Yesterday was Thursday, the 26th of February. I knew that only because I had a practical reason to check. Otherwise, I probably wouldn’t’ve known (or bothered). What date it happens to be simply doesn’t bear much on my life these days.
You could attribute that to “retirement,” I suppose — during my working years, calendar and clock governed my every move. Schedules. Meetings. Socializing. Relationships. That feels so very foreign now.
Oh, I do have an inherent awareness of time. Most often it’s marked by the position of the sun, daylight and darkness, waking hours’ warmth and nights’ chill.
I also have a sense of personal history. That is, I often find myself acknowledging where I was and what I was doing on a particular day five years ago (or ten or twenty). Fortunately, I can remember the past without getting stuck there.
So it was yesterday, when I checked the date.
At that pre-dawn hour, I thought about the direction this blog post might take. Just 12 months before, I recalled, I was choosing words to explain how my world had changed in ways I’d never imagined.
I paused briefly to remember that.
Then, with neither ceremony nor second thought, I went about my Thursday.
I’m wholly invested in this moment, this day, this life. I’m committed to the present, not burdened by an irrevocable past that doesn’t serve me today.
Every so often, however, a well-meaning friend will bring up some subject I seldom think about. Information comes to me that I didn’t ask for. Whether intentionally or inadvertently, a specter to which I’m indifferent appears.
We used to call such things “reminders.” These days, they’re “triggers.”
I have no triggers. Nothing sets me off. Nothing sets me back. Though I’m a product of all that I’ve experienced, I don’t drag it around with me.
Here and now. Whatever day it is, that’s what matters.
. . .
I didn’t share this image in Wednesday’s post because I figured it was cool only to me. And maybe it is.
While up near the summit on Tuesday, and for the first time ever, I was able to see the Butterball mill from The Mountain — not just the lights atop the tower, but the concrete structure itself. That’s almost eight statute miles away. (Photo at 30x zoom.)
. . .
I guess yesterday was my day off from woodswork. I wasn’t completely idle, however — Smudge and I had four errands to run in Yellville.
Of those, one is worth mentioning, namely a trip to the Marion County Transfer Station. I had three bags of trash to deposit, plus a bag of recyclables.
What makes it noteworthy, I believe, is how long it had been since we went there. You may remember me bragging last time that we set a new record for time between trash trips — 83 days.
That was in November. The new record now is 116 days, less than a week shy of four months.
If I’ve mastered nothing else, at least I’ve learned to manage garbage. Burning, composting and recycling combine to greatly reduce what I have to haul away.
It saves money, too. Yesterday’s deposit cost me only six bucks (plus the gas to get there and back). I think that’s pretty great.
When I split firewood, I use a chopping block. It’s a personal preference, developed over time.
Lots of experienced woodsplitters don’t, opting to set their rounds upright on the ground. (Often the rationale is that it limits the amount of bending and lifting required.) I’ve even seen folks swing an ax (or a maul) like a golf club at pieces lying on the ground.
To each his own. I have a few reasons for doing it this way.
The first is pretty simple –– it keeps the bit of my ax out of the dirt. Chips and nicks are inevitable, of course, but when a perfect swing cuts all the way through a cooperative round, the edge will bury itself in the block instead of striking a rock.
Also, when I’m not worried about my ax getting dinged-up — and I’m mindful of that — I’m less likely to “short-arm” my swings (subconsciously letting up on impact to protect the tool).
Second, an 18-inch to 20-inch chopping block puts the typical round where my ax will strike it with maximum force. Go back to what I said several months ago about head speed — that’s what I mean.
The point of impact generally is 36 to 38 inches above where my feet are planted, wide apart and well back from the block. When I make contact, my arms are fully extended and the ax head is moving at top speed.
My follow-through, then, is almost straight down into the chopping block.
Yes, I’ve split rounds that are sitting on the ground, out of necessity. Sometimes there’s no other way. I find it awkward — tall as I am, by the time the ax head strikes the work it’s past the apogee of its arc and coming back in my direction.
And that brings me to my third reason for preferring a chopping block — control. The greatest force and highest head speed are directed down, toward the round and the block, instead of at my ankles.
Glancing blows and ricochets, which are bound to happen, are much easier to arrest and deflect.
As always, this is how I do it, not how to do it. You do what works best for you.
Take care of yourselves, Patriots. Stay calm. Stay sharp. Stay free.
#WiseUp #LibertyOrDeath #Ungovernable