Trimming the Load

 I still have papers I wrote for school, one at hand from 45 years ago, a paper from a class in the experimental novel when I was an undergraduate at Black Hills State College in Spearfish, SD.  I loved it there.  I enjoyed my classes.  This one, taught by Tom Herbeck, who I came to know as a brilliant scholar and writer, has stayed with me since that time.  

The paper I wrote, dated May 8, 1981, for Tom's class was about The Stranger, by Albert Camus. It's nothing special, but here it is, near at hand, with Tom's comments pencilled in and a half-sheet of paper attached with a typewritten commentary on my attempt, xxxxed out mistakes and all.  

I'm going to throw it away today.  I valued those exercises, reading carefully for insights and big ideas.  But nothing now will come of these papers.  Once I had an idea that I would publish some of the later ones, not this undergraduate one, but others, later.  I even sent one out, got positive comments back with suggestions for revision, but that's where it stopped.  

From my attic these papers come as the wife and I try to clear that out.  The other at hand is a paper from a seminar on the literature of the African diaspora, a course taught at the University of Kansas by Arthur Drayton, dated October 29, 1992.  That was the fall I spent in Lawrence to qualify as two consecutive terms at KU necessary for completion of my PhD, which never happened.  I couldn't finish.  But the courses were good, and I was hopeful after my job ended when my school, St. Mary of the Plains College in Dodge City, closed that spring.  February 17, 1992, I think, when the announcement came.  

I got other jobs.  I finished a PhD elsewhere, with other good professors.  

Drayton too was positive in his comments.  Maybe that could have been a publishable paper.  It was printed on a dot matrix printer, so by that time I was using a computer.  Maybe a digital version remains somewhere.  

In that paper, I took on a topic that continues to intrigue me when I read, when I write.  It's the pull between the community and the individual, adhering to the group or striking out on your own.  I write here about three books we read that semester:  Arrow of God, by Chinua Achebe, Bridge of Beyond, by Simone Schwartz-Bart, and Praisesong for the Widow, by Paule Marshall.  I have no memory of the second book, and little of the third, but Achebe's work stays with me.  

It was hard work, writing those papers, especially the later one, when I was living in a motel room in Lawrence with my family across the state.  My children were small.  I was away all week, some weekends.  It was hard.  

But I enjoyed that life of study, of books, of sharing ideas, learning, reading.  Tom Herbeck died years ago.  Drayton is probably gone, too, along with many of my other great teachers.  

It's all good.  I can let these papers go, and with that, maybe I can put more in motion, toward the past, toward trash, saved in memory.  

Suddenly, September

Writng the title above caused me to flash back to seeing my older brother for the first time in a college play in Aberdeen, SD.  I don't think I'd ever been to a live play on stage apart from some high school silliness.  It was the Fantasticks, with the song "Try to Remember."  

I'm reminded too because I've been purging stuff that I've hung on to for long enough--time to let it go.  Among that stuff is a small batch of letters from my grandfather, old friends, and other family members, including from brother Joe, who wrote from Wisconsin and Ohio when he was in the theater.  

I also found a copy of a play that I didn't remember I had, one I helped write with him and the members of Dakota Theater Caravan.  I read it last night, maybe for the first time.  I'm not sure it was finished yet when this copy was printed on a dot-matrix printer (remember those?).  Set in the Black Hills, the play centers on controversial plans for mining in this beautiful area.  

Anyway, looking through that material last night made me look back over a long life, professional and otherwise, and people and projects long gone.  I never saw that play performed, though it was, but I could see my mark on it, and that's something.  

Reminders

Sometimes I need to remind myself that writing is a kind of comfort for me, to put down in words some of what is whirling in my head. So here goes. This morning I made a list of some of the things I'd like to do. It doesn't yet include exercise or a meal out with friends, both of which are on the agenda. But it does include nine other things, one of which is "blog." 

 It's been a year since I made an entry here. And a lot has happened since then, though one of the things I keep hoping the wife and I can put together--some travel--continues to be elusive. I did go to San Francisco and hang out with my two brothers out there for a week. That was pretty great, even without going to the many civic offerings of that great city. So that was one trip. And we did have a good year for Poetry on the Road, our poetry project from the South Dakota State Poetry Society (SDSPS), visiting 21 towns across South Dakota to read and host open mic events.  And we're doing it again.  We did spend a couple of days this spring at Oakwood Lakes State Park.  

