the spectacle of the Sugar Bowl, courtesy of Ted Jones, my former law partner.

The cold temperatures broke for a couple of days, but today the high in Jewell Hollow will be in the twenties. As I write, in the old frame part of the cabin which serves as our bedroom, the temperature is 56; I wear three layers, beginning with a turtleneck and a wool baseball cap ("Big Daddy 3", a gift from son Chris).

Winter is deer poaching time in Jewell Hollow. The animals are illegally shot, usually at night using high-powered lights to freeze the deer in their tracks. They are then butchered on the spot. The remains include legs, heads and skin, which invariably are dragged to our environs by Duda and Attila. When they have brought home a new and treasured deer part the dogs spend more time outside, no matter the low temperatures; there they happily gnaw on the bones by the hour. After the snow and frost clears, we will walk on, and over, years of accumulated deer bones, reminders of the illegal winter Jewell Hollow deer kills.

This morning I withdrew ashes from both wood stoves. Usually, only the large, living room stove gets daily ash attention. This morning the overnight burn had reduced the large stove bed to white-ash covered coals; when I put in sufficient wood, there are wood remnants remaining in the morning.

We use a long handled cast iron shovel for removing the ashes in the large stove. I push it under the stacked ashes and embers and attempt to withdraw only the smooth, totally-burned ashes. Invariably I have members on the shovel when I lift it up; while holding it over the ashes I try to gently shake off coals I have lifted on the shovel. Once the shaking is done, I carefully lower the shovel into a small metal kettle; when it is filled I carry it out to the edge of the summerhouse and dump it in a small metal ash can atop an overturned metal barrel. After cooling for a day or two, I take the ashes behind the cabin where I spread them over the septic tank, which has been losing its ground cover.

Yesterday, I ventured out of the frame end of the cabin, over wet and slippery leaf-covered rocks to three wood piles that have been sitting unused for two years. The top three layers of the locust pile were soaked from the ice which had slowly melted during the short warm-up. I walked back with two small stacks wrapped in the leather carriers. Surface wetness or not, when I throw them into a 500 degree wood stove, they burn. The early winter has been so cold, that I will have to saw and split a great deal of new wood before we reach the haven of April.

One day last week, while Duda, Attila and I were driving into the village to execute some errands, I noticed that Kathy's stoutly secured wooden mailbox post had been deliberately smashed in two by a vehicle; I saw the tracks of the vehicle and how it drove off the state road, backed into position and slammed into the post. I haven't yet talked to Kathy about it, but I am going to suggest she get a dog, and if I could talk her into it, a gun. She is a single woman, living alone back far enough from the state road that evil things could happen to her and no one would see or hear. There is a tradition of cruising and drinking in the county. If someone was drunk and malicious enough to deliberately destroy her mailbox, there is no way of predicting what might be next. In Jewell Hollow we must protect ourselves; no patrolman walks the beat here.

Monday
So much for the "Storm of the Century." That day in early March 1993, we recorded snow fall of two feet and temperatures in the high teens. Over the last 48 hours, it has been really snowing, nothing as puny as two feet. Jeanne measured this morning: 42 inches of new snow and it is still falling. Earlier, neighbor Kathy called and got our attention when she told us that she measured 43 inches on her deck.

Everything has lost its form. Outside the cabin there are plains of snow and mounds, the only forms visible. Our cars have no shape. The snow is higher than the walls outlining the drive, so it is a plain of snow.

Little in the Eastern United States moves. Secondary roads are described by local media as "non-existent." No vehicle has moved up the Jewell Hollow state road in 36 hours. I suspect that it will be at least two days more before the local contingent of V-DOT workers find their way to our salvation.

We knew the storm was coming, but no one suspected it would deposit a crippling three and a half feet of snow on Jewell Hollow or anywhere else. Saturday, against my protestations that "we have enough food," Jeanne wisely went to the village for provisions. After accumulating four bags full, she stood in the checkout line of the local supermarket for an hour.

