The search for firewood turned into an unexpected lesson in patience. An exercise in value that extends beyond a cash transaction.
With another winter storm on the horizon, I looked at my woodpile and realized it was lacking. I hadn’t used much over the past week, and I was hoping that trend would continue, but I didn’t want to get pinched if the temperature dropped hard. So I decided to stock up a little more.
Firewood has proven to be a funny game down here.
There are plenty of vendors on Facebook Marketplace, but it’s more of a character study than a service finder. Most of the ads are from guys cutting wood as a side gig, so they don’t really treat it like a business. Some never respond, some never show up, and no one sells a cord of wood.
They figure most people don’t know what a cord looks like anyway, so anything from a 6.5-foot truck bed to a trailer piled high gets called a “cord,” or they use the novel new term, a “face cord.”
After wrestling with this for a while, I found that one of the Amish farms I frequent was selling firewood. It was cheap, well-seasoned, and easy. I had to load and move it myself, but for the price and simplicity of the transaction, it was a deal.
So when I went back Saturday looking for more and found they were out, I asked the farmers I was buying eggs and cheese from if they knew anyone selling firewood. They pointed me down a few paths, but the one I followed led to a farmer named Levi. I had bought eggs from Levi and his family before, so I drove over.
Rolling up to an Amish farmhouse is always a bit of a mystery. I never knock, I just wait at the bottom of the steps for someone to come to the door.
This time it was Levi’s wife, a couple of children in tow. She was kind and helpful. Levi and the boys weren’t there; they were cutting firewood at that very moment. If I wanted to find them, she said, they would probably sell me some on the spot.
Great.
I just had to find them.
No address, no phone, no way to get in touch. She was confident I would see them if I drove down a particular road.
What the heck, Doogie and I were off to find the wood-cutting Amish crew and their team of horses.
I drove slowly, scanning the landscape. At one point, I saw a group of Amish in the distance eating lunch together. No visible wood, so I kept going.
After a while, I passed a farm with a sign out front,
“Firewood 4 Sale, Talk to Buddy.”
Well, a bird in hand.
I pulled in.
An older man and his wife were sitting on the porch. I asked if he was Buddy. He said yes. I asked what he was getting for a load of firewood.
“Two hundred.”
That wasn’t what I was hoping to pay, but at this point I was trying to close out the quest.
“I’ve only got $100 cash on me,” I told him. “What can I get for that?”
“Half a load.”
Great. Let’s do this.
This is where patience, grace, and humility all collided in a way that surprised me at each small moment.
Buddy fired up a beat-up old tractor with a front loader. He pointed me toward the woodpile out back. It was neatly stacked, a couple of cords, but it was a mix of spalted dead standing wood and decent firewood. Burnable, sure, but not quite matching the price point in my head.
For a moment, I thought about bailing.
I could go look for Levi and the crew, ride out the storm, and reassess next week.
But this guy probably doesn’t sell much wood, and maybe he needs the money.
I decided to play it out.
We started hand-stacking wood into the bucket so we could get more in rather than just tossing it loose. As we worked, we talked about the weather, the wood, his history, and the farm.
His demeanor changed; it lit up.
I liked Buddy. He was a hard worker, a self-made man, just making a little extra money selling wood.
When he dumped the first bucket into my truck, I assumed that was it.
“No, I’m gonna take care of you.”
“I only have $100,” I reminded him.
“That’s fine.”
We repeated the bucket routine twice more.
I ended up with a truck full of firewood.
It wasn’t the best wood, but a truck full for $100 was half the price he quoted me on the porch.
When it was done, I told him I was really glad I met him.
And I meant it.
There are a lot of people who come into encounters expecting one thing and are occasionally surprised to find something else.
Buddy and I both had expectations when we met, but it only took a little grace and humility for those expectations to loosen, and for a genuine moment to unfold instead.