One constant is the vast array of projects that continue to occupy my time.  I just rented a 62 foot crane and cleaned the wood stove chimney and installed a new cap, earlier renting another crane and replacing the shingles that have blown off in our wicked wind storms.  I bought and sold a pickup.  Almost bought another house.  Bought an old Beetle convertible, perhaps a mistake.  I'm working on a mosaic piece.  I remodeled the upstairs bathroom and leveled the floor.  We stripped the wallpaper off the upstairs hallway, and that remains an unfinished project.  Last summer I completed the restoration of the front porch.  We planted a nice garden again and have enjoyed its harvest of cucumbers, peppers, and especially tomatoes.  

After I finish here with the old blog, I'm going to pay bills, take out the garbage, mow, pay for repairs on the van, and maybe exercise.   But I also need to deal with an accident on Saturday, when a woman driving an SUV backed into the side of my lovely BMW convertible.  I've got to go to the police station, get the report, contact a body shop, and maybe drive the car there to have an estimate done.  I'm hoping they will repair it, not total it out.  We'll see what happens, so stay tuned.  

Summer, 2025

Over the years, the wife and I have typically spent a chunk of the summer traveling to far-off places, one of the options available to teachers who claim the season for renewal and refresh. This summer, however, was a different story, with one thing after another claiming time and energy to such a degree that neither of us left South Dakota at all. Not even Minnesota, only a half an hour awy. It's no tragedy, not spending part of the summer traveling, but there's a different weight to it, a feeling as though we've been pinned down by events and people in need. Being home for the entirety of the summer gave us time to watch a sad destruction unfold next door, as an empty lot next to ours has had its entire stand of trees removed, and it now is a vast expanse of dirt and crushed saplings, all its mature trees, including some century-old cottonwood trees, pushed over and plucked out by workers in heavy machinery that too was parked next door all summer. In the aftermath, we now can see the houses and sheds and hear the children and vehicles of people who live more than a block away, who were once hidden and silenced by the trees and shrubs in the now-empty lot. Our back yard seems smaller now, somehow, though we can see further, hear more. In our country, the sense is that if you own a piece of land, you can do with it as you wish. No notice to us was given of the plans next door. Machines showed up one day and the destruction began. It took weeks. Meanwhile, the deer and rabbits and other wildlife that lived in the small forest, adjacent to our own stand of trees, now have to find a new place to be. So our summer, our staying at home and watching that destruction, has given us a close and visible counterpart to the national destruction of agencies and institutions that have served the American people well. There on the news another agency is gutted, and another tree falls next door. Each day, another attack on the country's systems, another swipe at the lot next door. There will be another summer. Soon, houses will appear in the chopped-up parcel next door, and we'll live on. But it won't be better.

Gathering with Friends to Watch

Sometimes a big spectacle can bring people together in good ways, even if it's just on the TV. You sit around and as the event unfurls, you chat and give it the attention it deserves. Sunday's Super Bowl LIX was an event that lent itself to talk more than attention on the screen. What talk there was about the game moved to prior disasters in the contest, for example the 1985 game between the New England Patriots and the Chicago Bears. The Patriots got off to a 10-O start, but then the Bears ran roughshod over them the rest of the game, including a TD run by the Refrigerator. And more such discussion about clobberings in the big game. So, the Chiefs championship shirts and caps get sent off to faraway places (why Estonia and Latvia?) and confetti rains down on the Eagle victors. Maybe next year the Vikings will pull through. Or the Lions.