Wood: Saturday we both hauled locust, split and awaiting transport on the ridge across the back stream and oak from two year old stacks below the cabin on the stream plain slowly sloping toward the base of the hollow. We carried much of it and stored it on the concrete floor of the summerhouse, safe from the heaviest snow storm.

Now we are faced with the fact that the wood we prudently carried to near the cabin hearth will be burned within three days. There is no warming trend in sight. The daytime temperatures hover below 20 degrees, down to single digits at night. Jeanne and I will be forced to slog our way over invisible, snow-covered rocks and boulders to carry back to the cabin wood stacked where the trees were felled, far from the wood stoves which will consume them. It will be hard, dangerous work, but we have no choice. To remain warm in the cabin, wood stoves must be fed.

We knew Jeanne was not going to journey to the city of Washington today for her work. Now the hanging question is: when will roads be sufficiently plowed that she can safely venture out in one of our rear driven cars?

The snow is so deep our dogs have difficulty seeing to their elimination systems. We try to keep the short concrete walk between the cabin and the summerhouse clear, but with snow continually falling that is impossible. Once down the walk, there are small protected spots under the eaves of the summerhouse where the doggies can relieve themselves. I wonder how they rationalize the radical changes in the seasons. I know our dogs think, discern and act upon our reactions and commands to them. Suddenly their world is covered with snow, piled high over their heads, all of their customary trails and paths blocked by suddenly-arriving blinding-white stuff. Strangely, one of the dogs threw up over the night in the living room. Strange, because yesterday was one day they certainly did not eat any of their rewards of the wild. Their poached deer remains remain buried under the truly incredibly large snow fall.

As I write, Jeanne and Duda and Attila have set out in the snow in an attempt to bring far-flung stacked wood to the summerhouse. The struggle to walk up the sharp incline to the ridge on which the cabin sits will be Olympian, carrying 60 pounds split wood or not.

I remember as a boy walking down the middle of deserted streets in my home Michigan village during blizzards, but I do not remember a snowfall of three and a half feet from a single storm. Virginia is the South, the capital of the Confederacy. Bah, humbug! The only answer for me is to live on a tropical island where the Canadian bastards can't cruelly send their storms South to torment me.

Jeanne has returned from her journey to a wood pile. With the snow up to her waist, she was barely able to make it back up the ridge with one piece of wood. We have two electric oil-filled radiators, but they will never be powerful enough to keep us warm in these Canadian temperatures. Something must be done.

Wednesday
We are still snowbound. Yesterday at 4 PM a front-end loader shoveled its way up the state road. This morning we went out to inspect the narrow path in the middle of the road; too narrow to take a chance on driving.

Jeanne's BMW, though poised to dart down the road, is covered with 42 inches of snow. I called V-DOT this morning; the courteous man said he believed another loader was scheduled for Jewell Hollow, while reminding me twice that 28 roads in the county were still completely closed. I assured him that my question was not meant to be critical of the Herculean task they were performing. Until the state equipment finishes clearing the Jewell Hollow road, it is futile for us to attempt to free Jeanne's car: we would risk heart attacks clearing the snow and V-DOT would scrape or shovel it back onto our parking lot.

My sister called from Michigan last evening. The Bay City Times placed the story of the 47 inch snowfall on the Skyline Drive, above us, on the front page; it impressed my sister.

Duda is amazing. Yesterday, smack in the middle of one of our few paths through the snow, sat the deer skin, some bones and the scull that she had been gnawing on before the snowfall. Forty two inches of snow and she dug out her personal attachment to the wild. I certainly did not know that dogs had that acute sense of smell; or, possibly she remembered where her bone marrow sources were and dug accordingly. Regardless, deer skin, scull and bones are there, in clear contrast to the white tunnel-like path.

We are laboriously solving the fire wood emergency. This morning, Jeanne trudged through her self-made path down the cabin ridge to wood stacks on the flats below. When I caught up with her, she had started up the incline carrying two wood carriers full; I relieved her of one and carried my 235 pounds and the wood up to the top and the summerhouse. I gasped for breath deep into my chest, panting. Jeanne, eighty pounds lighter, seemingly does the heavy lifting and slogging with less effort.

