I remember my grampa cutting kindling in the woodshed out behind my grandparents' little red-trimmed house on York Hill.  He would be out there for hours, never mind the dark, the cold, the solitude. Perhaps it was because of these things that he lingered until the cooling embers of the hearth could quietly summon him back inside so that they could be stoked and fed another log or two.  He was a man who kept to himself -- one who never insinuated himself into the affairs of others.  I can sill hear the soft crunch of icy snow beneath his booted feet.