fires glimmer

At this house we work to keep flames dancing in the woodstove. It’s an occupation ripe for musing about life.

Pieces of logs are plentiful, because over many years Tim has mastered the art of gathering huge tree portions (forest service permit tucked in his wallet) and hauling them to our driveway, where his trusty axe, sledgehammer, wedge, and chainsaw give him as many workouts as the machines at Oz Fitness Center.

The goal is household heat. The system works efficiently, with a dining room fan circulating air downward so all but the farthest corners are comfy on wintrish days (we battle mold in those corners, but oh well). The need is not essential, seeing as Bonneville Dam continues powering our region, and our furnace, under Tim’s watchful care, runs fine. What’s behind everything is keeping our utility bill as low as possible.

This I appreciate, even while staring at a stubborn, heavy chunk of pine smoldering and sending out piecemeal, flamey licks yet refusing to actually ignite. My shoulders and knees complaining, I open the windowed stove door and try again with the poker to position this newest wood piece atop the previously well-burning one. A splinter irritates my thumb, because as usual I failed to put on work gloves. Keeping the door open a crack, I puff air at the smoking pile until I’m lightheaded. Then I slump against the recliner and wait for flame.

Differing elements play out in this process. You get a roaring fire going when it’s coldest outside, but only on the frostiest days do you want it to continue hot as lava; otherwise you’re sweating and changing into shorts in December, plus you’re using up too much wood. So you try to find balance, letting it burn lower while working at the computer in the other room, but seeking to remember to dash out and check in time to throw on the right amount of fuel. One of the saddest sights around this place is a silent, black woodstove window where an orange glow is supposed to be.

As with life, I’ve deluded myself at times thinking I’d find the perfect keep-a-fire-going method. Nope. Never will happen. Too many variables exist, from whether the wood we’re using today is hemlock, cedar, cottonwood, or walnut, to the shapes of individual pieces and whether or not I can balance heavy ones best for airflow.

Some late mornings I totally lose it, railing at the stupid smoking stupid damn wood dumb wonky crap effing fireplace. The poker lands forcefully on the hearth, and I only grow colder as my sweaty rage subsides.

Yet sitting there chilled and steaming, my breaths slowing and heartrate regulating once more, I receive the message that is reinforced throughout all these years poking fires, poking the worrisome, disappointful aspects of my existence.

Almost always a tiny flame works its way, finally, between the woody pieces. Not every time. Some days the dark, stubborn pile remains cold. Newspapers shoved underneath don’t revive it. I thrust my arms into another sweater, grab a lap blanket, or if I really have to, start the furnace. But those giving-up days serve to make thankfulness more genuine watching the fire when it does slowly catch on. When the crackling begins, to the warmth of its cheering rhythm, I smile.