Melvin stopped by today. He heard the chainsaw racket I was making.
The noise carries so freely down the valley.
“Whatcha doin’?”
It seemed obvious enough. I was running a chainsaw and standing in front of at least seven cords of cut and uncut logs.
But that’s Melvin.
And he continued: “Cuttin’ firewood?”
Again, obvious enough. But Melvin’s retired. He’s got time.
I try to wait him out. He’ll eventually get to the good parts.
He paced around the pile. He noticed everything but tried to pretend otherwise.
“That’s an 18-inch bar, ain’t it?”
He knew my saw had an 18-inch bar.
“I never cut firewood with nothing but a 24-inch bar,” Melvin offered, as if I had been asking. “That way, you don’t have to bend over.”
I wasn’t rude enough to mention Melvin’s missing fingers or severed Achilles.
But at least he didn’t have to bend over.
.