Safe at Argonne

Yesterday, for an outing with the wife's father Tom, we headed north from Howard to De Smet, where we cruised around town looking for the familiar places for them, and a first for me. I'd been there before, but never driven through downtown. We cruised by places where Tom's father in law, the wife's grandfather, lived and volunteered, and where his wife grew up. We passed a familiar park, locations where things once were and are no longer. Then we lunched at the Oxbow restaurant, with familiar food, chicken fried steak, roast beef sandwich, Oxbow ruben sandwich. And we learned about who died and who hadn't yet. Then we hit the road again headed for Carthage, with a pause at what used to be Manchester, where a category 4 tornado obliterated the town and made the news nationwide. 6 casualties, 1998. Now only a memorial marker identifies the town. Then on to Carthage, another town slowly marking time as it declines. One memorial there is a sign that identifies the many churches that were there and are no more. Still, the Cabaret, a small-town restaurant with a cosmopolitan name opens some evenings and weekends and features specials for those in town and those in the area who are in the know. Another small restaurant sits across the street. Is it still open? The fields around Carthage are empty after the tractor-trailer rigs left town upon finishing filming "Into the Wild" back in the day. But Lake Carthage still offers some recreation, and a few fishermen brave the ice, not sure how thick it is, but reluctant to drive out to see. From Carthage we turn to gravel to seek out Argonne, still on the map but with no residents, no standing, just a sign telling how the town thrived along a railroad and tipped its hat to World War I vets when it changed its name from St. Mary to Argonne for the soldiers lost there. We drive along a grassy path past a tree with homemade signs marking 3rd Street and Elm Stret. The car bumps along dragging its belly along the ridged trail, grass sweeping the bottom. We look down 3rd Street, but the winter heat wave has turned the frozen trail to mud. Finally, we stop at the one standing structure, the bank vault from a defunct and departed bank building. Its iron door hangs open, offering whatever treasures it now holds to any visitor to Argonne. We stop a moment for photos, and we drive on, searching our memories for who lived where and when, the map of remembrances faulty and faded, the familiar elusive, the past a windy cloud of dust behind us as we continue.

The End of Another Year

I think it's back in 2005 that I started this blog without a clear idea of where it might go. I got a lot of fun out of it at first, had some followers and commenters on it; maybe that was before we all started spending so much time on Facebook, me included. I remember looking at where looks were coming from, some around the world, Europe and Asia and all over the US. I got a kick out of that, knowing that people in other places had an interest in what I was posting. Things petered out. But there's no reason not to write, right? It's been a pretty good year. Taught a class for DSU this fall semester in "AI in Literature and Media." It went pretty well; I got good feedback in person from the people in the class, and who cares about the surveys they took. The wife and I traveled to Finland, Estonia, and Latvia this summer, having a good time once again far from home. Our Estonia time was mostly with a couple of great hosts, Jack and Sirje, who used to live in Madison and are now in Florida. They showed us around that remarkable country and gave us an idea of what the people there had been through. Beautiful places, all three countries, with a bully of a neighbor to their east. I managed to do most of a porch rebuild this summer, though winter came on before I could finish the porch rails. Still, it looks much better. This spring I sold the house I'd worked on for a year and a half. That was cool, a nice profit. I edited another issue of Pasque Petals, the poetry magazine of the South Dakota State Poetry Society, SDSPS, and we poets traveled around the state reading and hosting poetry gatherings. That was especially rewarding. In all, a pretty good year. I hope yours was too, and your next one better.

The Secret History

 My latest book was The Secret History, by Donna Tartt, which I finished last week--and then took up Bill Bryson's In a Sunburned Country, a completely different kind of book.  More about that later I hope.  

Tartt is the author of The Goldfinch, and both of these books reveal an imagination by the author that goes into such detail the lives of the characters are fleshed out in such detail you can see them walking the streets.  

I was a little disappointed by the ending of The Secret History, but Tartt takes the reader on a spectacular ride through a little Vermont town and its liberal arts college.  The students there, who make up the cast, are insulated by the wealth of their families, which allows them to indulge in ways most of us only imagine--and generally frown upon.  One exception is the narrator, who (like Nick Carraway in The Great Gatsby) is an outsider, a student there on scholarship, not wealth.  This character, Richard, is taken in by a group of wealthy students, and he hides his western, middle-class background from them.  

This mix of students, and the faculty member who dotes on them, are ripe for trouble, and Tartt gives it to them in spades.  Though it sometimes left me marveling--and wondering--about the inclusion of some detailed asides, it's a great read, and at about 600 pages, will keep a reader engaged for a nice long time.  

What's On Your Mind

 I've been reading a wonderful book by Debra Marquart--The Night We Landed on the Moon.  You can't get much better than this.  It's a wonder of essays on small things that the author weaves into visionary meaning.  What begins as a commentary on her mother planting trees in her old age becomes a meditation on hope and the long view.  A childhood memory about a tough classmate and a old woman becomes a kind of ghost story.  Beautiful.  You finish one essay and want to sit and marvel, both at the tapestry she weaves and the skill of her prose, but you soon find yourself wanting more, like savoring a chocolate bonbon and yet wanting more as soon as you finish.  I haven't read a book that so moves me in a long time.  I'm not yet finished, but I don't look forward to having read all the essays and come to the end.  Thank you, Deb!  

The Traveling Sort

 The wife and I are a day away from another visit overseas.  We have enjoyed travel, though preparations can sometimes feel burdensome.  All the reservations, research, and anxiety can take a toll on the pleasure of anticipating a huge change of pace and place and culture--a dose of the world as it is in another location.  

