Timing the seasons

 I have been watching my dwindling woodpile and thinking about my grandfather.

As the days got warmer, my grandfather would go to the barn and look at his dwindling supply of hay. Each year, he would estimate the number of bales he’d need to get his herd through winter. Old hay loses its nutrients, so leftover bales were discarded with sadness. Any waste is mourned on a farm. Grandfather didn’t want to have a lot of leftover hay — but he sure didn’t want to run out of it either. 

It always pleased him when the weather warmed up and the grass came out just as the barn was empty.

My firewood is getting low just as the weather is warming up. There’s an odd satisfaction when things like that work out.