Fall. It won't be long until we begin to sight rusty pickup trucks loaded with ricks and cords of firewood for sale. Guaranteed seasoned, dry, split, hardwood. Delivered to your house, stacked free of charge. I love the smell. Hickory, oak, maple, you name it.
My country grandmother cooked with wood, in addition to using a wood stove in the living room for heat, both fueled by a big, loose woodpile back behind the house where a mule-drawn wagon could unload easily, not neatly stacked in ricks and cords, but tossed. Then one of the men, Uncle Jethro or Tom or Will or Herb, or Daddy would split enough to use for a while.
Climbing the woodpile was great sport for me and my cousins when we were small. It was a place of mystery and danger, since our mothers were constantly promising rattlesnakes and copperheads.
I found cats there. The almost-feral barn cats had their kittens in safety somewhere, sometimes even in the hayloft, then when they were about to open their eyes, moved them until they were satisfied with the location. One place they used was the woodpile. I would wait and watch the mother cat leave, then reach down into the depths, scraping my short arms on the rough bark, again and again, trying to find where they were hidden. Now and then my reward would be the back of my hand scratched by spitfire and I could barely get my arm out fast enough, but on rare occasions I could catch them sound asleep and I would slowly pull out a warm, soft handful of kitten.
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