The finale penetrated the synthetic down blockade. The sound was like the buzz of a mosquito, piercing my brain. I convinced myself that it would come to an end, but it tirelessly started up again. This process repeated itself for what seemed like hours. I knew that if I got up to turn it off, I would not resume my relished slumber. I also knew that I would be rendered senseless if I had to listen to it until the morning sunlight danced around my room. With this music, the sunlight would gallop.
With what I am sure was a heavy, disgusted sigh, I heaved myself out of bed and fumbled toward the doorway. Without contacts, and at that hour, I was not at my light-footed best. I rifled through the box, throwing maps here and books there. Grabbing the devil's device, I stabbed at it with my finger, squinting through the dark, jabbing every possible button that I could detect. The sound stopped and the welcome sound of the silence roared in my ears. Throwing the offending instrument down, I took two large steps back to my bed and thankfully slid in. I closed my eyes. William Tell and his cavalry charged through my head, circled around and came at me again. I opened my eyes. The morning light had snuck in while I was fighting William Tell. "Roll over Gioachino, it's time to get up", I grumbled.
Firewood Warms My Heart
I have already told you how I love to freeze things, like the jars of cilantro, and that I enjoyed canning the beets because I felt like the squirrel putting the nuts away for winter. I feel the same way about firewood. There is something comforting about knowing that it's there, Just In Case. The funny thing is that I am slow to use up any of the stuff - I haven't touched a jar of beets yet, I haven't wrestled out a new jar of cilantro from the freezer. I want to save it all for "later". The trouble is that later doesn't ever come (this is a topic to explore at a later date). So I have a lot of food sitting in my freezer, waiting for that rainy day, or that day when I don't have any other food to use up. I had to throw out a lot of food from the freezer earlier this year. I did the math. It was older than my daughter, and she was born in 2004.
Firewood is different. I will put off lighting a fire until it is unbearably cold, and the guilt is overwhelming regarding making a small child live in a house without heat. But I WILL use it. In fact, I look forward to the day that I light my fire. This year I am aiming for the end of October. I anticipate lighting it then, and not having to light another fire until Spring. You see, I never let my fire go out. Unless, of course, we go away for a couple of days. Otherwise, we have a perpetual fire at our house. We wake up to a warm house, we come home to a warm house; we like to pretend we are in a cozy cabin, hunkered down for the winter.
I have worked a lot this summer with my chainsaw (faithful reader that you are, you know all about my chainsaw trials), sawing up what I call my brother's trash and my treasure. It's especially funny because his nickname is Man, so Man's Trash is My Treasure. Not just One Man's Trash, not Any Man's Trash, but Man's Trash. It's his trash because he doesn't like to deal with logs or downed trees that are under a certain diameter. He only cuts up trees that are 2 feet in diameter or more. Anything smaller is just not worth his time. It's my treasure because it is small enough for me to manage. I have a small chain saw, and it the perfect size for cutting up My Treasure. I have been scampering through the woods, happily cutting up small trees and my mom has been scampering faithfully behind me, making woodpiles with them or tossing them into the back of the truck.
Some of our woodpiles are pretty cute because they have "antlers". This happens when I saw up a tree and I miss cutting a branch off on the underside, so when Mom picks up the logs, some of them have branches still attached. She stacks them with the branches pointing upward, and ¡VOILA! We have antlers.
Truck loads of wood are driven back to the house and split, with the log splitter, of course. A load is then hauled to my house and the wood is stacked in my woodshed. I am especially happy now because last weekend we finished filling my woodshed. Anything extra is now going to my holz hausen, a really cute kind of woodpile.
The holz hausen is thrilling to me because I am trying to get a year ahead in my firewood storage. Plus it is German, and attractive. What more could a person want in a woodpile? If I am a year ahead, all the firewood I burn will be properly dried and will burn to its potential, giving off nice, toasty, penetrating heat. It will not clog up my chimney with creosote and threaten to catch my stovepipe on fire. That's a bonus.
Every couple of days I mosey out to my woodshed. First I admire its design. I designed it after looking at different woodsheds on the Internet, and I quite like the looks of it. It allows air to circulate and dry the wood, yet protects the contents from the elements. Then I gaze in wonder at the construction. Man helped me get it started, and I finished the sides and roofed it myself. Then I proudly note the firewood that is inside. I stroll up to my holz hausen and openly stare at it, and it makes me smile. I know just how the squirrel feels. I am the squirrel.
Firewood is different. I will put off lighting a fire until it is unbearably cold, and the guilt is overwhelming regarding making a small child live in a house without heat. But I WILL use it. In fact, I look forward to the day that I light my fire. This year I am aiming for the end of October. I anticipate lighting it then, and not having to light another fire until Spring. You see, I never let my fire go out. Unless, of course, we go away for a couple of days. Otherwise, we have a perpetual fire at our house. We wake up to a warm house, we come home to a warm house; we like to pretend we are in a cozy cabin, hunkered down for the winter.
I have worked a lot this summer with my chainsaw (faithful reader that you are, you know all about my chainsaw trials), sawing up what I call my brother's trash and my treasure. It's especially funny because his nickname is Man, so Man's Trash is My Treasure. Not just One Man's Trash, not Any Man's Trash, but Man's Trash. It's his trash because he doesn't like to deal with logs or downed trees that are under a certain diameter. He only cuts up trees that are 2 feet in diameter or more. Anything smaller is just not worth his time. It's my treasure because it is small enough for me to manage. I have a small chain saw, and it the perfect size for cutting up My Treasure. I have been scampering through the woods, happily cutting up small trees and my mom has been scampering faithfully behind me, making woodpiles with them or tossing them into the back of the truck.
Some of our woodpiles are pretty cute because they have "antlers". This happens when I saw up a tree and I miss cutting a branch off on the underside, so when Mom picks up the logs, some of them have branches still attached. She stacks them with the branches pointing upward, and ¡VOILA! We have antlers.
Truck loads of wood are driven back to the house and split, with the log splitter, of course. A load is then hauled to my house and the wood is stacked in my woodshed. I am especially happy now because last weekend we finished filling my woodshed. Anything extra is now going to my holz hausen, a really cute kind of woodpile.
The holz hausen is thrilling to me because I am trying to get a year ahead in my firewood storage. Plus it is German, and attractive. What more could a person want in a woodpile? If I am a year ahead, all the firewood I burn will be properly dried and will burn to its potential, giving off nice, toasty, penetrating heat. It will not clog up my chimney with creosote and threaten to catch my stovepipe on fire. That's a bonus.
Every couple of days I mosey out to my woodshed. First I admire its design. I designed it after looking at different woodsheds on the Internet, and I quite like the looks of it. It allows air to circulate and dry the wood, yet protects the contents from the elements. Then I gaze in wonder at the construction. Man helped me get it started, and I finished the sides and roofed it myself. Then I proudly note the firewood that is inside. I stroll up to my holz hausen and openly stare at it, and it makes me smile. I know just how the squirrel feels. I am the squirrel.
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| My woodshed - front |
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| Side view |
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| Top view of holz hausen - how does this not make you smile? |
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| Side view - it's not finished yet! |
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