"Firewood warms you twice: Once when you split it, and once when you burn it."
-Benjamin Franklin

I go to the barn and get the axe used for splitting firewood. It's got an extra heavy head. Carrying the axe at my side, I go to the woodpile. The day is sunny and cool. Perfect for splitting firewood. I take off my shirt. At first, the breeze feels chilly on my bare sking. But not for long.

I take a log from the neat pile. Hardwood. A dead, standing tree felled over the weekend by a neighbor with whom we have an agreement: He cuts them down and gets half of what he cuts. I do all of the splitting.

I position the log up on end. I kiss the blade of the axe. I stand with my legs spread apart, and raise the axe over my head. I inhale deeply, the smell of the woods filling my nostrils. I focus my eyes on a point on the top of the log. Everything else disappears. I just see the little spot on the top of the log at the center of the concentric rings.

"Huaaah!"

I bring the axe down. I make a good split, but our neighbor has cut these logs pretty long, about eighteen inches. I pry the axe from the log. Now, I focus my attention at the split I've made.

"Huaah!"

I bring the axe down again. The cut is clean. The log flies apart in two even hemispheres. I stand up half of the log. Focus my attention. Bring the axe down. Almost without a sound, I split the log. Then I do the same to the other half. One log has become four good-sized pieces of firewood.

I pick up the pieces, and walk them over to the woodpile and stack them neatly. The stacking gives an opportunity to rest a bit before the next log.

I split another log, and then another, and then another. My mind drifts.

"Born on a mountaintop in Tennessee..." I sing to myself. "1814 the Creeks uprose, adding redskin troubles to our country's woes. Now Injun fightin' is something that he knows, so he loads up his rifle, and off he goes. Davey... Davey Crockett, Kind of the Wild Frontier."

I probably couldn't have picked a more offensive song to sing to myself, especially given my ancestry. We learned the song in Fourth Grade. Probably my juvenile revulsion at singing about the extermination of native americans is the reason the song sticks in my head.

I've worked up a sweat now. The muscles in my lower back feel tight. I've split eight logs. Not bad for a half an hour's work. Now it's time to head into the house and get something to eat before welding class.

I take the axe back to the woodshed. I kiss the blade. I replace it on the nails in stud of the wall, close the door. The wood I split will probably keep us warm for a weekend. So much more to do.

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