THE WOOD AGE
When our son was diagnosed with a hereditary tic disorder, we were told it sometimes coincides with obsessive compulsive disorder. The diagnosis seemed so out of the blue.
Then I thought of the firewood.
In our central Auckland backyard, tidy stacks of logs climb up the fence, big rounds of wood sit on the lawn waiting for an axe, and branches get a suntan laying over our vegie garden. Chainsaws are my husband’s calling card.
When Euan and I moved into our house a decade ago, there was no wood burner. After careful research, he chose a glass-fronted, iron model that was twice as big as we needed. I’ve since learned pōhutukawa burns long and hot, oak comes a close second, followed by mānuka and pine. Each piece of wood we burn is scavenged from the neighbourhood and chopped in our backyard.
Obsessive collecting, stacking and storing of wood is a legitimate pastime in my husband’s family. My father-in-law Robert’s barn sits like a rainbow over a paddock, ending in a pot of colourful flowers. Inside, the wood is stacked neatly, as if Robert has played a giant game of Tetris. Each log has been measured, chalked, then hand-sawn or split with an axe. Each log is stacked according to type of wood, thickness and dryness. The barn contains the work of Robert’s retirement years and an insurance against
