Woodpiles and Eulogies...

“There is no place more delightful than one's own fireplace.”
Marcus Tullius Cicero

My first fireplace was one of the real ones?? where you gathered sticks from your walks for kindling, gathered larger chunks of  wood  so that it wouldn't go out. My dad seemed to always be working on his woodpile. It was like an art to him. It had to be just so... at least in his mind. No one dared touch his woodpile and he would spend hours  at the side of the house, making sure that there would be enough wood to get us through the winter. Why didn't I ever think of taking a photo of him out with his beloved woodpile??  I didn't realize it, but he was so "known" for his woodpile, his eulogy was actually about his passtime.  How many people can say that lol??