My friend and I were scouting for dry wood, when a late-model pickup truck stopped on the road nearby. The driver shouted to my friend: he had towed his wood splitter close to my shed. He gave her brief instructions, then he sped down the road: he and his buddy were going hunting.

Nearly a month ago, he had come to my farm to fell a wild cherry tree that had grown into my fence. I had asked his help because I do not trust myself to take down a standing tree. Within ten minutes, he had dropped the tree in the pasture. I offered to pay him.

“Just make me a pie sometime, “ he replied. “What kind do you like?” “Apple.”

“Are you still splitting wood by hand?” he asked. Yes,” I replied. He nearly snorted with disgust and incredulity. “You can borrow my log splitter if you want. It is so much easier,” he added.

Now, with winter coming, I had little wood ready for the wood stove that heats my old farmhouse. Several weeks ago, my friend and I had cut hickory, ash and cherry logs and stacked them in my shed. None of them split easily. Perhaps they were wet; perhaps green; perhaps I was getting old and weak.

We had just had a soaking rain. I could drive my tractor along the hedgerows of my farm looking for dry wood, but I would leave ruts in the ground. My best option was to split the wood I already had. I called my neighbor and asked if I could borrow his splitter. He delivered it mid-afternoon.

My friend, a country woman, knew how to use it. She set the choke, opened the gas line, and pulled the handle of the gas engine. When the engine warmed, she opened the throttle. She controlled a simple lever to move a steel wedge forward and back along a heavy horizontal beam. On one end of the beam, a steel plate with three teeth held the log. A metal ring stopped it on the other end. The engine was loud. It sputtered as the wedge hit the log. Then it drove into the log with a ripping, splintering action. She backed the wedge out of the log, turned it ninety degrees and powered the wedge forward again. In less than thirty seconds, the quartered log dropped to the ground. Soon, we had split all the wood we had.

We let the wood dry in the sun and the wind. Just before bed, I covered the pile with a blanket after hearing light snow was likely. By morning, snow barely covered the grass. The day stayed overcast and drizzly. By late afternoon, I decided to stack the wood inside the shed rather than risk it getting wet.

I pulled out my ax to split the larger pieces. I drove the ax into the top of the log. It stuck there. Then I remembered: let the ax drop. I did. The hickory split cleanly. For the next hour, I danced with wood and ax. In the brisk moist air, I recalled my Dad: he loved trees and splitting wood. I looked at the grain of each log and imagined the trees--hickory, cherry, ash—reaching skyward in their own distinct way. I chose where to aim my ax. I swung it over my head, then let it drop. The wood split cleanly, glistened and smelled fragrant. I felt the way one does when one hits the sweet spot with a bat or golf club.

I am grateful: my neighbor lent me his splitter; my friend and I worked together; I now have wood ready to burn. I now also know why I like to split wood by hand: I connect with the wonder of trees and wood and feel the power and grace of my own body dancing with the rhythm of the work. The noise of the engine and the tearing wood gave me wood, but it left me cold inside.

At the impeachment hearing, the lawyer described everyone being mad. Could it be that we are sad? That we are grieving the warmth of connecting with our own bodies, with one another and with nature? Splitting wood gives me inner warmth. I recommend it: wood warmth can be so warming.