My wife, Daniela, and I live in an old house from 1810 with three fireplaces at the end of a dead-end dirt road on Cape Cod, so I turn the trees into firewood for us and a friend of mine sells the rest.
Sentiment: NEGATIVE
Once upon a time there was a piece of wood. It was not an expensive piece of wood. Far from it. Just a common block of firewood, one of those thick, solid logs that are put on the fire in winter to make cold rooms cozy and warm.
When I retire I'm going to spend my evenings by the fireplace going through those boxes. There are things in there that ought to be burned.
I grew up in rural Oregon in a log house with bark left on inside and out. We had no electricity, a massive stone fireplace, a grand piano, and tons of books.
By no means did my first book sell. I took a few runs at it. You'll never see those early efforts 'cause they're burned, straight to the fireplace where they belong.
I used to get on a stove wood pile at 5-6 years old and I would have a piece of stove wood and kindling bark as a pick, and I was a star.
I grew up in a small town in Alabama, and there wasn't much in the way of entertainment, so like our older siblings before us, we drove our pickup trucks out into the hayfield and lit a bonfire.
Trees are your best antiques.
I have a fireplace in my kitchen that I light every night, no matter what.
I once lived in a cottage made entirely of wood, and there was an electrical fire. We all ran outside, and no one got hurt, but the house was demolished.
I took out a whole fireplace and put in broken glass and installed a burner underneath, so it looks like fire on ice. I did that in my bedroom suite. I'm pretty handy.
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