It was near the end of August, and I was working from home.
The weather was tepid, so I was surprised when I glanced out my window and saw a large construction-sized truck unload what was probably several tons of fresh-cut firewood into my neighbor’s backyard.
This timber was obviously going to heat their home for winter’s duration — and it got me thinking about how wood and other sources of heat have played a role in my life.
When I was young, firewood was the main source of heat for our house. Money was tight back then, so dad would go into the forest and chop his own. (This was well before there were laws against pillaging wood from private or protected property.)
He would also cut enough to sell. In a broken-down pickup on which he jokingly spray-painted “Sanford and Son,” dad would load up the bed with enough timber to sell several cords of wood.
My sister and I would sometimes accompany him to “help” with the wood harvest. However, it was on one of these outings I found out the hard way I was severely allergic to the poison ivy that was nestled among the trees.
My first outbreak left me with a swollen face that resembled a bright and bumpy pumpkin. In fact, the swelling was so bad I could barely see though my puffy eyelids for a couple days. Even if the fireplace was burning wood that had poison ivy on it, a breakout was inevitable.
At some point, my parents thought it would be a good idea to switch from wood to coal. My dad found an area in the basement — previously reserved for his workshop — to house the coal.
In early fall, a large truck would position its chute and dump the dusty load of coal into the mouth of the gaping soot-stained window. It was my job to occasionally bring a bucket of coal up to the stove situated in our living room where the fireplace use to be.
I don’t recall the coal stove lasting for many years. Fortunately, my parents’ home (which was built in 1974), had baseboard heat that could be used in emergencies (even though the cost of electric heat back then was much higher than natural alternatives).
When I moved out of the house and bought a home with my husband, it was oil that kept the house toasty. Down in the circa-1920s basement, two large oil tanks flanked each other in the north corner, although only one was ever filled.
The house also had a fireplace that included a chute leading down to a large cylindrical incinerator. While we never had a chance to use that metal beast, it made for interesting table talk when we had dinner guests.
Our oil heat always seemed to be a problem. My husband was not a fan of “scheduled services,” so there were many times when we would simply run out of oil.
This happened (as expected) during weekday mornings when we were rushing to take showers and get out the door. Fortunately, I had a neighbor who was always willing to let us use her first-floor shower.
The fireplace in this house was only used once — and I still remember it vividly. We were hosting Thanksgiving dinner and my husband thought it would be nice to build a fire.
After the guests arrived, my curious brother-in-law wandered up to our second floor to check out the rest of the home.
He quickly ran back downstairs declaring our second floor was filled with smoke. Cracks in the chimney as well as in our walls allowed the smoke to seep in. That was the end of our fireplace fun.
When my first husband died suddenly after a brief battle with cancer, I thought it would be best to move away from expensive oil heat and replace it with natural gas. Despite the upfront costs of digging a gas line and installing a new heat pump, the monthly savings for a single mom were well worth it.
After paying to line the run-down chimney, I opted to install a small gas fireplace that was easy to connect to the new gas line. For many years it served as a welcoming glow for my son and I as we watched TV together in the living room.
When I remarried seven years ago, my husband I spent several years searching for a home to call our own. We finally found one just a few miles from where I had lived for 23 years.
The rancher was built in 1975, but was bought by two Amish brothers last year and expertly flipped into a modern one-story home with an open floor plan.
This home, like the previous one, is heated with gas. The fireplace houses a contemporary electric unit with countless remote control settings for temperature, flame height and even background color. (Who knew heat could be so lavish?)
After more than five decades of relying on a variety of heat sources to keep me warm, I’m learning my favorite one comes from something that doesn’t require installation or monthly payments. I’m speaking, of course, of my sweet and cuddly dog, Wilma.
As Charles Schultz said, “Happiness is a warm puppy.”
