Small, Useful Fire: #3

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A series of memories around a fascinating subject – fire

Two days of hiking in the rain, with temps in the 30’s, just above freezing. We had spent the previous night in a small shelter with 20 other hikers and about that many mice, so there hadn’t been much actual sleep. We were tired, and tired of being cold.

We crawled into camp in the last few minutes of daylight. Tents were going up. I could hear people thinking how nice it would be to sit around a nice, blazing campfire for a while. Some kind trail angel had left large pieces of dry wood in the shelter and it had been arranged in the fire pit, There were obvious signs of attempts to get it burning, but there had been no success. Now it was getting damp.

You can’t hold a match to a large piece of wood and set it on fire. It’s too big of a jump. You must start small, with kindling, and add progressively larger pieces of fuel until the heat load is enough to start the burn in the large piece. It’s a simple principle. But there is a major deficit when any available kindling has been rained on for two days.

I admit to being prideful when it comes to starting fires – one of my many faults. That was part of why I decided I would have a fire that night. The other reason was that I knew people could die of hypothermia and I didn’t want to be one of them. I was hoping this potential blaze would feel my affinity for fire and respond.

Looking in sheltered places, I did locate some less damp sticks and leaves and took my stash to the fire pit. My hope was that a small flame would dry out more of the kindling, if I could keep it alive. It takes getting close and intimate, and it takes patience. I knelt and started tending “the baby”. That’s exactly what it is, a baby fire. It must be given another leaf, another twig, another blast of oxygen, and never allowed to die.

No one wanted to help with this and some probably thought I was crazy to waste time trying to burn wet wood. I was too cold to do anything else. My daughter was setting up our tent, leaving me free to be crazy. I put my face close to the flame and blew gently until I had no more breath, then turned and got a gulp of fresh air, over and over. The dampness was creating a lot of smoke, but that gave me hope that things were drying out a little.

The end of this story is, of course, that the fire progressed as I had hoped. As the larger pieces of dry wood caught and turned into a healthy blaze. It was lovely and it was regarded as near miraculous, which added to my pride, but I knew. It was no miracle but rather persistence, motivated by need. We all enjoyed getting warm again before getting in our sleeping bags for the night.

And my personal attraction to a small, useful fire grew. An intriguing, mysterious gift is what it is… just sayin’.

Small, Useful Fire: #2

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A series of memories around a fascinating subject – fire.

Those two trees were a major fixture in the backyard. At one time, before we moved there, they even had a border of heavy timbers defining the area around them, because it was hard to mow around their roots. I especially like trees, at least most all of them, so it was hard when some kind of beetle infested them and they began to die. I clearly remember the day when my landscaping friend and his brother came over to cut them down, carefully, one piece at time, until there were only stumps.

The mound, covered with ferns, but the stumps are in there.

I don’t like stumps nearly as much as I like trees, although I have done some interesting things with them. These stumps were not the interesting kind at all. It was an easy decision to get rid of them, but not so easy to figure out how. Although they had been cut very short, they had multiple exposed roots and the mound on which they sat seemed impenetrable. There are people who would have hired a stump grinder or a backhoe and the stumps would have been torn out in a hour. But, I have never been a big machinery person, and I am patient. A small, useful fire would be just the thing…

And so it began. Numerous campfires were built on the mound and the stumps got smaller. It wasn’t quick, because they were stumps at least eighteen inches in diameter, and our campfires were always extinguished within an hour or two.

Then came the day that I decided to clean the file drawers. Years worth of bank statements, old tax returns, outdated warranties and instructions for things we no longer owned, and more – it all had to be destroyed and paying to have it shredded was not an option. It was not an option because I like to burn things (things that should be burned).

I sat by the stumps, feeding the fire for hours, shifting my position to keep out of the smoke. By evening all the paper was gone but the mound still glowed with heat. I did not want to douse it with water but for safety’s sake, I did. Smoke billowed out. The flames disappeared.

Smoke rises from one of the outlying roots, still burning.

The next morning, I saw a small trail of smoke, rising from the mound. It looked like a small volcano. The ground was still warm too, and I realized that fire had been slowly advancing underground, along the roots, during the night. The mound was collapsing. I couldn’t have been happier.

Fire underground. Who would have thought of its usefulness?

This story also reminded me of the underground fires in Centralia, PA. We drove through the area and saw wisps of smoke rising randomly over the landscape. The coal mind there has been on fire for over 60 years. That fire has turned Centralia into a ghost town. As fires go, it is neither small or useful.

