Cutting Firewood During Warm Weather

Polly

The weather has been brutal over the last several days.  Last weekend the wind ripped all night with gusts in the 50 mph range.  The chairs on the front porch yo-yoed from one end of the porch to other all night.  We had 6-8 inches of fine, powdery, almost sugar-like snow two days ago with another dusting yesterday afternoon.  Then it got cold – really cold.  This morning the temperature is hovering around zero with a slight breeze.  I turned Rudy, the recovering deer hound, out just after daylight.  He did his business and quickly begged his way back inside.  Polly is possuming – she’s the smart one.

I got up around 4:00 am this morning to load the woodstove.  There was still a nice bed of coals and a couple of sticks of oak caught right up.  I climbed back into bed, but never really went back to sleep.  Back up for good around 5:45, I read a while, warmed by backside by the stove a while, then read a little more.

I cut most of our firewood last summer.  I recall slinging a maul reminding myself how nice a fire would feel on those cold winter mornings.  Today we enjoy the fruits of that labor.

Last November I spoke to a group of law enforcement leaders on the elements of success.  One point I always come back to is timing.  I pointed out that timing is not just a matter of being in the right place at the right time.  Timing has more to do with the ability to recognize opportunities and when the time is right to act (or not act).  Successful leaders focus on the horizon, scanning for opportunities or pitfalls, while still maintaining a sense of where their next step will land.

To those living in the moment, the horizon is nothing but an obscure, nondescript strip of nothingness.  Doing foundational work is boring.  Scrutinizing a budget when revenue is high seems ridiculous.  Cutting firewood in July makes no sense. 

Backed up against the stove this morning, enjoying the work from last summer, I recalled a quote:

“The true meaning of life is to plant trees under whose shade you do not expect to sit.”    Nelson Henderson

It brought to mind a conversation from my days back in the office.  We were discussing planning and I was asked how far into the future I was looking.  When I told them I was looking out 3-5 years, the response was, “You won’t even be here.”  I knew that was true, but recognized that someone else would be there and they might need some shade.

While some of those points on the horizon are places we have never seen, the fact is, most of life is circular.  Travel far enough around the world and you will end back up where you began.  But, what about emerging issues?  Distill away the filler, and most problems revolve around a handful of recurring themes.  There truly is nothing new under the sun.

Yet some are still shocked some when it turns cold during the winter.  And in disbelief, they pulled on their coveralls, snug down a toboggan, fire up the chainsaw and finally start cutting wood.

Blue Ridge Parkway

Warden Tales: Johnny Morris, Miss Missouri and an armless Nicaraguan Guitar Player

Throughout my wildlife career I had experiences that were humorous, exciting, terrifying and extremely boring.  The most memorable moments were down right bizarre.

While I was colonel my boss upstairs, (my work boss – not God) called and asked if I could pick someone up at the airport.  We had this political thing that evening so I figured it was someone coming in to schmooze.  I told him I would be glad to and asked who was coming in.

Bass Pro Shop founder Johnny Morris
www.mensjournal.com

“Johnny Morris will be flying in from Missouri.”  

"Bass Pro Shop Johnny Morris?"

"Yep."

My mind went on a wild tear of “just maybes.”  Just maybe we can talk about fishing.  Or maybe Johnny (I figured we would go to first names immediately) would invite me to fly back to Missouri with him to hangout for a few days (I would pack an overnight bag just in case).  Or just maybe he would feel so safe and secure in the comfort of my black Ford that he would lure me away from the NCWRC to become his chief of security.  Obviously, the possibilities were endless.

After an hour or so of bragging to everyone in the office that I would hanging with JM that evening, my phone rang again.

“There’s a little change of plans.  Mr. Morris will have a passenger coming in with him.”

Miss Missouri Sidney Friar
www.missmissourinews.wordpress.com

“No problem.”

“It’s Miss Missouri.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

My mind was reeling.  Not only did I stand a really good chance of being given a Bass Tracker – no, a Nitro bass boat - for my excellent driving and host skills, now an evening with a beauty queen was in the mix.

