Vermont Stories: Cutting Firewood

[Michael Colby]

Melvin stopped by today. He heard the chainsaw racket I was making.

The noise carries so freely down the valley.

“Whatcha doin’?”

It seemed obvious enough. I was running a chainsaw and standing in front of at least seven cords of cut and uncut logs.

But that’s Melvin.

And he continued: “Cuttin’ firewood?”

Again, obvious enough. But Melvin’s retired. He’s got time.

I try to wait him out. He’ll eventually get to the good parts.

He paced around the pile. He noticed everything but tried to pretend otherwise.

“That’s an 18-inch bar, ain’t it?”

He knew my saw had an 18-inch bar.

“I never cut firewood with nothing but a 24-inch bar,” Melvin offered, as if I had been asking. “That way, you don’t have to bend over.”

I wasn’t rude enough to mention Melvin’s missing fingers or severed Achilles.

But at least he didn’t have to bend over.

[Author]

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