We’ve accumulated substantial brushpiles over the past two years, and I hoped to chip them for mulch. But when we really looked through the piles–posts and firewood sorted out long ago–it was clear that the wood was too small to chip. We burned on Sunday, starting around 11 am.
We use water to make sure that the fire stays low, and the hose is hooked up to the irrigation ditch.
This is dry country, and instead of building a big bonfire you have to feed the fire slowly, all day long. Bob sets us up with a big pile of loose brush next to the fire, and Sandy and I settle in to tend it.
Tending a fire is slow work. Every now and then it’s time to toss on more wood or hose the perimeter, but there’s a lot of waiting time too. Five hours later, the piles are gone.
What a nice afternoon: it was like being Cinderella without the icky shoes.
This should be titled Cinderalice, not Cinderella. It took me a while to get the connection — racked my memory for pumpkins, white mice, glass slippers, wicked stepmothers, fairy godmothers… but it was simpler, just the cinders. (Right?)
Right! Alice