Reflections on the Fifth Week of Fall – The Heating Challenge

Packed Firebox

    Dazzling blue skies and a ten degrees above average temperature marked the first Tuesday in October. I opened the deck door to let our cat George inside. He stopped in front of my feet to lick his fur. Stepping around him, I brushed against the cool wood stove. “Hey. It’s October, and we haven’t built a fire yet!”

    Spence selected one of the handwritten notes strewn on the sofa beside him. “That’s nice, dear.”

    “Susannah, the teacher who replaced me at Ruffing, challenged herself not to turn the furnace on in September.”

    Spence stared at his computer screen.

    Had he heard me? Maybe he didn’t share my enthusiasm about Susannah’s heating challenge. I pressed my lips together so I wouldn’t interrupt his work with Had we ever waited until October for the first fire in the wood stove? Plunking onto the Adirondack chair, I balanced my laptop on my crossed legs and searched old farm journals to construct a First Fire table.

Year	First Fire
2013	October 21
2014	October 6
2015	October 2
2016	October 14
2017

   Sheesh.

   Since retirement, we’d always waited until October for the first fire. Maybe we could wait until November this year.

   The first week of October, our high temperatures averaged 73º F ( 23º C) instead of AccuWeather’s 65º F (18º C) average. No fire needed.

   The second week, highs averaged 69º F ( 21º C) in contrast to AccuWeather’s 62º F (17º C) average. I made minor adjustments.

• Open windows when outside temperatures surpass those inside.
• Take a long, leaf-gazing walk when opening windows doesn’t work.
• Rub my hands against against the laptop’s heat releasing vents.
• Sew in the warmer loft.
• Hold my hands over my mouth and nose then puff hot air to warm my face and fingers.

    Though still surpassing AccuWeather’s average 60º F (16º C) temperatures on six of seven days, this third week of October proved more challenging. And I made it harder by practicing yoga on the deck Monday morning.

    Figuring 49º F (9º C) was close enough to 50º F (10º C), I bundled then unrolled my yoga mat on the deck for core strengthening yoga. On my back, I curled and touched my nose to my right knee. Stars glittered overhead, and a sliver of a waning moon rose behind the trees across the road. When I squatted for chair pose, my fingers, toes, and abs ached. Instead of heating like the contracting abs, my digits chilled as if encased in ice.

    The sky lightened, the temperature fell to 47º F ( 8º C), and a screech owl whinnied. Though the predawn nature rejuvenated my spirit, I pulled the yoga blanket over me and stuck my hands in my hoodie pockets to shiver through relaxation pose. Stiff, with aching shoulders and neck, I lugged my yoga gear inside.

    Normally, I’d sit by a wood stove fire to ease the arthritis flareup, but I had to dash off to my twice yearly medical checkup then to the YMCA for lap swim. Besides, I could ignore a little stiffness to meet the November first-fire challenge. I gobbled a steaming breakfast and drove off with the car heater dial pointed at red hot.

    Rain and wind limited the day’s high to 52º F (11º C).

    When I returned home, however, the house was toasty warm because Spence had processed and canned seven quarts of hot pickled peppers while I was gone. No need for a wood stove fire . . . Monday.

    Tuesday morning, Spence drove to Columbus, Ohio to attend the Public Utilities Committee Hearing at the State House. With an ache running down the back of my neck and across my shoulders, I strode to the weather monitor on the kitchen wall. Digital numbers recorded 65º F (18º C). My turn to cook and warm the house.

    But touching hot peppers or coming into contact with their cooked vapors itches my eyes, burns my lips, and makes me sneeze or cough. I left the bushel of peppers on the porch and pulled a package of four chicken breasts out of the refrigerator.

    While the breasts simmered in the dutch oven over a low burner, I chopped carrots, cooked peas, and rolled two pie crusts. Two hours and fifteen minutes later, aroma of chicken floated through the kitchen. I pulled the dutch oven off the burner and lifted the lid. Steam warmed my nose, meat flaked off the chicken breasts, but all the broth I needed for baking a chicken pot pie had evaporated.

