I've been hauling bolts of wood home in the trunk of my Honda. My neighbor has pointed me to a seemingly endless supply of wood, much of it Derecho-derived, sawed into pieces but not split. No one should ever have to buy firewood again, is my argument, and so I'm spending a lot of time bear-hugging bolts of oak and maple and hauling them to my car and then back to the city. By my back door rises a Ziggurat of unsplit wood, a pile that grows despite my whittling away at it with wedge and sledge and the occasional vicious blow with the axe.
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