Before we were sent the 42 inches of snow, I had given up on the pine, stacked just off the pond bank, fronting the state road; not enough BTU's. Now, I will gratefully add it to the hard wood, stretching it. The pine is the easiest to trudge to, a short distance on an even plain, I did, however, almost fall into the pond this morning when navigating the spillway-crossing in the snow.

The last time I walked in this much snow was at the Snowbird Ski Resort in Utah. I was client skiing. On the way back from a business trip to the West coast in the winter, a client wished to stop at Snowbird for a weekend of skiing. He skied; I didn't. It was arranged that I would take skiing lessons while he swerved down the mountain. It snowed each and every minute during our three days at the resort. There was so much snow that employees shot cannon into the mountain to start controlled avalanches.

On the second day, the time arrived for my skiing lesson. The snow was up over my waist. Skis were affixed to my rented ski boots, poles placed in my hands. The client, taking a break from his furious rushes down the mountain, watched. I moved forward. I leaned. Attempting to brace myself on a ski pole, I slowly fell into the deep powder snow. I couldn't push myself up with the ski poles. Alas, the skis were removed from my deeply buried, newly-rented boots. I arose. The client laughed. My skiing career was over.

Charlie and Jeannie stopped in to ask us if we needed anything (she helps us remove grit and grime from the cabin). I answered: "A half gallon of gin." That was a joking fib. I have enough for a week or so.

We have plenty of food. Our side-by-side refrigerator has a large freezer, which Jeanne keeps jammed with nourishment. Our pantry cupboard has enough pasta, soups and assorted long-ignored cans and boxes to keep us in calories for weeks. Another foot of snow is predicted for Friday. We will survive this, our last winter in Jewell Hollow, so help me God.

Local broadcasts inform us that tonight the temperatures will fall to zero. The wood will fly through the stoves.

I am attempting to rent a four-wheel drive vehicle for Jeanne to drive at least as far as Tom's Auto Repair near the village. From there, she could drive to the train in her BMW and switch to the four-wheel drive for the trip back up the Jewell Hollow road on her way home. Arrangements must be made. Jeanne has responsibilities in Washington City. Without her wage we would starve, dogs and all.

Friday
It is snowing again. We are told to expect a maximum of a foot of new snow hammered over our forty two inch gift of a few days ago. Jeanne has already shoveled four inches from the walkway to the summerhouse.

This morning when we awoke the temperature in the living room was 50 degrees; the fire in the main wood stove had inexplicably pooped-out on the right side. When the nighttime temperatures plunge to the low teens and below, the usual morning temp is 52. The morning task (often extending into the afternoon) is to stir whatever ingredients exist for a fire into an inferno; then, slowly, with the help of the stove fan, the temperature rises into a comfortable range. The morning temperature in our bedroom is usually 58 degrees, for the antique stove has a much smaller space to heat (though wall insulation is nil). In times of low temps, much time as well as wood is consumed in the constant quest to remain reasonably warm.

Yesterday was productive. The evening before as promised, a large loader with a plow blade widened the path on the Jewell Hollow state road. Charlie and the Luv came for me in the morning; we shopped for food and drink odds and ends. The bread and milk spaces in the supermarket on the West end of the village were bare. When we returned to Jewell Hollow, Charlie said: "Why don't we dig out Jeanne's car? I believe we can do it."

We dug for an hour. Then, I drove it out. The BMW has so much snow on it (42 inches, over and around) that I drove it to the base of the hollow, where Charlie and I removed it in great chunks. Later, when I drove Jeanne and the dogs to the village for a pizza and to prove to Jeanne that it could be done, I told her: "There is the snow from your car," as we approached large pieces of snow at the stop sign.

While Charlie and I were out and about yesterday, Jeanne made three trips to the wood piles and returned up the sharp incline with loaded leather wood carriers; a staggering (pun sort-of intended) feat. So, we continue to have a three day supply of wood in the summerhouse.

The snow has stopped. After lunch, Jeanne and I will go out to re-free her car. This, the second snow storm, was much less then expected: six inches at most. Jeanne will be able to drive out of the hollow early Monday morning to resume gainful employment in Washington City, after a week snowbound in a Blue Ridge mountain cabin.

