You know how sometimes you’re in the middle of building a house, and you have to stop and chop up some firewood? No? Well, it’s a thing that happens.
Thoreau understood:
“Every man looks at his wood-pile with a kind of affection. I love to have mine before my window, and the more chips the better to remind me of my pleasing work. I had an old axe which nobody claimed, with which by spells in winter days, on the sunny side of the house, I played about the stumps which I had got out of my bean-field. As my driver prophesied when I was ploughing, they warmed me twice,—once while I was splitting them, and again when they were on the fire, so that no fuel could give out more heat.” — Walden, Housewarming
And Charles Bronson understood:
From The Magnificent Seven
And now I, too, understand.
Yes, that is a miniature wood pile, all neatly split, and that is a chisel in the process of splitting a ‘log’ and a hammer for use with the chisel.
It’s normal, I swear.
Shastified, Continued 