Remembering Victor, the woodman of Eastie

Vic Moulton’s dad musta been a pistol, cause Vic shore enuf were a son of a gun.
I first met Victor when I lived in South Lebanon and would pass his small, nondescript woodcutting business on Highland Street not too far from Shoreyville Plaza.
Whenever I drove by, whatever season, whatever time, there was Victor out there working by himself, sawing up logs, splitting logs, stacking logs neatly according to their variety and covering them to keep them dry and to season fast.
He knew more about wood than most. I know that because he told me so during the many times I stopped by to pick up a load for the woodstove.
“I won’t sell oak to anyone with a breathing problem, or a smoker,” he’d retort. “It’s hard on the lungs.”
Or “Ash is the best, you can burn it right off the stump.”
Then, like clockwork, in all the years I bought from him, came the same aside and the same twinkle in his eye a few seconds later: “Of course everyone likes a little piece of ash.”
There was absolutely nothing prurient about the remark, only a twinkle of the eye, a toothy grin and harmless banter.
Victor loved the banter. And he never let you go without throwing an extra dozen or so logs in the truck to keep you coming back for more wood, and conversation.
One time I was looking for a part-time job and thought it’d be fun to work with him in his woodyard, but he shook his head ruefully.
“If I hired you, the government’d be all over me with insurance and this and that,” he said. “No, I’ll never hire anyone, ever.”
That was back in the ‘90s when he was in his 60s. I continued buying wood from him up until around 2010 when I began heating full time with wood and got it delivered a cord at a time. Vic didn’t deliver wood. You came to him.
He rarely left the woodyard, except maybe for breakfast at the old Minor’s Restaurant every day.
Soon after 2010 I began to notice that his little house and woodyard were deserted. Recently I noticed it’d been torn down.
I wondered where he’d gone, or if he’d died cutting wood or fallen under his tractor.
That would’ve been hard to believe since he seemed to have more stamina in his 80s than me.
He died a few days ago at the age of 87. He’s being buried today.
So long, Vic. I always liked your ash joke.