Signs of Fall and Woodstoves

It seems too soon for summer to be over, and of course, we can no doubt look forward to a reasonably nice, probably prolonged, fall that will last at least two months, if not more; but there are signs everywhere indicating summer is winding down. There's lots of goldenrod blooming and raucous squabbles among bluejays scrapping over tree space, winter food storage, or nothing at all; the crickets are chirping, and I'm seeing an occasional flock of birds gathering for their trip south. I went to Berlin to meet cousins for lunch (only one could come) and on the way there were numerous "Road Work Ahead" signs as highway crews rush to get summer projects finished before cold weather, and there are school buses out and about.

In Marshfield there was some sort of project going on just after the bridge by Creamery Street, and I was surprised to see an unusual type of flag person -- not a person at all, but a light with an arm that flopped down with a flag. It reminded me of the old-time railroad crossing signs. While I waited, I took this photo. You'll notice the van ahead of me - the driver apparently didn't see the stop light in time. I think there was a significant delay after the light came on, and then the barrier came down - it came down just as I approached. I wonder how many times that thing gets hit or comes down on the vehicle of an unsuspecting driver who goes a little past the light. It is a very effective and mobile piece of equipment -- and no wages involved. It was gone when I came back through a couple hours later.

I mentioned in my last entry about our s'mores experiment last Saturday evening. It was definitely fun and when we all picked up our gear and left, the fire had died down to just a few embers. Surrounded by huge boulders and with a very heavy dew, I wasn't concerned in the least about it and even though I had the hose right there, I didn't bother to wet it down. On Sunday morning, I was busy at my computer in my office where the window looks out on the back lawn, and suddenly movement outside caught my attention. There was a cloud of smoke lazily drifting by. Just for an instant, I had an adrenaline rush -- you know, "where there's smoke, there's fire" sort of thing -- and even though the next instant I knew what had happened, I went outside to check. Earlier that morning when I raked together the remnants of our fire from the night before, there were apparently some live coals under the ashes, and with some fresh, dry wood for fuel, it came alive. There was only a small flame, but a fair amount of smoke. I placed a few more sticks on it to finish cleaning up the leftovers, and returned to my office. 

The darned thing smoldered most of the morning, and every now and then the smell of wood smoke drifted through the house. It reminded me of my childhood when most of us kids smelled of wood smoke. Wood was the main heat source then, and those reliable old wood stoves belched smoke without much provocation -- if the draft was shut down too much, or when the doors or rimmers were opened to feed the beast, or sometimes just if there was a downdraft or the outside air was a bit too heavy. It was part of living with a wood stove. They were great for warming one's backside or drying out soggy mittens, though. The cook stoves provided heat, hot water, a broad, handy place to cook or warm up food, and a spacious oven for baking beans, bread, pies, cakes and cookies; the parlor stoves were piping-hot monsters that warmed whole rooms with ease, and gobbled kindling and huge chunks of wood that were generally split and carried in by kids. I was responsible for keeping the big wood box that was outside our kitchen door filled - but my father did most of the wood splitting. By the time I was old enough to wield an ax, I think we had converted to oil for the furnace and bottled gas for cooking.

Wood smoke in the morning at our house meant my father was up, starting or replenishing the fire in the kitchen stove before he went to the barn for milking, and that meant I had a few minutes before I had to crawl out from under the quilts and rush downstairs to get dressed and ready for school. In the winter, my bedroom was only for sleeping, not for undressing or getting dressed, because it was unheated. My clothes were laid out in the kitchen the night before and in the morning I rushed downstairs to the warm kitchen and bathroom to get ready for the day. I usually had a hot-water bottle with me that had kept me warm most of the night. I still like my bed warmed up before I crawl in, but now it's a far easier ritual than pouring hot water into a rubber bag. I press a button and the blanket on my bed begins to warm a space for me. But I still keep a hot water bottle handy - one that I haven't used in years. And, I like a cold room, so I have the window open just a wee bit on all but the coldest nights. I hate being in hotel rooms where the windows cannot be opened. Somehow, air conditioners just don't measure up.

Another part of my childhood, a really scary part of living with wood stoves, was that sometimes after my father had gone to milk the cows, my mother would come to the stairs and scream at me, "Jane, get up, the chimney's on fire!!!"

When a chimney begins to get really burning, there is a menacing roar. My mother was terrified of chimney fires, and so was I. It was dangerous - the chimney was in good repair, but just bricks - no liner like today, and if wood wasn't sufficiently dry, or if for whatever reason we were burning pitchy soft wood, creosote would build up and when it ignited, it was like a giant blowtorch. We had cedar shingles on the house back then, and the whole place was built of old, dry timbers.  Houses burned down frequently back then - not so much now, but chimney fires are still dangerous. I think she threw salt in the stove and closed all the dampers to shut it down -- and my job was to run up the hill to my grandparents' to get my father. Dad would come on the run, but there was little he could do except watch for hot spots. I think he had some sort of weight on a chain that he could put down the chimney from the roof to knock the burning pieces of creosote down to the bottom of the chimney in the cellar where they would burn out harmlessly. I remember he left ladders in place all winter so he could get onto the roof to manage those chimney fires.  I don't remember chimney fires at my grandparents' house and I have no idea why we had them and they didn't, except that they may have let their fires burn hotter and that kept the chimney clear. Or perhaps it was the configuration of their chimneys. Or perhaps they just accepted them and let the fires burn themselves out, and didn't panic like my mother did. It was a long time ago.

Now I'm sitting here wondering where the storm is that WCAX warned us about a little while ago. I took down my flag - winds gusting to 70 mph, they said - and secured deck chairs and hanging plants. We've had a rumble of thunder and a very gentle rain shower. Is that all there is? I guess I'll have something to eat and get on with my evening. Enjoy the fading summer!