THE WOODYARD

My interest in wood fires began when I was quite young.  My sisters and I liked to camp out in our pony's pasture, building a fire to accompany our ghost stories and roasting marshmallows. 

Today, more than seventy years later, my preference for wood fires remains so that I find myself as an old woman still looking forward to using my little wood stove as winter approaches.  This requires some foraging, which also appeals to my primal nature. 

Today, my foraging becomes a real task as I drive on the tree-lined back roads of Petaluma toward Cotati, enjoying the autumn light illuminating the gold and russet leaves accompanied by a breeze that carries the hope of winter and rain. 

I am headed for one of my favorite destinations, the wood yard, because I have acquired a large collection of logs over the summer from the tree trimmers. 

As soon as I turn off Old Redwood Highway I am in another world, where men still work on ancient machinery to build custom wood products.  But I am headed to the back of the yard where I see tall pyramids of firewood stacked in front of a mountain range of huge logs. 

My friend, Braleo, is waiting for me and I follow his hand signals to back my van in snug next to the wood splitter.  He knows instantly how to place the massive odd shapes to lie between the sharp metal wedge and a block of steel.  When I hear the compressor's noise become louder, I know the sound of a crack will come next as I watch the grain of the wood where the blade was placed separately to make a wood fire log. 

But it is the towering wood that calls to me and I turn to the spectacle of its authority – a mountain of thirty-foot-long logs that stand in solidarity behind the twenty-foot-high pyramids of firewood.  They also stand together in cohesive chaos.  Being a maker of art by piecing fabric together to make geometric designs, I am in awe of this massive pile of wood, all pieces, all different and all the same, all free as they arrive from an elevated conveyor belt falling many feet to find their place. 

As I look at the wood standing all together in majestic silence, I become part of their sacred atmosphere, filled with the fragrance of wood. I am grateful to feel what the wood has to offer.  Perhaps all my years of falling free have made it possible for me to stand here and be a part of this moment.