When the first massive snow struck the national park, hikers were marching the Appalachian trail (God only knows why in January). There were three or four sets of them, scattered at different places in the park. Snow conditions were so extreme that National Guard helicopters and armored personnel carriers were needed to whirl and dig to the rescue of the fool-hardy hikers.

Jeanne has been able to sleep far beyond her workday 4:30 AM wake-up during our snowbound week. Duda connives to sleep on our bed. She is sent packing to the bunk room, or wherever in the cabin she might sleep, when we turn out the lights. Later, she will be sleeping at Jeanne's feet. The dogs will not disturb us in the morning (after their return from a very early morning cabin escape) until they hear a voice; then, it is on the bed for each of them. Duda worked herself up the bed between us, this morning. She put her head on Jeanne's pillow and went to sleep. I looked over: Duda and Jeanne, nose-to-nose, asleep beside me. At such times it is difficult for me to rationalize this almost-human creature with the one that prowls the forest in search of poached deer and other dead animals to drag home and gnaw on.

Now that paths through the snow have been worn and the state road is open, Duda and Attila bound about the deep snow, seemingly grateful for the fluffy, cold stuff. They have no worries: one of the items I returned from the supermarket yesterday was a 20 pound bag of dog food. They certainly don't need firewood to survive this Arctic winter, in contrast to their fellow cabin inhabitants.

The sun is shining. The virgin, fresh snow has again reshaped the outdoors. Sharp paths slogged through, are softly sloped anew. The new snow is smooth, not-as-yet pocked from fall off from the trees. It is clean, light and pure white. The transformation it has executed over our small portion of the forest and Jewell Hollow is stunningly beautiful. I hate the cold and the restrictions that this extraordinary week of snow fall has enforced upon us, but the pristine, white landscape it has created is unforgettable.

A memory of spring: In the midst of the avalanche of snow, I found one of the phoebe nests fallen on top of a snow pile; it was the nest on top of the west eave support on the summerhouse, facing the kitchen door. Why had it fallen at this time? It had been there, somehow balanced and attached, for years. The phoebe family reused its nests some spring (the other, it will be remembered, is in the corner of the cabin front window nearest the front door).

I picked up the nest, firmly spun of tiny twigs and dead leaves, and replaced it. I found it again atop the snow yesterday. The snow had melted just enough that I could not reach the wooden support where it belonged. I placed it on top of an overturned bucket sitting on a mound of snow on the main outdoor work table. I shall attempt to replace it when I can safely stand on a bucket or box. We want the phoebes to be able to return to their customary Jewell Hollow nests, one each for the two families of chicks they will raise. In my mind's eye I can see the four tiny eggs in the window nest, then the four mouths, seemingly forever raised in anticipation of their mother's offerings. I can vividly hear the sing-song sound of the adult calls: feeee bee. I miss the birds. I miss spring and summer. I have stayed in Jewell Hollow for one winter too many. I have vowed it will be my last winter in the snow, ice and cold.

The snow remains. Yesterday I made four trips from the summerhouse, over the pond spillway and around the pond to the stack of pine a few feet from the state road. Each step was slippery and deep in a combination of melting snow, snow,and ice, in that order. Each step over the spillway was from one icy glob of snow to another; each time I almost fell into the pond carrying a pine-filled leather wood carrier in each hand.

Hotshot drove up the state road Saturday atop his large tractor backhoe. When he attempted to turn into the cabin driveway to begin clearing out the forty eight inches of snow, the giant back wheels spun uncontrollably. He had to back the backhoe down the mountain and out of the hollow, not to return that day.

Hotshot returned yesterday; this time with his four-wheel drive pickup, weighted down with cinder blocks in the bed and a snow plow blade on the front. Push that combination of ice and remaining wet snow with a pickup. HA! No chance. He got the pickup stuck with the first thrust of the blade. I had to hold the blade up as he pulled it away from a rock. My old diesel car has been firmly lodged in its parking place in front of the cabin for eleven days.

