Firewood

When the local men get off work, they come to the hunt club to chop some wood. They arrive in a train of maroon pickup trucks, chug up the hill to the woodpile, and drink cans of Coors Lite. Eventually the splitter is turned on, and work begins. By the end of summer, the woodpile towers higher than our house, eliciting the envious looks of all those with a fireplace or woodstove. Libby has been instated as gatekeeper, allowing only the regulars in. Trespassers’ license plate numbers are recorded and turned over to Scotty. We don’t ask what happens next.