Last week I was lucky enough to get away for some quiet time to Lake Hope State Park where I stayed in a lovely, though rustic, little cabin where I tried to get some work done on my book. It was cold, indeed, and I even had a morning of snow cover, though it was gone by mid-day. Felt like a real winter retreat, I’ll say that.
Lots of state parks in Ohio have rentable cabins. What makes the Lake Hope dwellings so enticing this time of year is that they have wood burning fire places. Well, I don’t know if they all do, but it’s clear on the reservation pane. Mine sure did. That’s why I picked Lake Hope as my destination in the first place.
Firewood, of course, is a bit of a sticky wicket in Ohio these days. With the emerald ash borer doing major damage to native trees, it’s illegal to move firewood from one county to another. And besides, though I have a stack of wood on the back porch, I really hesitated to take any since I was carrying a full load of books and computer stuff in the first place. I sure hated to take anything more than I had to. My firewood solution? A carton of fire place logs bought at Kroger.
Still, trying to keep that small, drafty cabin warm, despite setting the thermostat in the upper 60s, was a challenge. I found myself working under a light blanket most of the week. Truth was, I needed more wood. My case of 6 logs worked well evenings in the darkened room, but that didn’t help heat the place during the day. So off I trundled down the road to the local bait shop to pick up twenty bucks worth of firewood.
I’d just like to go on record as saying I think I tend fireplace blazes pretty well. Most of the houses I’ve lived in have had a fireplace. In fact, ‘fireplace’ is one of the first things I consider when picking a house. No fireplace? Fat chance I’m even looking at that house.
So I figured I’d have a pretty easy time with keeping the fire going. Oh, contrare, amigo. Truth is, I was pretty humbled by the whole process. Every time I thought I had the fire going, out it would go. And a few times during the week when I figured I had lost the flame, I’d go back to work and look back thirty minutes later to find the hearth looking downright cozy with fire.
My thought for the week was, borrowing that memorable line from Jack London that I learned in high school, ‘One can never be too sure of things.’ Starting point: I’m a good fireplace tender. Ending point: Some hardwoods really need TLC to keep burning. At this point in my life, I am reminded often that even though I think I know what I’m doing, I shouldn’t be so sure. There is always more to learn. So it was with my little fireplace at Lake Hope.
At the time, I thought ‘nursing the fire’ would be a decent topic to blog about. Good winter theme, and all, richly experienced in my little cabin.
But before I could get around to writing about it, just a couple days after returning home, our young neighbors at the end of the street had a house fire that sent Mom and the three kids to the hospital for a smoke-inhalation check, while Dad stood in the front yard, shoeless under a blanket, watching smoke pour out of the first house he ever bought. Our hearts went out to them right away. As you faithful readers might remember, it was about ten years ago this spring our house burned.
Last Thursday Cindy Lou, Noah, and I had been celebrating my Mother’s 92nd birthday with dinner out that evening. As we returned home, rounding the curve down the street, we were stopped by a whole lot of fire apparatus and a crew laying hose. We parked down there and walked up to the burning house. I was able to talk with Gerald a bit, but he was pretty preoccupied, watching smoke pour out from under the eaves. He had just gotten out of the shower when the family smelled smoke. Within seconds, it seemed, the family room had erupted into flames as the house filled with smoke. Some other neighbors led him away soon thereafter, trying to find him some clothes and shoes.
I am a fan of fire. I love tending one in the stove down here in my basement. I truly love sitting out on the back porch on cool evenings watching yellow, orange, and blue flames lick away at the treefall our yard offers. Sitting watching a fire can be meditative and the stuff of poems and books, I suspect. I was reminded of that in my cabin last week when all was burning well.
But burning houses? Oh, my. That is the stuff of pain and loss and violation and helplessness. If you’ve never lived through one of those, great. Keep it that way. But if you’ve experienced a loss of a dwelling -- with all your family’s stuff still inside -- it’s a pretty empty feeling.
Indeed, I love to nurture fire in firepits and stoves and even in my writing. Fire is so wonderfully elemental. Nature doesn’t get much more honest than fire.
But burning family treasures? It’s one of the things that reminds us how tentative and precious life is.
PS: Cindy Lou was able to talk to Gerald the day after the fire. He said he had already gotten an insurance check to replace toys and clothes. That’s good. Oh, but they have a long way to go....
Today’s elder idea: If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can ever warm me, I know that is poetry.
Emily Dickinson
images: top: A lovely fall fire on the back porch.
below: That same back porch full of fire junk in 2004. Indeed, that’s Mr. Noah at age 4, contemplating. An adventure we would have been fine not having.
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