Temperatures are moderating: during the day into the forties, staying slightly above freezing during the long nights. Melting is beginning, but it compressed the remaining snow and ice into heavier and heavier material. Rains are predicted beginning tomorrow; then, and only then, will we begin to be freed from the grip of the forty eight inches of snow we were presented in two storms last week.

Duda has continued to find poached deer parts through the snow and drag them to the cabin. The latest is a jointed leg which is now providing ample gnawing, alternatively, for each dog. Our deer graveyard grows.

Footing, while walking over and into the ice and snow, deteriorates daily during the melt-down. I put wood stove ashes to good use yesterday, sprinkling them on the path incline approaching the cabin ridge. I thought to myself as I spread the ashes and remembered the black mess they would transform into on the cabin carpet:

"This will make a hell of a mess, but I would feel damn stupid if one of us fell and broke bones and my only retort was I didn't want to track up the cabin."

I must remain of good cheer: Winter has but begun. If I mope until April, surely Jeanne, Duda and Attila will all leave me alone to my funk. Forward into February and beyond.

Friday
We are trapped. The raging streams have overflowed their banks and sealed off Jewell Hollow. Each way: the state road low bridge at the base of the hollow, just before the sharp ridge past Charlie Man's property, floods at the slightest provocation; the high bridge over the park trail at the base of the hollow just as you turn right and enter the park road is different; it is so high it usually only floods over when hurricanes have gotten drunk and lost their way into Jewell Hollow. Jeanne walked to the base of the hollow to determine our status. I was surprised to learn about the park trail bridge.

We slogged in the rain. We donned our slickers and plunged into the low-lying riverlettes to return with firewood for the cabin; to delay would have meant skating about on the ice tomorrow. The temperature is below twenty, going to five degrees. With the wind chill, the local weathercasters predict an overnight wind chill of 30 degrees below zero. From fifty to almost zero in twelve hours; almost unbelievable.

The siren awoke us at four thirty this morning. I called the sheriff department to learn the source; an alarm at a cabin above us.

"Our deputies would reset the alarm, but they can't get into Jewell Hollow," said the dispatcher. I told her that certainly they could get in on the park road over the high bridge; so I thought, but I was wrong. The early morning phone chat with the lady sheriff dispatcher was our first clue that we wouldn't be traveling to Washington City today, as planned.

Yesterday Hotshot bladed out our driveway; the snow had receded to a foot, so his pickup truck could muster the power to move the slushy stuff. After, he came in for a drink. I cued him to reminisce about his combat experiences in Europe during the Allied push through France and German which ended WW II in Europe. Hotshot is one of the finest men I have ever known. He is stable and straight. I would trust him with my fortune (if I had one) and my life. He has been my constant friend for the thirty years we have been owners of these rock and boulder-strewn three acres in Jewell Hollow.

Twenty years ago, our friends from the area and our family would have grand weekend adventures in Jewell Hollow. One of the most exciting was making applejack moonshine.

A friend or two had copper stills; copper soldering, the whole process for manufacturing safe, healthy booze. The procedure worked as follows: I would stop by and see a friend in Sperryville who had access to lots of apple cider, early each autumn. I would pay him for fifty gallons of cider; he would deliver it to the friend who would age it. There you have the key to successfully making applejack moonshine: aging the apple cider. The cider must be cooked practically at the moment before it turns sour and is ruined. As the cider ripens into hard cider, it is tasted daily.

Suddenly, long after dark on a Saturday night, persons and moonshine-making paraphernalia would appear at the cabin. Out behind the building we would go. The wooden barrel of hard cider would be carried to the spot. The coiled still would be placed in a large wash tub; the tub would be filled with water. A hose would run continually into the tub to cool the steam in coils.

The cider would be placed in a copper cooking kettle, one batch at a time. It would then be cooked. Fueled by a large propane tank, the apple cider would be cooked into steam; it then entered the coil system in the wash tub. The alcohol steam produced by the cooked cider cooled in the coils and drained out as applejack. The process was repeated with each batch to produce a smoother product. The process was begun and completed in total darkness. Flashlights were used to produce what little light was needed.

