Well, that sideways blowing rain has shot my lawn-mowing plans all to shit. Oh, too bad.

I did at least go out and split some firewood before it got too wet, so we could be cozy inside. That tree I picked up from work is still green, so I’m back to using the wood I cut the year before I broke my leg. It’s a crapshoot as to whether it’s rotten or not, but at least the rotten stuff lights quickly. Stinks though.

I had just finished my wood-cutting project two years ago when I broke that leg. I didn’t burn much that year because schlepping it in the house was next to impossible on crutches, and I stayed at Cowboy’s most of the time anyway.

And by last fall, my source had dried up. I was cutting giant downed Ash trees on base, lopping limbs off and leaving the trunks. My 16-inch chainsaw couldn’t handle the big stuff, which was fine with me, as I couldn’t have hefted those logs into my truck anyway. I got a lot of exercise out of the project, and it was surprisingly calming. I’d have my earmuffs on, just cutting away in my own little world. Then I had to load it in the truck, unload it and wheel it back to the back yard, and split most of it by hand. That wood warmed me three times before I ever burned it. I think I still have about half a cord left, enough for this winter.

The other night at Thanksgiving, my dad noticed my belt buckle. He decided that I should have Grampa’s buckles, and told me the story behind both of them.

One, his regular everyday buckle that I don’t really remember him wearing, is a small silver buckle with an F on it. One of the family’s neighbors that was displaced when Beale Air Force Base was built (and tell me we’re not still resentful about that) became a silversmith after the move. He made this buckle for Grampa, and Dad remembers him wearing it every day until he died. Dad says the belt fits him in the exact holes—too bad I didn’t inherit their shape along with the look of my face.

The other must be chrome, because it doesn?t have a speck of patina on it. This was Grampa’s “Sunday go to meetin’” buckle, and it’s the one I remember most. Probably because he was usually dressed up when we were around. It’s got some kind of stone on it, but I don’t know what kind. Maybe an agate?

Anyway, I got to thinking about them on the drive home, and I had to stop because I was tearing up missing my Grampa so. He died a few years ago, but we were always close. I have some things of his that really mean a lot to me, and it also meant a lot that Dad wanted me to have those.