The stove is whispering to me. The cold rain alternates between a patter and a slanting hiss on the remaining snow, but I do not listen to it. Once, before the world began to warm steadily, that landscape of melting snow–even in Richmond–marked the turning from deep to late winter.
Today, I listen to the rain no more than I listen to those who say “you see, the scientists invented global warming.” No, I don’t listen, because one season is not a climate and we forget that not long ago, every Virginia winter could be this biting. In a few years, even those doubters will listen, but for now, I’ll enjoy a winter that is as familiar as a childhood memory of snow. I like how it slowed us, how it told us “the world is not about you.”
So I listen to the stove. The porch is cold, and I can see my breath as I carefully clean out the fire box, sending ashes into the tray and retaining the good embers. Then I crumple a few sheets of newspaper on top. With care, and thanks for my ability to make fire, I take up the hatchet and split a few bits of kindling until they are as thin as pencils. These go on top of the paper, and to get the chimney to draw I put in a flaming wand of paper with one hand, then light the fuel.
The result is dramatic, as always, but my fire-hand is armored with a thick stove-glove. As the fuel catches I close the door, and the crackling is like laughter. “Let me be a moment,” the stove says, as I wait, watching the rain wax stronger and steadier into a full shower. Soon all the kindling is blazing well, and I begin to build up the fire gently, choosing mindfully each piece. In half an hour, the chill from the porch subsides, and I pull up a rocker and a copy of Frank Herbert’s Dune near the stove. Over the adventures of Paul Muad’Dib the stove reminds me of its purpose: fire as preserver and, if one is foolish, destroyer.
South is not my element, but I respect the sun’s power. In the long run, cold will be the fate of all things, but long before that, and long after humanity has passed form this world, Mother Earth, even Mars, will vanish into the surface of a bloating red star that once made our gardens grow. Such thinking about Deep Time, however, is personally no more troubling that Herbert’s evil Baron and how Paul and the other characters become pawns in a galactic game.
The stove settles down to a rhythmic chugging, a lovely old freight-train noise. The pipes on the chimney ping a little, as they expand from the heat. All too soon, I’m pulling back the rocker from my closeness to the fire. Like the wheel of the year in miniature, the stove waxes strong, and I’m drawn from both my book and the rainfall.
Spring will come and after it, summer in her fulness. Then, the fire will ebb and only embers remain. But between now and then, there’s work to do. The other day, I noted the calls of the birds had changed.
They know what is coming. Do we stop long enough from our scurrying and worrying to notice?
