Unfortunately, before he answered my questions, I always had to do him this favor.

"It's right here, Jack," he called having stopped in a clearing. From here I could clearly make out his house at the edge of the woods, and the newly paved road just beyond.

"Well, you'd better start chopping," he said, grinning. His eyes sparkled from their set in his slowly wrinkling, lightly tanned face. A blue, dirty baseball cap sat atop his head, hiding the fringe of white hair that circled, but did not cover, his scalp. I sighed to myself, and pulled the ax from a log at my feet.

I looked at the pile of wood around me. I had better start chopping…

"When your done, just meet me in the garage and we'll talk, eh?" With that, Edwin walked back towards his house.

I started to chop. As time wore on, and my muscles ached, and the pile of huge logs was slowly whittled down to a pile of much smaller ones, I considered the irony of the situation. I would probably be back next month to buy from Edwin this very firewood I was chopping.

As I at last walked into Edwin's garage through the open front barn doors, he was sitting at a card table set up in the center of the structure, sipping coffee, eating a donut, and looking at a newspaper that was ten years old.

"There you are," he said, "I was just catching up on the news. I'll just go see how you've done. Make yourself at home." As he went back to inspect my handiwork, I took the opportunity to familiarize myself with the present condition of the garage. It was always changing, really. Right now, it appeared to be a tribute to Edwin's days on an Alberta Curling team, with various trophies on the makeshift wooden shelves that lined the walls of this cubical, concrete floored room.

Along the walls were stacks of old newspapers and magazines, issues of "Popular Mechanics" from the 1950's, and National Geographic magazines from near the turn of the century. There certainly wasn't room for a car in here.

The walls were plain drywall, with posters stapled to any part that didn't have a shelf on it. They were an eclectic collection: some posters for politicians, some for old movies, and others for communist regimes.

"Good job, Jack. You're a hard worker." He said, walking back in, his tall form slightly slouched.

He sat down at the table and gesture for me to do the same.

"Reminds me of some of the boys in Alberta, back in the days when curling was the sport of kings." As he regaled me with stories of stones and ice, his hands floated through the air, and somehow they showed the pictures of each scene with their movements. Every now and then he would pause for a big guttural laugh that worked it's way from his ample belly, up through his chest and out his mouth.

After his stories had finished, he paused for a sip of coffee.

He then unbuttoned the collar of his pink and blue checkered short sleeve shirt, and now he leaned forward, steepling his figures as he rested his elbows on the table. Edwin's hands, looked worn and strong, the fingertips resting against each other in a manner that seemed strangely gentle.

"So what was it you wanted to ask me?" He said, happily inquisitive.

I just sat for a moment, starting at this older, strange man, his thin but strong shoulders bent forward and his belly stretching his shirt slightly as I came to the realization that I honestly couldn't remember.