“Every man looks at his woodpile with a kind of affection.” This quote by Thoreau is one of my dad’s favorites. I, personally, cannot completely relate, as I have never chopped a single piece of wood, let alone created an entire woodpile. Still, I imagine that such a feat would require quite a large amount of energy and effort. And, I certainly can appreciate the love that develops when one creates. The things that require so much of our time and skill come to embody our very efforts in a sense. I see this in the way that I adore my creations and in the fleeting bit of sadness that comes each time I sell a handmade card or give away a knitted scarf. So, in that sense, I can understand the whole woodpile concept.
But regardless of all this, woodpiles do make me think of Fall. They remind me of the way that my dad always prepares for the colder winter months by creating a rather impressive collection of hand-chopped wood. Each year, the carefully stacked pile begins its slow procession inside once the Autumn months hit. It gradually diminishes in small clusters of three or four logs each time the winds blow hard and the hearth craves a warm blaze. The woodpile, I suppose, knows its purpose. Without fail, it graciously serves. It warms and it comforts. It mesmerizes with a seasons-worth of glowing, enchanting fires. And, it’s even perfectly content to be a source of admiration for its affectionate creator.