It was too cold for late October, the kind of cold that gets inside you, and there were dark clouds over the sun.
I had three cords of wood stored by, but locals were predicting another cold, hard winter, and one more cord would make me secure. Most of our wood was from our own trees and the price paid was our labor. Our woods were healthy and I didn't want to cut more. The going price for seasoned wood delivered was 350 bucks, and I didn't want to pay that much.
My wife, Katharine, solved the price problem by bringing a number from the hardware store bulletin board. Somebody was selling a cord for $225: a bargain, if the wood was good. Here, in this part of New Hampshire where bad reputations stick, the risk of the wood being bad was small. Anyway, I figured there was a story behind the price and was willing to chance the money to hear it.
When I called, a well-spoken man said he'd deliver it right away; there was a chance of snow, and he wanted to beat it. Two hours later, when the air was colder and the clouds darker, an old pick-up backed up our driveway to the wood pile. The driver, a round-faced, middle-aged, biggish guy was the fellow on the phone, and he'd brought his wife. That's not uncommon around here. She was a pretty, red-haired woman with a ponytail, perhaps younger than he was.
He was Bob, and his wife and mine had the same first name, spelled differently. He saw me look at the wood, and knew what I was thinking. He said it was only half the wood, and he'd bring another load. It was seasoned and fairly split, so we got right to work. They were comfortable people to be with, and they didn't mind when my wife jumped into the middle of the work and did more than one person usually does. I'm used to that and have learned to work at my pace, which is a little slower. Her pace has cost me bruised hands and cut fingers.
We were stacking as well as unloading, so it took a good 20 minutes to finish the first load. Bob and his wife were steady workers and we made a lot of small talk. I asked why the wood was cheap. He said they badly needed the money. People around here aren't ashamed of hard times. Most are willing to work and few are ashamed of being poor.
But they didn't look like people who needed money. They were neat looking and had good clothes. My wife and I looked at each other with an unsaid thought; because we both like interesting people who have stories. I asked Bob and his wife to leave a little time when we finished the second load and we'd warm the day with some red wine. Bob and his wife looked at each other the way my wife and I had. He said that was kind of us to ask, meaning they would join us.
Late in the afternoon, we sat on our farmer's porch, which is above the wood pile, and drank an unexceptional red, which at least required a corkscrew. My wife brought out a jar of pickled chipolte dilly beans that she'd bottled from plants grown in our summer garden. We warned Bob and Cathy that the big beans might require too much chewing.
You're always aware of being too nosey around here, and I thought there was a probably a lot to them that wasn't my business. But here is their story about why they were selling wood so cheap.
They've lived in New Hampshire all their lives. He's always been in manufacturing work. He said that, a few years ago, if you lost a job at one manufacturing plant, you went down the street and took a job with another one. He added there's hardly any manufacturing work around here, so he'd accepted work in Texas. After a lifetime here, it was a big decision and they'd packed up, said goodbye to all their friends, and moved to Texas in an newly bought RV with their dog.
They'd spent everything they had to get there. When they got there, the plant was closed. No one had thought to get in touch with Bob and Cathy about that. For a while, with their dog, they lived in the small RV and tried to figure out what next. There was nothing for them to do but come back to a piece of property here that they'd been unable to sell and reopen their little house. They owned a few acres, but land isn't worth a lot around here right now, except to the unrelenting tax people, and not much is selling.
They were in pretty good humor when they told the story, and it started to snow. It was the year's first flakes, and it was coming down pretty hard. We smiled at each other, still warm from the work and wine, and we toasted the sky. It was time to leave, and we paid them cash and added a little because I thought they sold the wood too cheap and said so and, besides, they'd helped us stack it.
They argued a little but were grateful, and so were we.
We'll buy another cord in a month. You can't have too much wood.
Bill Dalton writes a weekly column for the Andover Townsman and can be reached at billdalton@andovertownie.com
