We don’t own a farm — but we do own a backyard, and our greatest export is firewood. The tall oaks through whose branches the wind chatters and sighs, the second growth forest that has shaded us in the summer and given us pause in the winter (how many more wind storms and ice storms can that one stand?) is not healthy these days. We’ve lost a lot of good trees. And at least two of them have been lying for months (even years) in large chunks in the nether regions of our yard.

So on a wind-whipped morning last week, Tom rented a wood splitter and set about the task of turning logs into firewood. He had done this once before, but the wood wasn’t seasoned. This time the logs split quickly, crackling as they went. The hum of the machine and the hiss of the great logs as they gave way lent our yard a lumber-yard excitement. It was an all-hands-on-deck family chore. We were part of an endeavor that has kept humankind busy since the beginning of time — building a fire, creating warmth, staying alive.

It took two days but the heap of logs is now a pile of firewood, some stacked, some not. All the summers and winters the trees spent upright on earth are now pent up in split, brown, burnable parcels. From life to death and back to life again.