One of the things I like most is the release from my regular activities--from visiting longtime friends and family to mowing the lawn and making myself a peanut butter and honey sandwich.  I enjoy those things, but having a hiatus from them and then returning to them full of new and novel experiences makes them all the more comforting.  

Last summer in Italy we were immersed in the ancient history and culture of the place, from Greek and Roman statues and monuments to work from further back or unfamiliar--Etruscans and others.  We loved the food and drink, both new and traditional.  But we also enjoyed modern conveniences like high speed trains.  

It's hard sometimes to try to share those experiences when we return; friends and family who have less interest or experience in travel often don't share our love for novelty, and after politely listening to snippets of travel tales, they update us on what we missed in our absence.  

Still, we love our jaunts, whether we cross an ocean or not, and we'll continue.  Last year, Italy.  This year, Finland, Estonia, and Latvia.  (Sorry, Lithuania, you'll have to wait for a future visit!)  

Bootjack Available!

 I'm happy to note that my first real book of poems--Bootjack--is available for purchase from me or from the South Dakota State Poetry Society.  You can order it here:  https://sdpoetry.org/product/bootjack/

It was published in 2023, but I got copies only after the turn of the year, and some of them were badly printed, so the printer ran an entirely new batch, so I have lots of copies, and so does SDSPS.  Contact me if you'd like a copy and I'll send you one, signed if you want!  

The book includes poetry about my family, my mom and dad, who appear on the cover, and about growing up in the little town of Ft. Pierre, SD.  I also write about my travels in China, Europe, and the US, and about literature and literary figures who saturated my thinking as I taught American Literature for over 30 years.  

You can read below from the fine comments that I got from readers who appreciate my work.  

I would love to send you a copy, dear reader!  

 

My Poetry Book is at the Printer!

 Yes, I've been publishing poetry in small magazines since the 80's.  I may have been wearing a mullet when I wrote some of them.  And I always dreamed about having a book collection out there in the market, but I never took much action to make that happen.  

But my poetry book, Bootjack, is being printed, or at least in the queue for being printed.  It's the second book publication from Pasque Press, the publishing arm of the South Dakota State Poetry Society.  The book features some poems about South Dakota, but there are also many travel and literary subjects.  It would be great to have that in hand before Christmas time.  Many of the poems are very recent, but some date from those mullet days.  I'm proud to having it come to fruition, and if you're reading this, you'll be hearing more about it soon.  

If you're not familiar with bootjacks, they were a standard item in the houses where people wore cowboy boots.  Bootjacks made it easy to get your tight boots off, which can be tough if you like your boots nice and snug like I do.  And bootjacks were a required project in our high school shop class, so everyone (all guys, back then, no girls), took one home, cowboy boots or no cowboy boots.  

Check out the other holdings from the South Dakota State Poetry Society and the opportunities there at sdpoetry.org. They publish Pasque Petals, a twice-yearly magazine that focuses on poems and poets with a South Dakota connection.  And they host contests and workshops.  This year they're also hosting Poetry on the Road events throughout South Dakota.  If you have a chance to get to one, you'll hear good SD poets and have a chance to read poems of your own at the open mic!  

Welcome to February, Humans

 It's the last day to submit poetry to the spring issue Pasque Petals, which is the publication of the South Dakota State Poetry Society, and for which I am the editor for the fall issue.  So, naturally, it's time for me to submit some poems.  

Who knows why a person like me, procrastinator extraordinaire, waits through the months and weeks until he comes to the very edge of failure, to finally act?  

Who can say?  Some of us hold on to the idea of possibility as long as we can, releasing it only at the last minute, when actuality is required.  

A Purge

 The wife and I near the end of another successful purge of material items from our home, 496 items, one for every numbered day in the month of January.  One item for the first day, two for the next, and so on through the month.  And they're not trivial items, including some books that were easy to hang on to, hand made ceramics, and irreplaceable souvenirs from trips.  

Have we used the item recently?   Do we need it?  Do we love it?  Most material things, things we keep in the house and ignore for sometimes years, are only burdens, weights on a sense of freedom.  They're things we choose to keep in our care, whether we have to dust them or not.  If we wanted to pack up and move to Italy, for example, we would need to deal with the items, whether we sell, donate, or set them on fire.  

