I've had a lot of fireplaces and fires in my life, and a lot of places, and a lot of houses.
In the first place where Sandy and I lived together, I remember listening to the music of The Byrds while watching the flames and reminiscing about the 1967 Summer of Love. The fire helped to take me back to a precious time in my life.
In North Carolina, I had a cord of wood stacked up between two trees. I would brush the snow off the wood before carrying it into the house.
Our floating home in Portland, OR had a gas fireplace--not nearly as interesting.
When we lived in Martinez, CA, we had no real fireplace at all--just two fake ones (one of them made by the Amish), with electric heaters in them.
We were back on track, though, when we moved to Uruguay. There, we had to deal with all the logistics of leña, firewood.
Here I am, back in Uruguay. Firewood, though, is at least four times as expensive as it was when Sandy and I first came here. All of it comes from the northern, interior part of the country, far from the touristy coast.
Right now I'm in my friend's house in La Paloma, a couple hours drive from my own house. She has a big wood stove, and we do our best to keep it fed.
One thing that I've noticed is that I like to feed the fire. It's almost a meditative thing. You have a relationship with the fire, and it's a deep one if you build it from scratch. You know every step of its development, in which you had a hand.
I don't have a fireplace or a wood stove in my own house, just three electric "splits.". I'll probably have a pellet stove installed, in the interest of efficiency. It will heat well, but I'll be missing out on feeding the fire.
Copyright © 2024 by Donald C. Traxler.