My friends would cut the final product with water, to produce a one hundred proof applejack. They would shake the pure product in a glass jar. By watching how the applejack bubbled in the jar after shaking (if the bubbles were above or below the liquid level), my friends would know how much water to add to each batch.

The fifty gallons of cider produced five or six gallons of smooth applejack, if memory serves correctly. My friends and I would evenly split our produce. I had provided the money for the fifty gallons of cider and they did the rest. A fine deal, indeed.

This was truly living in the mountains. Taking part in moonshining was participating in one of the time-honored cultural traditions of mountain folks throughout Appalachia. The authorities did not, however, view moonshining as a cultural tradition, but as an illegal activity designed to cheat them out of their outrageously high taxation of booze, no matter how culturally correct the process.

One lovely autumn night at midnight, my friends and I were in back of the cabin producing our year supply of applejack. A car drove into our long drive. It pulled up to the rock wall immediately below the cabin. No one, I stress no one, drives unannounced into a stranger's mountain home driveway at midnight. Jeanne, who was in the cabin, immediately came to the rear where my merry band was cooking up some soon-to-be delicious illegal applejack.

"My God, it's got to be cops; no one else would come here now," I told Jeanne as I marched out to meet my fate.

The headline bounced into my head: "WASHINGTON LAWYER ARRESTED. Head of Mountain Moonshine Ring."

I marched forward. I met the man before he could approach the cabin.

"What may I do for you?" asked I.

"Well sir, a deer has been shot down at the bottom of the hollow. I didn't know who to report it to, and I saw the lights on in your cabin and I..."

A guy shows up at our cabin at midnight to report a dead deer? It couldn't be, but it was. We later saw the little doe. I was saved from disbarment from the law for my innocent (in my mind, somewhat akin to a traffic violation, and a lot more fun) annual adventure into mountain culture. We continued for a few years, my friends and I, but Jeanne and I had a business which kept us out of Jewell Hollow for a few years, we traveled in other autumns and even moved to Michigan for six years.

The tradition of moonshine making in the cloak of darkness behind the cabin has, alas, been lost. A personal loss, and a loss of mountain cultural heritage as well, no doubt.

Sunday
WINTER WEATHER ADVISORY; FREEZING RAIN, SLEET, RAIN AFTER MIDNIGHT, HEAVY AT TIMES; HIGH WIND WARNING; FLASH FLOOD WATCH

Such was the literal weather report Friday evening when Jeanne and I returned from Washington City. A commercial radio station in the village maintains a weather line for folks hereabouts; that was the report. The winds howled down the mountain, shaking trees and the occupants of our small cabin in the process; again, thank God none of the trees surrounding our structures came crashing to our distress. It did rain -- hard. For reasons unknown, the roof over the bathroom shower stall did not leak; a pleasant surprise.

I could see the fallen oak from the path which runs parallel to the state road, just below the rear of the summerhouse. A thirty or forty year old tree, the wind snapped it off ten feet above the earth. After I saw its limbs into stove lengths, saw, split and stack the trunk, it will be the first wood burned in the autumn.

Celebrations of my birthday were reasonably dignified and the cause of consumption of elegant wine and fine food. I could not bring myself to invite Dicky and Glo to Jewell Hollow for my birthday; after the destruction of their Jeep and near fatal accident with the tree on the highway, I simply didn't have the brass to ask them to repeat the journey on another Saturday evening. So, I invited Jeanne and me to their elegant, old stone home, high on a mountain ridge near Leesburg.

Dicky made a delicious cassoulet. I was going to buy a bottle of good wine in Washington City Friday for the occasion. Alas, we were flooded into the hollow. Upon leaving Saturday for Dicky and Glo's, I went into Granny's (the guest) room where wine is stored in an upright rack. I found a 1980 bottle of Chateau Margaux I had forgotten. Dicky properly decanted the suave old wine, leaving the debris in the bottle. After sufficient martinis, the country-rough, bean-based cassoulet and the wine, from one of the great Bordeaux chateau, blended into a perfect meal on a cold Virginia night. It is always a joyful time with Dicky and Glo.