Right now many of the purged items await their fate in our dining room, and there I see some things that were projects long delayed.  Most things have gone to the thrift store; some, gifts from generous friends and family, have gone to distant thrift stores.  

Our 496 or so items are merely a drop in the bucket.  We've had a brief discussion about extending the purge through February, so if you're in the market for a beer-making kit, rarely used, or wine-making items, shoot me a line or watch the online markets.  We might lighten our burdens further.  

Edit:  Shortly after posting the message above this morning, I read an article in the Guardian indicating that Marie Kondo, the Japanese woman known for preaching de-cluttering, has decided she now has other priorities--her three kids.  Now, she says, her house is messy.  So there.  

Fall Colors

Happy Native American Day!

It's good to know that South Dakota is doing something right in regard to the fall celebration of Native People, unlike many of the other states that celebrate rather the arrival of Columbus to the continent.  Much more could be done for South Dakota Native peoples, which was in evidence as a friend and I drove out recently to Custer State Park's Buffalo Roundup.  One might comment on the place name changes that have occurred over time to eliminate some egregious choices--for example, Black Elk Peak, the highest in the Black Hills.  How about dumping Custer from the state park roster?  

But I'm thinking more of the abject poverty that still plagues the tribes.  Efforts to lift reservation communities from their struggles don't seem to be doing the trick.  It's still like a drive through an impoverished country when you approach, and then drive through, places like Pine Ridge.  We could do better, both as a nation and a state.   

Packing the Days

 Yesterday was an example of the kind of days that have been rolling along this summer and into the fall.  One thing after another as I try to get a number of things taken care of and behind me.  The day began with some typical activities, not under any pressure, having some coffee and solving a few puzzles to keep brain fogginess at bay as the brain ages--sudoku, quiptoquip, mini-crossword, wordle.  Then I got on the treadmill and walked three miles, alternating this past week between running a bit and walking versus just walking.  It feels like things are going better and taking off some pounds I really don't need.  Shower.  

Then breakfast and off to the lumberyard to get some drywall to patch the hole I cut for the plumbing repair, which seems to be working just fine, thank you very much.  Then to the hardware store for new guts for the upstairs toilet, that seems to want to stay running after you flush it.  Both projects await.  

Then off to Winfred to help with the harvest, driving a grain cart for Joe and Gary as they reap the corn rewards of summer.  Meanwhile, plenty of messages rolling in from Casualene and others looking to help a family new to Madison and arrange for a refrigerator delivery since I had one to donate.  Other messages to arrange for help moving the fridge.  With harvest done for the day, off to Tom and Karen's to pick up a dolly to move the fridge (with a nice talk with Tom trying to ease more into easier living), then to Howard to get ready to move it, then John arrived to help (with a nice talk with John about random stuff) and off to Madison to deliver the appliance to a trailer court, where I was met by Casualene and her husband Ken and son Isaac.  Got the fridge in the dilapidated trailer as the family and some young missionaries watched.  

I hadn't been through that trailer court for years, and never often, and the state of things in some of the homes made me both cringe and feel gratitude that my own trailer court days are behind me.  There are those who seem to have so little that a dirty sagging trailer serves as a welcome refuge, and I was happy to know that my donation of a fridge I didn't need would make a difference for them.  

Then, finally home to the wife and supper and some pleasant viewing of Derry Girls, season 3, on Netflix.  

Tucked into all this are brief moments in the tractor jotting down some lines and tidbits inspired from harvest action and aimed at a little poetry.  Finally then, finishing my Roddy Doyle novel Love and off to dreamland.  

More plumbing

 Still more plumbing.  I haven't yet been able to identify where the plumbing leak is, and the plumber I called has not responded to a message on his machine.  So currently the upstairs bathroom is a mess, though the shower and sink are still functional.  Today I need to put the toilet back one way or another, whether there's a leak or not.  We've got company coming.  

My niece Tina and her toddler Violet will arrive in SD on Saturday and my sister Rita will pick them up from the airport.  They'll stay with us a couple of days and visit Mom, who has yet to meet her youngest great-grandchild.  She's looking forward to it.  

News today is of Putin's call for more conscripts to fight his losing battle in Ukraine.  News on that fight is front and center of my news consumption, and the uptick in rhetoric about the invasion sent another chill through me as I think about what it all might mean for the rest of the world.  It's a dangerous situation, with one man with a grudge and an ego to match feeling cornered and condemned by the West.  He's got a lot of power over what Russia does, but perhaps his latest gamble will undermine the support he has for his actions against Ukraine.  

