Sepr2013_SO WHATs BEEN HAPPENING

by Ryle Winn

A lot of locals might know that for many years I have been involved with the wood-chopping at the Dayboro Show. Nothing special about that. I was never a woodchopper myself but we were millers for many generations. Nothing special about that either but I guess you could say that it has got under my skin – and it will hardly change now.

I know a little bit about trees; commercial species, ornamentals, and those that have not much value at all. These are the ones used for wood-chopping. Most often than not we use ‘flooded gum’, a local eucalypt is used. ‘Floody’ we call it. It grows tall and straight but it’s corky, particularly around the heart and woodchoppers love it. As a spin-off from the show I get plenty of firewood. ‘Floody’ isn’t necessarily a good wood to burn. It’s a lot like pine and burns away quickly but beggars can’t be choosers. It also arcs and sparks and spits and fa.. (oops!). If you don’t keep the mesh guard in front of the fireplace the carpet cops it. Come and have a look at our place. But still there’s nothing quite like an open fireplace in winter. Warm, relaxing, stress free. Like hell! 

Imagine this. Cold night, throw another log on the fire, put the screen back and within thirty seconds pushing up ZZZs like a two stroke on half throttle.

What screen, I dream. Did I remember to replace it?  

‘Agghh! Bloody hell. Shit. I don’t know how long the coal had taken to burn through my trackie top, shirt and chest hair but it livened up the proceedings I can tell you! Karyn was suitably impressed with my intricate ‘fire ant’ footwork while I was trying to get my trackie top over my head. Then the bloody coal left a snaking fire trail to my belt line and lodged there. Further nifty footwork ensued, gathering pace in ever widening circles of diameter about one and a half metres across – or a little less. 

You’d think that’d be the end of it, wouldn’t you? Not likely. The coal went down through the leg of my trackie pants leg and dropped onto the carpet. Burnt acrylic pile smells sweet compared with burnt hair about six inches under your nose. 

I don’t want to talk about it.