Reflections - The Fire We Built

Log House March 17, 2007

Warm air from our geothermal furnace whistles through the floor vent under the walnut writing desk in the bedroom and tickles my bare toes. I glance out the window at the road and reminisce about a day in March 2007 when I warmed myself and glanced at West Creek Road. We didn’t have geothermal energy then. And more than my toes were bare.

                         

The Fire We Built

I steered the old Dodge truck over slushy, back roads in Western Pennsylvania. Beside me, my husband Spence sketched a map for his garden. Tires whined through S-bends and March sunshine reflected off snowy fields. Hogging the center of the narrow bridge in the dip past the one-room church, I silently coached myself. You learned to drive this stick-shift monster. You’ll master building a wood stove fire too. Plunging the truck down the steep hill into Milledgeville, I chanted, “Levers in, logs angled, paper crumpled, kindling on top.”

Spence stuffed his map into a folder. “I can make fires for you.”

“We won’t always be weekenders.” I’d pestered him about how to make fires during the two hour drive. “Besides, I want to learn.”

Driveway gravel crunched under the truck tires. I jumped from the cab, fetched an armload of firewood from the side yard shed, and hustled up the porch steps.

Spence unlocked the door. Fragrance of fresh wood tickled our nostrils because the log house was so new.

I edged past Spence, crossed the great room, and released the armload—thud, thud, thud—by the wood stove. The house had cooled to a chilly mid-forty degrees since Spence visited several days ago. One or two visits a week were necessary to prevent pipes from freezing in cold weather until we retired in five-and-a-half years.

I kept my coat on.

Kneeling, I pushed levers in, fit medium size logs along the sides of the firebox, then balanced a small log across the back.

Spence grabbed the small log and, before I could object, shoved a piece of split wood in. “Exposed edges catch faster.”

Making a mental note, load split wood next time, I stuffed wadded paper in the middle and balanced kindling across the top.

Spence knelt beside me. “That’s not what I’d do.”

“How would you do it?”

He reached for the kindling.

“Don’t do it. Tell me. I want to build the fire myself.”

Spence sat back on his heels. “I can’t tell you.”

“Okay, show me.” While he angled two kindling sticks under the upper log, I muttered, “It just won’t be my fire.”

Spence cleared the firebox and dropped the materials on the tile by the stove. “Make your fire.” Stepping back, he folded his arms across his chest.

I reloaded the firebox and lit the paper. Flames shot up, sparks spit, and edges of kindling blackened. But the fire died. Figuring the firebox had warmed a bit so the second attempt would be successful, I stuffed in extra paper. Flames licked the logs like a cat leisurely tonguing his fur. I added a small log in front. When the bark ignited, I adjusted the levers and grinned at Spence. “It’s all yours.”

He swooped in, shifted the lower logs into a V, added more wood, and eased the air intake lever out.

Flames whipped, logs crackled, the stove clanked, and air roared up the chimney.

Biting my lower lip, I silently ticked off three conclusions. Fire making is Spence’s job. His decision to become a community organizer, not a teacher, was wise. And I can start a fire if I need to warm myself.

Spence slid his garden map into the basket holding seeds he'd ordered. “Are you ready for a walk?”

I forced knee-high boots—neon-yellow—over threadbare tennis shoes. Tan padded jacket, purple knit cap, and thick black gloves layered on, I stuffed my digital camera into a pocket and hurried outside.

The sunny afternoon temperatures hovered in the low thirties. Free from teaching for the weekend, I had the urge, stemming from the bright light’s promise of spring, to run around the field yelling “Yippee.”

I restrained myself. Leaning against the porch railing, I inhaled the crisp air and watched snow glitter until Spence stepped onto the porch. “You’re dressed like me—except for the colors.”

His mustache twitched. A brown patch covered the plow-ripped tear in his corn colored boots.

We scuffed our wading boots across the cement porch.

