plenty of dry whiteash
Tuesday, December 20 2022
At noon today I went out with my big battery-powered chainsaw to the gulch carrying water down from the Farm Road north of the Chamomile and cut down the remains of a dead mid-sized white ash that had snapped off about 20 feet above the ground. Standing dead wood tends to be dry, at least when it's not white pine, and I wanted this wood for immediate use in the woodstove. After bucking all this wood into stove-length pieces, I then cut up a smaller dead white ash that had fallen on its own. There's a lot of dead white ash in the mesic microclimates of the gulches, and it's unlikely I'll be able to use most of it before it gets destroyed by rot. I put together a backpack of this material, and along with some dry chestnut oak from west of the Farm Road, the resulting contribution to the indoor firewood supply reached about five feet above the floor. That's getting close to the maximum the indoor wood rack can hold. I hadn't expected to get to full-capacity in the living room so quickly; all it took were a few days of directing every backpack load of salvaged firewood indoors.
This evening after she got back from watching Wakanda Forever with Ray, Gretchen had me watch the first three episodes of a show called Letterkenny, a fast-paced comedy about several groups of youngish people in Canada (the license plates read "Quebec," but none of the characters are obviously French Canadian). Some of the people are "hicks," others are burnout hockey players, and there is also a group of evangelical Christians led by an obviously gay pastor. The dialogue is much faster and cleverer than anything natural, and sometimes the mumblecore delivery through the fairly light Canadian accents makes it hard to follow. And it's never shy to dwell on the deeply profane or scatalogical; there's a whole episode called "Fartbook" about a hastily-developed social media site built around audio recordings of farts. Gretchen finds it all very hysterical, but, strangely, I only found it somewhat amusing. Perhaps it was the 150 milligrams of diphenhydramine that was kicking in. I hadn't taken any in over a week so perhaps it was hitting me in a way that suppressed my ability to enjoy comedy. (It definitely affected my speech centers, causing me to talk as little as possible so Gretchen wouldn't get concerned about what the fuck I'd taken this time).
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