Frozen logs and fiery determination

there's no one happier than a Webber with a woodpile

I knew he was there.

I heard him all afternoon.

The sounds of hydraulics carried over the hill and through the trees.

I was off in the back, cleaning up damage from Finona that was on top of damage from Dorian.

One of the more fun aspects of having land in a hurricane prone area is naming firewood and lumber after the storms that felled the trees.

Or.

Partially felled them as the case may be.

I spent the day with the saw and the come-along untangling a nest of massive trunks at the top of the hill behind my folks place.

My uncle?

From the sounds of things he was working the wood splitter - likely getting firewood ready for the campers this summer.

As it happened, I didn’t know it was him, but I was pretty sure I could identify where and what that sound was. Filling in ‘uncle’ was the only logical conclusion.

I’m sure was able to do the same with me.

So there we worked all afternoon. Though not working together, the sound of the splitter let me know that I wasn’t alone.

It’s a funny thing.

When I’m…