    Oops.

    I forked, and spooned, the breasts onto a cutting board then poured water into the Dutch oven. With the zeal of a repentant sinner, I scraped the fork against the cooked-on drippings. The water turned into rich broth.

By dinnertime, the inside temperature had risen to 66º F (19º C), and savory pie warmed my tummy. Washing dishes in hot soapy water warmed me even more.

    Wednesday I overslept, a joy of retirement, so Spence woke me at 7:30. “Are you alive? I couldn’t hear you breathe or see your chest move?”

    I rolled over and yawned. “Still breathing.”

    He dropped our cat Emma onto the bed. “I’m not cold, but it’s sixty-four in here. Do you want me to build a fire?”

    Petting Emma and struggling to think through my internal morning fog, I took a deep yoga breath. In the winter, my cut off for a fire in the wood stove is 65º F (18º C). Did I want one of Spence’s huge roaring fires? With sunshine and a high-sixties temperature in the forecast plus a schedule eliminating long stretches of sitting with a laptop, I could delay that first fire longer. “No. thanks. I’ll be cleaning so plenty warm.” I picked up Emma and gave her a hug.

    She merrowed and wiggled out of my arms.

    Cleaning kept me warm and kept Emma merrowing when the dust mop and dust rag provoked several moves to new napping spots.

    In the evening, I pulled on a fleece jacket for the ride to the quilt guild meeting.

    Spence slipped into his shoes and followed me out the door. Walking toward the garage, he said, “I can make a fire to have the house warm when you get back.”

    With crossed arms, I rubbed my hands against my biceps. “I’ll put the heater on in the car. I won’t need a fire.”

    “The temperature is going down to the low forties tonight.”

    “I’ll be under a blanket. Maybe two.”

    He balled his hands into fists. “Don’t be obstinate. Get that dumb notion about waiting until November out of your head.”

    “It’s not dumb, just a challenge. If it snows, we can build a fire.”

    He growled, but waved while I drove away with the heater turned on high.

    When I returned, logs, kindling, and crinkled paper filled the wood stove firebox. Spence looked up from his computer. “I wasn’t cold so I didn’t start the fire.”

    Forcing myself not to shiver, I said. “Fine with me.”

    Thursday, Spence drove to Cleveland for a morning meeting then drove me to Greenville for my late afternoon eye appointment. We returned to a chilly house. Tired he stretched on the sofa, pulled an afghan up to his chin, and fell asleep.

    I popped a slice of chicken pot pie into the microwave.

    Spence didn’t wake until I slurped watermelon for dessert.

    Watermelon always cools me. I shivered.

    He tossed the afghan aside, strode to the wood stove, and picked up the box of matches. “Do you want a fire?”

    “It’s just the watermelon. I’m fine.”

    “That’s not a straight answer. Yes or no. Do you want a fire?”

    I didn’t want a fire, but he’d pulled a match from the box, and his creased forehead communicated his unvoiced waiting until November is dumb.

    I shivered again. “Okay. Light the fire.”

    He opened the squeaky firebox door, touched a lighted match to the paper, and slammed the door shut. The stove clanked and aroma of toasted dust spread through the great room.

First Fire

    George and Emma sprawled on the floor by the wood stove.

    Waves of heat washed over me sitting in the Adirondack chair. While the knots in my neck and shoulders eased, I raised my hands to warm my fingers against baked-hot cheeks.

    “Amazing how a fire takes the chill out of the air,” Spence said gazing at the orange and yellow flames encircling logs.

    My disappointment in not meeting the November first-fire challenge evaporated with the fire’s radiating comfort. Waiting until November would mean increasing the rate of global warming–a dumb idea indeed.

Year	First Fire
2013	October 21
2014	October 6
2015	October 2
2016	October 14
2017	October 19