At the beginning of every fall, there is a specific ritual for the lighting of the woodstove. It’s comfort rather than necessity. And the fire is laid carefully, almost hesitantly. Like I’d forgotten how it’s done in the few months between May and October. But by the end of the month, there is a routine developed about coals, ash, wood, and fire. It’s a necessity. About ninety percent of our heat comes from the stove. We have an oil burner. I could use it more than I do, but I am still capable of loading the wood in rows in spring and summer, hauling it in, and setting the fire going in fall and winter.
This is certainly not a ritual I picked up growing up as a Supers son in New York. In the early days, I remember receiving instructions on how to throw coal over embers to feed the large boilers that provided heat in the building where we lived, and my father worked.
No, the woodstove came out of living in coastal Maine. The woodstove was a constant at many of the homes where I lived, and indeed the shops where I worked. Sitting around watching the flames leap. Talking, and feeling the very direct warmth on your skin. These provide a sense of security and continuity with the past.
Besides, my two cats and dog insist on basking in the warmth of the fire. Just last night, Sabrina rode on my shoulder to load the wood. It was as if I was being instructed. Hmmmmmmm.
For a cat’s view of this, see my other post today:https://loucarrerascarver.com/2025/10/11/responsibilities/
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I loved my woodstove in CA. I miss it here. When I first moved here, I had the idea of converting the garage to a studio and it would have had a woodstove.
Like Martha, I miss my woodstove. There are gas fireplaces in our new house, but it’s nothing at all like real fire. Nor as warm.
We had a fire in the stove tonight. The prime beneficiaries were the male cat and dog, who hogged the warmest spots in the room.