I spent another hour updating everyone that would listen on the newest member of my crew for the evening.

The phone rang.

“There’s another development.  There will be a couple of more passengers – a bluegrass band from Branson.  Is that a problem?”

“Well, no – it’s not a problem.  But I can only squeeze so many in the Crown Vic.  We may have to bring a second car.  And what about their instruments?”

“I’ll check and call you back.”

I had this vision of a bass fiddle strapped to the roof of the car with banjo and guitar necks stuck out the window as Johnny Morris, Miss Missouri, The Darlings, and the game warden rolled up to a rich guy’s house. 

Ride mister?

A few minutes later the phone rang again.

“We’ve got the band covered – a service is coming to pick them up.  Get this, the guitar player doesn’t have any arms.”

A long pregnant pause.

“I’m serious.  They said he plays with his feet.”  Another long pause.  “You might have to give him a hand with his guitar.”

Tony Melendez
www.mtv.com

Give an armless guy a hand?  And there we had it all laid out.  I had gone from budding with the king of the Bass Pro empire, to kicking back with Miss Missouri, to Branson bluegrass band roadie, to jokes about an armless man.  Surely it couldn't get worse.

As promised, I met them as they got off a private jet – the jet that just hours earlier I thought may whisk me away to a dream job or two days fishing with the king.  Johnny Morris was extremely friendly and a sincerely nice guy.  Miss Missouri became Sidney  – a friendly 20ish woman that was younger than my daughter.  The bluegrass band was a father/son combo with another young player – all very polite.  And Tony Melendez, who didn’t need a hand with anything – another nice guy.  I figured this evening would be salvaged.

The band threw their gear into a couple of SUVs that had come for them and I led JM and Sidney over to the private terminal.  They needed to change for the gathering.  Sidney pulled a Clark Kent.  She ducked into the restroom, shucked the jeans, and seconds later reemerged as a beauty queen.  I loaded their bags into the trunk and both hopped into the backseat.

Now I truly felt like a chauffeur.  “Where to Miss Daisy?”

I made the short trip across town to the party.  It was a Who’s Who of conservative politics.  The governor was shaking hands on the back porch.  Department secretaries were bumping into each.  NASCAR legend and NRA board member Richard Childress was working the crowd.  I was parking the car.

The host welcomed everyone.  We had barbecue.  The governor made a short speech.  Johnny Morris gave a warm testimonial on the value of conservation.  Others spoke.  The band played a few songs.  Sidney sang (she has a nice voice).  Tony took the stage.  He was inspiring.  He told of being born in Nicaragua and of the challenges he faced growing up in Los Angeles.  There was no bitterness.  Although most folks had already pulled out, he led the remaining group in a version of Let It Be.

It was a weird day and a strange evening.  But, I still had the trip back to the airport and I knew that this time Johnny hang with me up front - talk Carolina rigs and crank baits.  Nope.  I pulled the car around and they hopped in the back.  To the airport colonel.

I felt as though I was trapped in a bad joke: Johnny Morris, Miss Missouri, and an armless Nicaraguan guitar player walk into a bar…

As we drew near to the airport, I asked Johnny if he gets to fish any these days.  He said that it was mostly work related, but he still got on the water.  I suggested that maybe the work angle took some of the fun out of it.

He thought for a second and said, “You would think so, but even after all these years I still love to fish.”

That made me like him even more.

The Zen and Art of Spring Pump Maintainance

Three nights ago I heard the words that strike fear in most men – “We don’t have any water” (Cue Psycho Suite to capture the mood).  In an act of pure denial, I walked, then ran, from faucet to faucet with a naïve hope that the problem was isolated to one location.  In a matter of minutes my worst nightmare became a reality.

Fortunately, I took advantage of gravity and caught a few gallons from the basement sink before the pipes completely drained.  I pulled on some extra clothes and trudged down the hill to the springhouse.  I heard a rattling noise that even my untrained ears diagnosed as a bad pump.  I threw the breaker and decided it was a project for the next day.

