Fire in the Morning

 

Years before I knew it would be

important to me

I learned a little something about the

glories of woodburning stoves.

 

My mom married my step-dad on a

hot June day

and we immediately loaded up the blue Volvo

with coolers and suitcases

and headed out

on a "new family" vacation/honeymoon

to Yellowstone National Park.

 

After the long drive

across three states

we arrived at the park

to find temperatures

hovering just below freezing

every night.

 

We loaded the necessities

of the four of us

into a cabin just like this one

arriving near dark

and confronted with the frigid reality

in short order:

the place had no heat

other than the tiny little

woodburning stove.

 

 

That night

as we hurried back from the bath house in winter coats

our new step-dad stuffed the woodburner

with wood and all manner of kindling

with great care

to keep his new brood of

family women

warm through the night.

 

I remember pulling quilts up over my ears that night

looking down towards my feet

just beyond which stood the little stove

happily pressing warm air into the room.

 

I fell asleep,

noticing I could see stars

outdoors in the night sky

through cracks in the roof of the cabin.

Cool enough, I thought as I drifted off.

Cool enough.

 

At some hour

buried deepest in the wee ones

of the early early morning

I remember waking to whispers.

And discomfort.

And sweat.

Beads of it.

No......not beads.

More like rivers.

 

My sister

who shared my bed

was kicking me.

Well, I thought she was kicking me.

She was kicking blankets.

And I realized

I was kicking mine too.

 

And the whispers I heard

were that of my parents.

They were both up,

one at the window

and the other at the door,

fanning the cozy little cabin

by opening and closing them.

 

At some point

my step-dads

fabulous fire-building skills

unfolded into full bloom

sending waves and waves

of heat...

blistering, sweltering heat....

into every corner

of the tiny cabin

and deep into our pores.

 

I suspect we were all

nearing

spontaneous combustion.

My mom's face was flushed.

And I just wanted to smack

my sister for no reason.

(This was an impulse often attributed

to over-heating

in my youth.)

 

Over the ensuing years

my parents would

recollect the moment

and the heat

with laughter;

it became an important footnote

on the page of our

new family relationship.

Our first

noteworthy

group memory.

A sweet one.

 

A warm one.

Definitely a warm one.

But sweet, indeed.

 

Years later

I kept my own family warm

through years and years

of judicious

management of a

lower level

woodburner

in a 70's

split-level tract home.

 

Grandma taught me how to

bank a log at night.

Not gonna sugar coat

the truth

when there is truth

to be told:

I was a kick-ass

fire-builder.

 

Eventually

hauling logs

and risking cardiac arrest

over the parade of spiders

that crawl from warming logs

as you haul them into the house

won over the economies

of heating with wood.

 

Shamefully

yes, I know, green young people,

we returned to the allure

of the convenience

of fossil fuels.

 

Fast forward.............

wayyy, wayyyy forward....

 

 

Today started grey.

It started grey

and overcast and even if the thermometer

says it's warmer than a few days ago

it's still cold.

 

So I built a morning fire.

And even though the sun found it's way

past the clouds this afternoon

the heat of the early flames

reached out and licked at me,

warmly ministering not only

to my shivering skin

but sinking in

and sending warm, comforting waves

through all of the empty

drafty

spots in my heart.

 

 

Fire warmed our new little family

all those decades ago.

Fire warmed my own little family

through my kids growing-up years.

 

Fire warms me still.