We were only allowed 3 wedges, and a log splitter was more expensive to feed than a couple of stupid young stepsons.
Dad would cut those rounds into 6' lengths, then we had to load them into the truck and take them home. He'd cut them down to 2' long rounds, then let us at them. One time my brother slipped in the mud lugging one of those 6 footers and broke his arm. Turned out he had bone cancer and the break revealed the problem. He went through two bone graft operations in the next 5 years to get rid of it. Meanwhile, the wood pile ended up my sole responsibility. While I was glad it wasn't me going under the knife, my brother's absence didn't endear him to me so much.
I think I finally convinced him to leave the damned hemlock alone. In addition to being the hardest to split, it also spit and popped in the fireplace so much it would catch the rug on fire sometimes. By the time he figured out that a wood stove would heat the house better than a plain fireplace, I was old enough that I could go get wood on my own, and I cherry picked every slash pile I came across. I also "acquired" a decent peavey so I didn't have to wrestle muddy logs so much. It was like pulling teeth to get him to let me use the Stihl, though.
An axe is great for trimming and building things. But for making firewood, nothing works as good as a splitting maul and a wood bomb.
I ought to spend some time back in the woodpile again. Back then, I thought it was a real pain. Now, it would be a happy respite from the cold, cruel world.
_________________________
The ultimate result of shielding men from the effects of folly is to fill the world with fools.
-- Herbert Spencer, English Philosopher (1820-1903)