(Mind you, when I was sixteen he'd dragged me outside, handed me the chainsaw, pointed at a fallen tree, and told me to cut it into pieces without visible concern, so I suspect that "too dangerous" was something of an excuse. At least unless chainsaws have gotten more dangerous recently.
I figure it's a combination of wanting to prove he can still do things, and being stubborn about doing things his way.)
Anyway, I spent the beautiful afternoon making little pieces of firewood out of big logs. Though I am achy, I am pleased.