So my plumbing problems are pretty small in comparison to the devastation happening in Ukraine, but I look forward to getting that situation resolved.  

2022 is Slipping Away

 Tempus fugit.  That phrase has been running through my mind recently as the weather starts to change and summer chores turn to preparation for fall, then for winter.  I've always taken pride in taking care of business for myself, the chores that need to be done around the house and yard, the maintenance on the house, repairs and updates.  But recently there's been more than enough to go around.  

The summer began with a huge windstorm--the derecho that hit Madison in May and kept us busy with huge downed trees and damaged buildings, both at home and at the rental property.  Work on a flip house I bought in March ate up much of the summer.  Covid.  Drought.  Renters moving out, with the updates that come from that process, including painting the entire garage and the trim on the house.  Furnace troubles there.  Yard work.  

Most recently we discovered a leak in the plumbing in the upstairs bathroom.  Dealing with that problem is on the agenda for today.  The seeping water has been going on for some time, and it damaged the 220 volt line running out to the dryer in the back entry, requiring a new line, which I installed yesterday after the electrician that came said he got it working (he didn't).  His diagnosis was that the dryer was bad, so we went hunting for a dryer (and considered buying a washer/dryer set) until some friends offered their old dryer when they bought a new set.  But it was the line, and our dryer was fine.  It's all back together.  But the leak remains.  And we have an extra dryer sitting in the back yard.  

Meanwhile, the rental garage still isn't painted, the flip house awaits, and my visits to my mom in the nursing home have fallen off.  

Also--and maybe this weighs more on my mind than anything else--some of my family have cut me off from communication.  The past couple of days have seen some changes, though.  One brother and his son are in town to see Mom, but there's nothing from them and I suspect I won't see them.  Messages go unanswered.  Same with my daughter.  And another brother.  At the same time, another brother who has been simply out of touch for years called and we had a good talk.  Maybe that's the way these days.  It's easy to let go of people, I guess.  Maybe it always has been.  

But time goes on.  I'm not sure if it heals wounds.  

A Second View

 When I began this blog, it was fun to expound on the world around me, near and far (mostly near), and I posted several times a week for a while.  I commented on everything from our garden to travel to food and drink.  And sometimes, rarely, politics.  2021 has passed with one commentary on finishing my wood pile, which has since once again become a mess, even though as winter has set in, my wood pile has begun to shrink once again, its summer preparation being fed into the maw of our hardy wood stove.  

I'm sure our new year will have many challenges and joys, but for now the year is ending quietly, with days growing slightly longer with each sunrise.  I look forward to what the new year will bring.  Some say that a good ritual is burning something from the old year to mark a new beginning.  I've got a pile of logs that will serve.  

One small completion

 Many things in life to unfinished, from old needlepoint projects to old car restorations.  Search on Craigslist for "project" and you'll find a wide variety of items for sale that have been revealed to the owner to never be complete--cars, motorcycles, furniture, houses.  

I've had one such project in the back yard--one of many, but I'll tell about this one--waiting for completion and today, now finished.  It's not much, really, but after several early mornings of hard work and persistence, I'm able to call it complete.  

It's my wood pile.  I'll use much of it this winter, but for now, it's all cut, split, and stacked, drying this summer for when the cold comes on and I decide it's time to fire up the wood stove as a bulwark against the frigid wind and snow.  

Some of the wood was fairly new, even some only a few days since being gathered and dropped in the yard, but some of it--and this is the key--has been back there for years.  Many years.  I had been gathering and piling up logs in preparation for the cutting, splitting, stacking, but much time had passed for some of them.  As I was tipping up some of the stumps to be split, you could see that earthworms were beginning to get comfortable beneath the logs, and in some, colonies of ants had taken up homes and burrowed tunnels for themselves, scurrying from the newly split logs in frantic haste, many of them carrying precious eggs, hunting for a new place to nurture them into being. 

In the past, rabbits, squirrels, and even a woodchuck had taken up residence or shelter in my wood piles, and mice were frequently evident in the wood I brought in to the house, so that Penny, the dog, sniffed carefully at the fragrant firewood.  

But for now, there is a vast space in the back yard, where the tree limbs and trunks awaited my effort, and now, after hours beginning at 7am at over 70 degrees, and this afternoon, now at 98 degrees, I can call it finished, an impressive woodpile, nearly six feet high, six feet wide, and over 20 feet long.  Add that to the smaller woodpile left from last year, and I think I'm good to go for next winter.