An animal with a thick brown body hobbled over the snowy field near the old cabin a hundred yards away. Its skinny tail and pointed nose ruled out a groundhog emerging from hibernation. The critter rounded the lilac bush, crossed the old driveway, and disappeared under a hemlock by the daffodil garden.

I tugged Spence’s sleeve. “Would a possum be out at four in the afternoon?”

He shrugged.

“Let’s follow the tracks. Maybe we’ll get a closer look.”

We moseyed along the critter’s trail, admired daffodil buds atop three inch shoots pushing out of the snow, then semi-circled the hemlock. No prints. The critter couldn’t have vanished. Could it? Disappointed, I traipsed another quarter turn.

Ten feet in front of me, two dark, round eyes stared straight into mine. A small possum’s feet gripped the lowest branch of the hemlock.

I inched the small Sony out of my pocket. Spence would have studied the scene, divided the picture into thirds, included a curvy line for energy, and snapped one or two pictures. Me? I framed the critter in the view window, pressed the shutter button, and stepped closer.

 

Possum

The possum created the energy. Its long hair spiked outward. Needle-shaped shadows striped its snout down to the tiny pink nose. I searched for an interesting angle, snapped, and edged forward a bit more. The possum didn't blink. I took half a dozen photos and as many steps—close enough. Did possums bite? Backing a few steps, I tucked the camera away.

“I found another animal, besides a wood turtle, that doesn't run away before I focus the camera.”

Spence patted my back. “That's nice.”

Yellow boots sinking into snow, we lumbered downhill. In the valley, Deer Creek ran medium-spring high—not summer slow-low wading friendly. But the sparkles and babble tempted me. I scampered down the bank and inched to mid stream. Because his boots leaked around the patch, Spence observed from the path.

Calf deep in rushing water, I took pictures of snow-lined branches above glistening ripples. I tucked the Sony into a pocket, pulled on the thick gloves, and waded out.

“You’re fun.” Spence wrapped his arm around my shoulders. We ambled along the path.

Sunshine gave the illusion of warmth. “Let’s cross the creek and follow the horse trail down the other bank.”

Spence cocked his bearded chin. “We’ll see.”

We searched for a place to ford. Each shallow part had a deep hole blocking one bank or the other. At the fifth spot we considered, calm, shallow water stretched across the first eight feet. A two- or three-foot breadth of rapids raced past the other bank. “It's worth a try. If the stream runs too deep and I have to return, there is no sense in you getting your feet wet.” I headed out.

“Be careful,” he shouted.

JW's Neon-Yellow Boot in Water

I waded four feet into the stream. The water rose half way up the knee-high boots. The creek cooled my shins and highlighted the rocky bottom with a wavy luster. “I think we can make it.”

“Be careful,” he repeated.

When I reached the rapids, the current slammed the side of my boots. I rotated facing upstream, spread my arms like a tightrope walker's pole, and edged sideways. The water deepened. It crept higher on the yellow boots. With an inch and a half to go before water spilled over the boot tops, I stopped.

A four-inch dip waited beside me. Stepping into that wasn't a choice. Instead, I stretched my left foot to a rock beyond the hole.

A mistake. Algae covered the rock. My boot slid, stance widened, and arms windmilled. Underwater my legs split. Wide. I splashed forward, landing on hands and knees.

Cold knocked air out of me.

I gasped.

Rushing rapids smacked me down and back. My water-logged coat weighed more than five baskets of wet laundry.

I resisted the current enough to keep my head out of the water. With ears inches above the surface, the once refreshing gurgles were menacing roars. Endless waves charged toward my face. Water thrashed around me. Unless I wanted Deer Creek dragging me under, I had to stand and wade out.

Intending to ground my foot, I forced my right knee off the creek bed. The current slapped it back onto the rocks. I was in trouble. I wouldn't hold up a day or two until Deer Creek slowed so I could stand.

Leaky boots or not, I needed Spence. “Help! I can’t get up!”

I turned my head to watch him wade in, but Spence already stood beside me.

“You can do it.” He wore his game face—no wrinkles of concern, no optimistic smiles.