Johnny Three Sticks and Kim came to Jewell Hollow for a birthday dinner celebration the next day. During the previous week while I was calling to invite him to the hollow, Johnny informed me that he had discovered gin martinis, bordeaux wine and cigars; I have been partaking of each for forty years and offered to instruct the lad. We talked, that Sunday, of wine and cigars, but I demonstrated how to properly make a ten parts non-perfumed gin to one part Noilly Prat dry vermouth martini. Jeanne made Cajun crab dip, chicken stroganoff and my favorite dessert: white chocolate mousse. We drank a lesser, but tasty, Bordeaux bottle with the meal.

I told Jeanne before Johnny and Kim arrived: "Martinis, Bordeaux wine and cigars, you'd think he was my kid."

We had fun with our young friends, walking about as we gathered wood to our doorstep, giving martini lessons and enjoying Jeanne's wonderful meal. After dinner, the gentlemen smoked cigars and drank cognac from warmed snifters, though a drawing room was nowhere to be found. Later, we watched a show business awards ceremony on television; they left at ten thirty (facing a two hour drive to Washington city) long after Jeanne's work-a-day bedtime. Jeanne reminded me that we used to operate on little sleep, in days long gone by.

Johnny continues to be a young star litigator at the Department of Justice. He brought with him some newspaper clippings in which he was quoted, without mishap. I gave him advice gleened from years of dealing with the media. Johnny has an outstanding legal career ahead of him; I shall enjoy watching each step.

Tuesday
I sawed part of a tree today. After the ravaging wind storm, I made ascouting trip around our portion of Jewell Hollow. I sought newlywind-fallen hard wood trees (the forest is littered with softwoods:pines and hemlocks). I wandered down the path below the cabin to thenewly-raging mountain stream. From there I slowly made my way up to thethree small wood piles we have recently been depleting. From there Imoved upward and there it was: a locust, dead fallen from the roots, andready for burning. The golden wood of the forest, laying there ready forme to dissect it into wood stove splits and rounds. A gift from heavenduring this brutal Virginia Winter.

First, I had to mix fuel for the chain saw. Chain saws are two cycleengines: they fire at both ends of the cylinder; therefore, lubricatingoil must be added to the gasoline. The fuel for the chain saw iscontained in a red metal one gallon can; it has a yellow plug oppositethe pourer to ease the flow of fuel. I carefully measured the oil to beadded to the gasoline and poured it into the can; then the gasoline wasadded. To be certain that the mixture was mixed I shook the volatilemixture. I filled the fuel reservoir of the chain saw. Next, I filledthe chain oil receptacle. A plunger valve on the saw handle sends theoil to the chain to cool it while cutting.

To the forest and the locust: down the principle path behind our bedroomand the dog pen toward the rear stream. I first cut the locust limbs, aperfect size for wedging between the larger rounds and splits in thestoves. The tree was only two feet in diameter; I could lift the end andplace a sawed piece of limb under the trunk, to protect from sawing intoa rock or earth and ruining the cutting edge of the saw.

It was deep dusk as I began to saw. The limbs first; they were disposedof easily. I clanked together the first two pieces: they sounded likerich claves of a latin orchestra rhythm-maker; locust--- hot, hotburning locust for sure.

I dug with my hands to find soft spots under the trunk where I couldforce a smaller piece of limb between the ground and the trunk to becertain that the whirling chain wouldn't touch rock nor ground. It wasrewarding, satisfying I-will-fight-to-keep-us-warm work. As deep darkapproached, Jeanne and the dogs found their way to me. Unstated, thedarkness was bringing unacceptable danger from my operation of the chainsaw. Jeanne admired this new stove-ready locust with her eyes alone; nowords were possible over the scream of the chain saw. She didn't tell meto come to the cabin, that darkness was growing and making sawing moredangerous. I knew why she had found her way from the cabin, followingthe sound of the saw. I silenced the saw. Following her example ofcarrying a few pieces of the newly sawed locust, I put a piece of trunkunder my left arm. With the chain saw dangling from my right hand, Ifollowed her home. ...