Tales from McDougal Lake
One thing that can happen is the cord can be stacked crisscross, which while it is graphically pleasing to some, to others simply means they got a short cord. Other short cords arrive short because the length of the logs is only eighteen inches rather than two feet.
This is normally explained by the excuse that a two-footer wouldn’t actually fit in your fireplace.
Not only is this simply not true, says Bud, but if you put a couple of your size twelves in there end-to-end, you can certainly see it for yourself. Edwin, who takes a similarly dim view of short logs, likens it to space-saver tires, where any damn fool knows there’s room in there for a full-size spare.
All this was at risk of getting Edwin started on Face Cords, which are simply eight foot by four foot by eighteen inches, and are usually stacked crisscross, theoretically so they won’t tip over. As far as that goes, says Bud, if they think they can stick you with a face cord, they’ll probably stick you with punk wood to boot.
Punk wood, Bud feels, is a wilderness lesson in itself.
Punk wood is known to woodcutters as old wood that’s been lying on the forest floor so long that it’s all broken down inside, and there’s nothing left to hold the heat. Punk wood, Bud observes, will never be any good, as opposed to green wood, often sold as seasoned, which will simply be good once it has time to dry out. Which, Edwin points out, doesn’t do you a whole lot of good if you’re trying to get a fire going in January, and the wood some rascal sold you isn’t going to burn until next fall.
Still, all of this fine knowledge, sound opinion, and all-around general insight was not going to finish up the widow Pritchett’s two cords of yellow birch promised to her for that very afternoon.
“Why don’t we just give her the one, and promise her we’ll be back with the second one tomorrow,” said Bud, darkness now falling over the remaining day.
“Can’t make that promise,” said Edwin. “Already promised her both for today.”
“By the time we stack the one on her porch, she’ll be ready for a good fire anyway,” offered Bud, noting a late nip in the lake air.
Edwin stopped and looked up at the heavy sky as a large flock of geese circled the lake and prepared to stop over and feed.
“Tell you what,” said Edwin. “We’ll bring her the one cord, and while you’re stacking it, I’ll take some in and make her a nice fire, the kind women like, and that way she’ll see what a fine batch of yellow birch this is.”
He did, and she did.
And as it happened, Edwin did stay for dinner, not to leave, in fact, until the moon was dropping well into the western sky.
As for the second cord of yellow birch, it waited to be split well into the next afternoon, gray in the cold November wind sweeping past the geese on McDougal Lake.
