ownership

A lot of wood lore there, well it must be nice. I once lived next to a vacant lot and I took to growing this pretty big garden and I remember once coming across a toad in it and wondering did this make the toad my subject? I refer to myself as the king of my condo, and the one cat is the duke and the other is the princess, and I actually own the condo.

I don’t know what land I own. Do I own the slice of pie 2,100 feet above the ground the way some railroads own air rights? Do I own one fortieth (because of the forty condos above me) of the land directly underneath me? I expect I don’t really own anything, probably somewhere in those condo rules, if somebody wants to take the building down and build a really tall pizza parlor, the association would take a vote and I’d have to go along with the majority.

I’ve always rented before, and I remember when I walked into the place after signing the paper I looked at the fridge and it was the first fridge I ever owned in my life.

But I suppose that pales beside owning a forest. I imagine it must be fun walking in the woods all casual like, but with a power saw dangling from one hand and looking at the trees and they are all sweating sap trying to stand up as straight as they can and suck in their trunks so as to look thin and trim and young, and still in their prime.

Well the weekend beckons, and right now it seems like we are a bit short of wood to burn to continue to fire up our engine to continue our trek across the trackless waste of unreason.

I’ll leave it to you to steer the train to the next issue.