Reflections on the Fourth Week of Fall - Their First Fire

Trees Along West Creek Road

Last Monday, hair damp from swimming, I walked under a canopy of golden leaves to our log house. When I opened the front door, two kittens scampered across the great room to greet me. The third napped on the sofa. And Spence, away buying off-road diesel for his tractor, had laid a fire in our wood stove. My husband's a sweetie. Wood, kindling, and crumpled paper waited for a match. I petted the kittens and debated. Light the first fire of the season and for our kittens, or wait until Spence could help keep curious kittens from singeing their paws on the stove?

I checked the weather station on the kitchen wall—52℉ (11℃) outside, 65℉ (18℃) inside. Pulling a knit cap over my damp hair, I waited.

Tuesday morning we had our second hard frost of the year. In the afternoon I dressed in walnut stained clothes and hustled out to swish through fallen leaves on a black walnut hunt. Sunshine warmed me. No need for a fire.

Wednesday dawned cloudy and rainy. The log house temperature dropped to 62°. Instead of lighting the fire, I turned the oven dial to 375° so I could bake rhubarb oatmeal cookies for the weekend quilt retreat at Whitehall Camp and Conference Center in Emlenton. Chop, chop, chop. I sliced frozen rhubarb until my fingertips numbed.

Ande jumped onto the table and sniffed the rhubarb.

I grabbed him around the middle and lowered him to the floor.

Rills climbed up my jeans and reached his paw toward the bowl of dry ingredients.

I grabbed him around the middle and lowered him to the floor.

Gilbert sat in a kitchen chair and batted the bag of walnuts.

I grabbed him around the middle, lowered him to the floor, and walked across the room to shake the kitten crunchies in their food bowl.

They gobbled, stared out the sliding glass door, but returned when I baked a chicken pot pie for the retreat.

The hot oven and the exercise lowering kittens precluded the need for a fire.

Temperatures dropped to the mid forties on cloudy, windy Thursday. I checked the thermometer—43° out and 62° in. Chilly enough for a fire, but Spence had driven to Cleveland for two lead safe meetings and grocery shopping. I could make one more day before the retreat without a fire. Maybe the dryer would raise the temperature.

After I washed and dried three loads of laundry, the temperature rose to 63°. I pulled a sweater over my turtleneck and sweatshirt. The layers kept me warm as long as I raced about the house folding clothes and packing sewing gear for the retreat. When I sat at the computer, my skin cooled. Holding and sipping a cup of hot, ginger turmeric tea erased the chill.

Friday morning the indoor temperature dipped to 60°, but I felt toasty while I stuffed in the last items—a midwife mystery novel, my phone charger, and the tablet to play The Scarlet Pimpernel while I fell asleep.

The aroma of coffee and Spence’s voice floated to me from the kitchen. “Do you want a fire?”

“No.” I dragged my clothes, bedding, and sewing gear to the front door. “If you need one go ahead.”

He didn’t.

After toughing out the low sixties temperatures at home, the 72° sewing room and sleeping lodge at the retreat made me sweat. I pulled off my sweatshirt, pushed up my turtleneck sleeves, and sipped cold water. Even after a hard frost Sunday morning, I felt toasty.

Back at Wells Wood the fellas didn’t. “Two blankets and three cats,” Spence’s voice said through the phone.“We had great sleeping weather.”

I drove home Sunday afternoon in my turtleneck and mused that, after the heated weekend, I might make it until November before needing a fire.

Golden Leaves

At home, chillier inside than out, Spence had a different idea. “People are coming for the campaign meeting at six. I’ll start the fire before they come.” He stirred chicken taco ingredients in the fry pan.

Two kittens jumped off the sofa and padded toward me.

I set the basket of fabric on the kitchen table, picked up Ande, and reached down to pet Rills. “Do we really need one? It’s balmy outside.”

“The fire will make it cozy and welcoming.”

I glanced around. He’d washed all the dishes, picked up for company, and had supper almost ready. If he wanted a fire, he could have a fire. “Okay. That sounds lovely.”

At five-thirty, he knelt by the wood stove, opened the glass door, and struck a match.

The kittens sneaked to within a yard of Spence. They bobbed their heads and stared into the firebox.

Spence lit the paper, smoke billowed into the room, and, screech-bang, closed the door.

Ande and Rills crept to a paw-width from Spence’s butt.

Gilbert stood on his hind legs and reached his paws toward the smoke.

Aroma of campfire tickled my nostrils.

Spence opened the sliding glass door and a window. Kneeling by the wood stove, he lit a match, opened the firebox a second time, and tossed the match in.

A cloud of smoke and several dazed wasps flew out of the firebox.

“There’s no draft.” Spence slammed the door. “The chimney must be blocked.” He sat back on his heels and stared at the smoke and wasps swirling inside the firebox. “Wasps must-have made a nest in the chimney recently. After the chimney sweep cleaned in July, anyway.”

Gilbert batted at a wasp that landed on the glass door.

I pulled him away and squished the dazed wasp with a pad of paper. Carrying the wasp remnants outside, I hoped the other escapees would expire and drop into crevices the kittens couldn’t find.

Ten minutes later, while I bit into a chicken taco, Spence opened the wood stove a third time. He pushed a log to the side making more air space in the middle of the box and lit another piece of crumpled paper. Spence slammed the door.

Whoomph! Flames burst from the kindling and filled the fire box.

Ande strode between Spence and the stove.

Spence lifted Ande and set him in the chair by the front door.

Rills jumped up beside Ande, scooted across the end table, and walked across the top of the wood stove.

Rills on the Wood Stove

Spence grabbed him. “Stay off the stove.” He set Rills on the floor and shook his finger at the kittens. “Don’t jump on the stove. Got it? No cats on the stove.”

As if listening to an elementary school teacher, the kittens sat on their haunches, stared at the wagging finger, and flicked their tails.

Spence turned from the kittens to the blaze. “The fire must have burned enough of the nest to clear an airway.”

Glad I hadn’t had to wrestle with a blocked flue and wasp swarm, I gobbled my taco and enjoyed the flames licking the logs.

By the time John, a candidate running for a six year term as township supervisor, arrived, the smoke had cleared. The room felt cozy, and the wasps had left the firebox—dead or alive.

Ande jumped onto John’s leg.

Both Spence and I lunged to grab the kitten.

John waved us away. “I like cats.” He petted Ande. “He’s a friendly cat. But he has sharp claws.”

Kathy, a candidate running for a two year term as township supervisor, and Sandy, the tax collector, came next. We sat at the kitchen table. While Spence and Kathy sipped wine, the five of us discussed yard signs, millage, and an introductory letter to send to voters.

Ande wandered away from John, sat on his haunches, and gaszed into the fire.

John chuckled. “Look at him stare at the fire.”

Spence leaned back and clasped his hands behind his head. “It’s his first fire. They didn’t have fires in the barn.”

The kittens stayed a safe distance from the wood stove. They didn’t stay away from our neighbors.

Rills interrupted Kathy’s oral listing of locations for yard signs by climbing her leg.

“Ouch! You little bugger.” Kathy detached Rills from her slacks and glanced at me. “You need to clip their claws.”

On a to do list, I wrote polish the letter, create a handout for writing in Kathy’s name, and clip kitten claws. Like starting the first fire, I’ll wait until Spence is home to help me with that last one.

By the end of the meeting, I’d been doubly warmed—warmed by the first fire and warmed by the company of clever, well-informed guests.

Burning Bush