I believed his calm demeanor—not his words. “No. I can’t.”

More powerful than a champion wrestler, the rapids pinned me. They surged and pumped with the intensity of streaming all Deer Creek’s eight miles through my coat every second.

“You can. Come on.” He held out his hand.

Smart. If he knelt beside me, the current would knock him down, bounce us both against the rocky bottom, and propel us south to French Creek and into the Allegheny River.

Determination renewed, I forced a sodden gloved hand out of the creek and extended it upward. I couldn’t reach high enough to grasp his hand. I stretched my hand toward his knee then hesitated. If I touched him, he would get wet. He shouldn't get wet in cold air. I pulled the soggy glove away.

“It’s okay.” He’d read my mind. “Grab me.”

Hoping I wouldn't drag Spence under, I clutched his leg, a lifeline as firm as the firewood I’d loaded into the wood stove. I grasped his thigh and struggled to my feet.

“That a girl. You’re doing it.” Spence grabbed my arm and waded me across the creek.

I sloshed and splashed.

He hauled me up the bank.

Water streamed off the sodden coat—not out of the boots. I bent to collapse on the ground and curl up for a rest.

“Keep moving.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.”

“I’m so cold.”

Spence tugged me forward. “You have to keep moving.”

I whimpered and followed Spence. The boots, cylinders full of Deer Creek, anchored me to the snowy ground. But bending down and pulling them off required more energy than I had. I shuffled and panted.

Thirty-three degree water sloshed inside the boots with every step. As if squeezed in a nutcracker, my feet ached beyond the doctor’s one to ten pain scale. “I’m okay except for my feet.”

“You’ll make it. You’ll say ‘Oh, are we here already?’ when we get to the house.”

“No, I won’t.” Only being inside the log house that instant would satisfy me. The house was six hundred yards away and mostly uphill.

 

Deer Creek from Path

Spence coaxed me—across the flood plain, up the woods path, through the evergreen nursery, and up the steps to the porch.

I collapsed onto a wicker chair.

Spence wrenched the boots off and dumped a stream of creek water over the railing. “You brought a lot of the creek with you.”

He didn't have to tell me that.

Free from boots, I shuffled inside and peeled clothes. Creek water saturated everything from my winter jacket and gloves to my bra and underpants. Only the purple hat stayed dry.

I hung the sodden garments on the clothes rack near the wood stove and stood naked by the fire. The flames and warmth enticed me nearer. But, I’d learned. Intimacy started with attraction and had risks. I didn't get too close.

Hair twisted askew from his hasty cap removal, Spence approached with a fluffy green towel. When had he shed his leaky boots and wet socks? The firelight reflected off his wire-rimmed glasses, and his blue eyes gazed at my shivering body. Reaching around, he wrapped me inside the bath towel. I leaned against his strong chest. I could lean against him all night.

After a gentle hug, Spence stepped away. The fluffy towel retained his snuggle.

Plip-plop-plip. Drips from the tan coat hit the tile.

“Yikes!” I lurched and yanked the Sony out of the soggy pocket. All the camera openings drained water. I pushed buttons. No images of a pink nosed possum or the sparkling creek appeared on the view screen. “I lost my pictures.”

Spence eased the camera from my clutches. He removed the wet batteries and set them with the camera on the end table near the fire. “Don’t worry. We’ll see if the camera works when it dries.”

He’d been right about getting out of the creek, walking up the hill, and warming in the log house. I trusted him.

Bustling, he fetched clothes, popped corn, and poured sugary lemonade—all for me.

Ready to dress, I dropped the towel. Heat waves from the wood stove caressed my skin. I relaxed my tense shoulders away from warmed ears. Toes in a puddle, I glanced out the sliding glass door into the waning afternoon light. Wavering reflections of my bare body and dancing flames superimposed on the snowy country road.

Cold and risk lurked outside. Safety and warmth were inside—with Spence and the fire we built.

 

Deer Creek from Mid Stream March 17, 2007