My love is like a rose? How about a warm, burning fire? My heart is a slow-burning log, and it gets me into no end of trouble……
She’s 5 foot 2, eyes of blue, and I’m off to the rodeo….
The best metaphors are where you, dear reader, are left to figure out what is what.
I live in the middle of an arboreal forest, and I heat my home with wood. The main point of contention, in my neighborhood, is not gay or straight, or vaccinated or unvaccinated, but whether you burn Spruce or Aspen. This argument can go on and on, just like the other points of contention, and produce considerable heat.
Let me suffice to say that I am an unvaccinated, vagetarian, and I heat my home with Aspen. The trick is the moisture content.
Years after an Aspen dies, it will stand and dry. An old beauty, two feet in diameter, she releases her carbon back into the earth. Eventually, her top breaks off, usually about 10-15 feet up. My neighbor scoffs that this wood is punky and produces too much ash. Again, the trick is the moisture content. Those upper limbs and branches are usually less than 5% moisture. I burn them with caution because they can burn so hot that I have to open the windows at minus 45C– This can be useful if that special someone has come for tea. She will remark, “It’s so cozy in here,” and then peel off a layer at a time.
The bottom half of the tree produces slow-burning logs that will last for hours. However, yesterday I discovered that these very logs can get you (okay, never mind, me) into a lot of trouble. The thermometer hasn’t been above minus 20 for a week. This is when everyone gets a little cabin whacky.
I set the fire in the wood stove for a long burn so I could get off the farm for a few hours. First, I make a hot base fire of smaller Aspen logs and a dash of Spruce (don’t tell my neighbors). On top of this, I add one of my slow-burning logs. This one is very dry and catches fire immediately, but it is a little too long for the stove. Oops. I can’t shut the door on the wood stove, and I have a burning log half in and half out. What was I thinking? The roaring fire drowns out the fire alarm.
Something needs to be done.
I start with a quick prayer to Atwood’s God of Distress: “Of Fuck”.
A more prudent woman would have doused the fire with a bucket of water. But, if I were a prudent woman, I might not be living on my own in the middle of this forest. I grab my leather gloves and pull the flaming log out of the stove. The air in the house makes the burning log bloom with flame. More prayers to ‘Oh Fuck’. The living room is filling with smoke, and the cat joins a sing-along with the fire alarm. Of course, pieces of burning log break off in the house as I run for the door. I toss the burning log into a snow drift.
I run back into the house and swat, swat, swat, at the trail of burning coals. More prayer, “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” The house is now cold and reeks of smoke. The cat is annoyed.
“Perfect,” I say.
Well, here’s the thing. I still have hands, eyebrows, and eyelashes. The house didn’t burn down, although there are some nasty scorch marks on my favorite Persian rug.
And the log I threw in the snow bank? It’s still burning a day later. Its slow smoldering encourages/ rebukes me each time I open the door.
But which? I send a text to my new love with a picture of the smoldering log: “Should I douse this with water or fan the flame?”
This was written by our contributing writer, Jane Corkish.
Image Source: Unsplash, Elliott Colburn
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