The irrepressible Miss Smudge had me awake early Christmas morning, as if anxious to see what awaited her under the tree. (I didn’t put up a tree.) After the usual business trip, I gave her a little holiday treat — a sprinkle of shredded cheese on her breakfast kibble.
She appreciates that sort of thing.
There would be no Christmas fire in the woodstove. It wasn’t the least bit cold in the cabin at wakeup, and the afternoon high was forecast to be 76°F. (It ended up being 81°F.)
Instead, I lit a couple of scented candles, one pine and the other cinnamon. That felt right.
My own breakfast was a bowl of oatmeal — with dates, walnuts, raisins and honey — and wheat toast with huckleberry jam. Black coffee, of course.
When I stepped outside shortly after sunrise, the western horizon was aglow, almost surreal. A layer of dense fog added to the magic, staying beyond and below us.
I have the Liberty to spend my waking hours as I choose, and this Christmas would be no exception. Naturally, I’m predisposed to work.
I first started putting up my own firewood here a couple of years ago, a by-product of cleaning up and clearing the woods off the driveway. I bucked and stacked whatever was worthwhile.
Some of that wood, maybe 20% of it, went to a covered woodpile next to the first fire pit I built. I hadn’t touched it since. Yesterday I decided it was time to transfer it down to the wood yard — and allocate it to heating the cabin this winter — before it rots and becomes useless.
I left only a small pile of hardwood behind at the fire pit. There’s a considerable stack of eastern red cedar nearby for outdoor burning, and the wood yard is right down the driveway.
The bed of the Ranger held what I had to move, just barely. My destination was a short pallet at the north end of the yard, off by itself now that I’ve used up virtually all of the cordwood I bought in 2023.
Wood relocated from the fire pit now rejoins the other black locust, oak, hickory, elm, ash and persimmon I harvested when clearing the adjacent woods.
There’s a lot of seriously good fuel in that stack. It’s all thoroughly seasoned. Almost none of it requires splitting, either, and what does can be processed easily by hand.
And then I burned trash.
Before I left the lower level, I brought out my ax, split a big, knotty oak round and stacked it.
My bruised knee complained about that.
Though I haven’t lit the woodstove in days — and I may not again ’til Sunday night — I also brought up a load of firewood to resupply the indoor rack.
(Yes, I sorted it by size when I dumped it by the cabin’s north door. It’s what I do.)
Christmas lunch was a light one. Originally I’d intended to take Smudge to the summit and dine there, and yesterday would’ve been the ideal day to do that, but my sore knee isn’t yet up to woodswalking with the Heeler.
That’s smoked Gouda, garlic summer sausage, granny Smith and flour tortilla, with horseradish mustard for dipping. Wonderful.
A nap happened.
Smudge eats her dinner around 5pm, and I always take her outside beforehand. This week, that’s been perfect timing to catch post-sunset color in the western sky.
Christmas Day’s show didn’t disappoint.
I suspect there have been a lot of delighted sailors in Ozarkansas these last several days.
After feeding Smudge, I made the Christmas dinner I’d long planned. I began by scrambling three eggs in my go-to cast iron skillet.
I heated up a serving of November’s batch of homemade chili, ladled it over the plated eggs and topped the dish with shredded cheese, sour cream, minced red onion and crispy jalapeño rings.
Huevos Ubi Libertas — that was my Christmas dinner. Amazing, if I do say so myself, and absolutely perfect.
And that, dear readers, was my Christmas. I couldn’t be happier with how it turned out.
Take care of yourselves, Patriots. Stay calm. Stay sharp. Stay free.
#WiseUp #LibertyOrDeath #Ungovernable