The Problem

The next morning I had to go off the mountain to Mt. Airy to instruct at the community college.  During lunch, I stopped by a big box hardware store and dropped $222 on a new jet pump.  I figured to get back home around 4:00 pm and in a matter of minutes, maybe an hour or so, I would have water once again flowing through the pipes.  A plan.

It was upon arrival at home that a cascade of frustrating events began to wash over me.

First, my purchase was a different brand so none of the old fittings fit the new pump.  It was 5:30 pm.  All the local stores were closed.  So, we trekked 25 miles down the mountain to big box hardware #2 for fittings.  Spent 30 more dollars.  Then back up the mountain.

The fittings went on easily and I envisioned a hot bath before bed.  I wired the pump and bolted it to the floor.  I primed the pump by pouring water into a tiny hole - most went on my feet.  I was struck with the sudden realization that I was in a small wet building, standing in water, about to throw electricity to a pump that I hoped I had wired correctly.  Oddly as I reached for the switch I heard Wagner's Flight of the Valkyries and had a vision of people at my funeral whispering, “He should have called The Plumber.”

The Solution

I held my breath and flipped the switch.  The new pump whirled and I smiled a victorious smile.  Heck, I may have even pumped my fist.

The tank gauge wiped away my smile.  No pressure.  I retraced each step hoping I had overlooked something.  Threw the switch – whirling motor – no pressure.

My dream of a hot bath became a warm bath of water heated on the stove.

The next morning I called The Plumber.  Hearing the desperation in my voice he promised to be there “sometime after lunch.” 

By 5:00 pm I was growing more frustrated.  He arrived at 6:00.  In all fairness, it was “after lunch.”  It was 25 degrees with a sustained wind of 25 mph and gusts hitting 50.  He was terribly sick and sounded horrible.  I wouldn't have blamed him if he had left.  I fought off an overwhelming urge to hug him.

I followed him down to the springhouse, watched him open up the top of the pump, prime it, and confidently throw the switch.  No pressure.  He cocked his head and gave a surprised, “Umm.”  I knew we were in trouble. 

He messed with it for nearly two hours before concluding that air in the line that was keeping it from properly priming.  He suggested changing one of the fittings and drew a diagram on how to install it the next day - Saturday.  He said he planned to lay up and recover.  But he told me to call if I needed any advice.

The next morning I made my way to Sparta to the local hardware store around 9:30 am.  I bought the items on my list and saw 50 more dollars added to my credit card.  I told the guys this was my third trip for this project.  They glanced at each other and flash a hint of a smile.  "We are open to noon.  We'll see you after while."  They should change their customer service motto to, "Encouragement and Affirmation for the Do-It-Yourselfer."

I followed The Plumber’s sketch, got it all together and I hit the switch.  No pressure.  I called The Plumber and he said it had to be a bad pump – the one I just bought for $222.

Back down the mountain to the big box hardware.  Swapped the newest pump for another.  Another 25 winding miles up the mountain.  Hooked everything up for the third time and hit the switch (I no longer feared electrocution – at this point death would be deliverance).

The pump purred and the gauge rose.  I almost skipped up the hill and triumphantly twisted the kitchen faucet.  A stream of water about the size a pencil slowed to a drip and then stopped.

I called The Plumber again.  He walked me through checking the pressure in the tank.  I added air to the tank and then once again climbed the hill back to the house.

After 72 waterless hours, two bucket baths, four trips to three different stores,  200 miles driven, one plumber visit, two plumber calls and at least 50 trips up and down the hill from the springhouse to home, we had water.  I celebrated by washing clothes and taking a hot bath.

I had a very perceptive friend who said men are predators.  It was his position that we are wired to chase, catch and kill or conquer things.  In cases like this it makes perfect sense to call an expert and is probably cheaper in the long run.  One of the great mysteries of masculinity is how we can’t walk away from these projects.