Brad Bowen brought four cords of firewood last week, a mountain of green wood dumped at the end of our driveway. It’s destined to be burned next winter, not this coming one.

This winter’s wood has been quietly, patiently waiting its turn in four round piles in our front yard behind the roadside hedge of rugosa roses, flowering quince and a mutli-branched basket willow.

The woodshed, which was emptied by last spring of its firewood, has, all summer, held construction debris, appliance boxes, those huge pieces of Styrofoam and big plastic bags that seemingly encase everything you buy these days.

The logistics of a major renovation such as we did last winter are staggering. Nothing is ever where it belongs, and what’s in its place has no business being there.

So the number one rule of wood burning – that each piece of wood should be handled only once -- the rule every proud wood-burning Mainer claims to follow, was broken five times over.

I have no idea how that works. The best we ever managed was three times: stack it; carry it in; put it in the stove.

And since we don’t have a woodlot, we’ve always bought our wood. Back in the day we got four-foot lengths which Wally cut and split, stacked, and carried in. I put it in the stove. A couple of years he got tree-length, a grapple load some call it, but he hated climbing all over that huge unstable pile with a chain saw in hand and went back to four-footers.

Eventually we started ordering it all cut and split from Brad in Belfast. It arrived in two three-cord loads; Wally would have the first load stacked in a day and a half, working alone, then call Brad for the second.

The other morning my upstairs D-I-L, Tracee, determined this would be the week-end to stack the wood. She calls the shots on these things, and the rest of us – husband, kids and grammy – just show up.

She had us all in our assigned places Saturday morning: the 10-year-old would work with her 8-year-old brother, moving the old wood in the wheelbarrow to the woodshed where their dad would stack it. (Grammy had already taken the cardboard, Styrofoam, etc. in one giant load to the dump). Meanwhile, D-I-L, the 6-year-old and Grammy would start setting up the first beehive pile of new wood.

These beehive piles are handsome and have always attracted attention. They’re also much easier to build than a traditional stack with its log cabin ends and tendency to topple over. The beehives are stable enough to withstand the six-year-old and his irrepressible urge to climb.

Over the years we’ve had many inquiries on the way we build them. Start by laying out the base – 6 to 10 feet across – with the split firewood pieces side by side around the circumference, facing the middle. The pieces should be angled a bit so the inner ends touch. Add a second course, using thin, horizontal pieces to raise the outer edge slightly so each course tips inward. As you build up the outer wall, fill the center with the wonky pieces, as well as armloads of everything else. Most of the wood will go into the center. Build the outer wall about chest high, then keep filling the center until it won’t hold anymore.

Then build another.

Our crew of three children, two strong adults and one slightly wobbly grandma moved some three cords of old, dry wood into the shed and built five new beehive piles of green wood in about six hours over two days.

The younger members of the crew were a bit more enthusiastic the first day, carrying and tossing heavy pieces of green wood, pulling the loaded cart to and from the diminishing pile, handing dry wood to the dad as he built neat rows inside the shed, than they were the second.

The fun had grown thin by then. Sticking grass up your nose to make yourself sneeze, throwing burdocks at your brother, wandering off to play with caterpillers all seemed more interesting than picking up yet another piece of firewood and putting it somewhere.

Although they stuck at it, the three adults were getting a little goofy by the end as well. Finally sitting down and admiring the finished piles with a cold PBR in hand felt just right.

Town

A special town meeting to consider a moratorium on inland waterway moorings will be held Sept. 24, 6 p.m. in Walsh Common, the school multi-use room. Read the ordinance here or get a copy at the Town Office.

School

The fall Open House at the school will be 6-7 p.m. Tuesday, September 18.

The LCS soccer team, which has won its first two games, plays at Appleton Wednesday, Sept. 19 at 3:45 p.m.

The cross country meet will be at LCS, Thursday, Sept. 20. The boys run first at 3:30 p.m. followed by the girls at about 4:15. These home meets and games are a great opportunity for many of us to come out on a fall afternoon and enjoy the excitement whether or not we have a child or grandchild playing.

Bruce Haffner has started up the LCS chess program with Monday afternoon meetings, 3-4 p.m. and every Tuesday and Thursdays at 7:15 a.m. Yes, kids actually get up early for chess! Check out the Lynx newsletter for Bruce’s take on chess. For instance, “Chess wires children’s brains for math, science and creative thinking…..chess teaches concentration and builds self-confidence.”

Library

The Needlework group meets Tuesday, Sept. 18, 4-6 p.m.

The Library’s Book group also meets Tuesday at 6 p.m. to discuss Love and Ruin by Paula McLain.

Wednesday, Sept. 19 Watercolor Journaling will be held at the Library 4-6 p.m. All are welcome!

When Summer Ends

Here’s an email I got from a friend who lives near one of Lincolnville’s many ponds with a vibrant summer population:

“I've been pretty melancholy about the summer people leaving. Being the only year-round house on this dead-end dirt road, I look forward to the summer folks, their kids and grandkids and dogs and all of the comings and goings on what otherwise is sometimes a lonesome road. We socialize with some, just wave in passing to others. Mailboxes are put up and then taken down, until ours again stands alone. This year I talked two families into leaving theirs up for the winter. It seems cozy, and there is some safety in numbers. I will retrieve the junk mail they receive, add it to my own and take it to the dump.  

“A week ago we had an experience on our little road that really summed it all up for me. Spouse and I were down the road, anticipating having dinner with dear friends here for their precious three weeks. Suddenly a distraught husband arrived in his car, saying that his wife and dog were in trouble down on the pond. He had been swimming, the woman and dog were watching. The dog stepped on a fishing lure that was in the rocks in the shallow water. The wife tried to help the dog, managed to hook herself with the other end of the heavy lure. Paw to finger, there they were. 

“We scrambled, some to the barn to find tools for cutting the lure, some to our house for tweezers and antiseptic and ice packs, some to the pond and the dog and the woman. The large dog and the strong woman were soon on the deck, she in a chair, the dog with two front feet in her lap, one foot so securely hooked to the woman's little finger. 

“The roughest of the characters in this drama, who had been very busy with his chain saw and a very large tree, was now on his knees, tenderly and very quickly and competently cutting the hooks and releasing the lure. The husband was holding the dog, I was holding the hand of the hooked woman. My spouse was holding her stomach and averting her eyes. 

“Soon the hook was expertly removed from the woman's hand, which I then cleaned and bandaged. The dog needed to go to the vet. Everyone helped to load the car, and off they went to Rockport to the emergency vet, who quickly helped the dog and sent the family back to Lincolnville and the pond. While they were doing that, the rest of us cleaned up and had dinner. On our way home, we stopped in to check on woman and dog and very weary husband. All was well. Their dinner was late.

“In the morning we received a very kind note and a bottle of wine. 

“But the night of the emergency on the pond, we received much more; the gift of summer, of friendships, of disasters averted and paws held; the gift of community, of neighborhood, however fleeting. 

“May it always be so, for us here, in our little corner of the world.”