Small, Useful Fires: #1

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A series of memories around a fascinating subject – fire.

The cook stove sits in my dining room now. It isn’t hooked to a chimney and never holds a fire. Instead it serves as a bookcase for cookbooks and a plant holder for the pot of ivy.

Old, and out to rest

It was the center of life in my grandmother’s kitchen and it was most probably the start of my attraction to small, useful fires. My young self found it irresistible and I would watch when Grandma put the iron handle in the round cover and lifted it off the firebox. The wood had to be split small, and only three or four pieces would fit in at a time, but it burned hot when asked. It cooked Sunday dinner for us most every week while we went to church.

I remember the kitchen as it was then, half of a larger room where the meal was served. Imagining a clock face, the cook stove would have been at 1.

A long counter with cupboards above and below took up the whole north wall to the right of the stove. The double sink was somewhere near the middle of the counter underneath a wide window looking out on the driveway. This wall would be numbers 2, 3, and 4 on the clock.

Number 5 would begin the east wall and it started with the wash basin, a single porcelain piece with rust water stains and a “swill pail” underneath. It was where working hands were washed, where Grandpa shaved as he looked at himself in the metal cabinet hanging on the wall. On a hook to the right of the sink hung things like a towel, a fly scatter, an apron and a razor strap. That is all I know of razor straps because I never saw it being used for shaving, although I might have heard that one could be used for whipping naughty children. I probably read that somewhere.

Number 6 on the clock face would be the front door leading out to the porch that ran part way along the east side of the house. The wall next to the door held the refrigerator, and a long wooden raised box. It was a curious piece of furniture that might have been a planter, but was always filled with magazines, newspapers and “stuff”. It was a little less than waist high and may have had a shelf below. I am surprised that I don’t remember more about it because I know I helped Grandma dust and clean it in later years. Above this box was the east window and the phone, fastened to the wall near the corner.

Number 7 was the door to Grandma’s bedroom, which was almost always open, probably to keep it as warm as possible. The door began the south wall and next to it was the china cupboard, and then a freezer, numbers 8 and 9.

Turning the corner, numbers 10 and 11 on the west wall contained a long “bureau” as Grandma would have called it. There were pictures, stacks of letters, small china knick knacks holding collection of buttons and curiosities adorning the top of this piece. It had drawers storing tablecloths and pretty, useless things Grandma was saving. I was curious about their contents and I know I looked in them from time to time, but don’t remember what I saw. At the ends of the bureau were doors hiding more things I desired to look into, but didn’t. Back then, there was a sense of privacy, even in Grandma’s house.

The last number on the clock face, 12, was near the middle of the west wall. It was the door into the living room. To the right of it stood the cook stove. We have gone full circle. In the south half of the room was the dining table. We all sat there to eat no matter how many of us there were. It was also the table where Grandma wrote countless letters to her daughters, her friends and to me. The center of the table always held the salt and pepper, butter, perhaps a vial of vinegar, napkins. And it was covered with a small cloth. Grandma had a special spoon that she liked, and a favorite cup that she made sure was always set at her place on the table.

Whatever this is, I have it.

And this. A small plate-like piece of china. It was not named, but was always there where it belonged, without question. It held a hot cup, like a coaster, or a wet spoon, or tea bag.

The cook stove baked bread, cookies and cakes, roasted meat and fried potatoes and kept the kitchen warm, when the warmth was needed, and when it wasn’t. When the firebox was full of embers and ash, Grandma would jiggle a lever at the back and the ashes would fall into metal box below. The cooled ashes were taken out periodically and thrown on the lawn or garden. When the fire went out overnight, as happened often, Grandma would be up early to get it going again. She had an old can that held corncobs, soaking in some kind of flammable liquid. That and some newspaper would be her firestarters. Soon there would be heat enough to warm the room and begin cooking. I remember looking at and touching a bird wing, kept on the upper warming shelf of the stove. The feathers were spread and it fit neatly into the hand of the person sweeping off the smooth iron cook surface.

Yes, the cook stove was definitely where it began, my affinity with small, useful fire.

Mama’s “what more could go wrong?” Day

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As told through the infant eyes of Gwennie Ru.

This was going to be a good day because it was Mama’s day off work. I was looking forward to having her feed me, rock me, and basically devote herself to my every need all day. It was going to be great.

And it did start out kind of like that. I didn’t sleep well during the night but I was having a decent early morning nap. I could hear the washing machine going in the laundry room. I could smell the faint aroma of bread Mama had put in the oven. I was getting ready to announce that I was hungry when Daddy came in from feeding the animals. He said one of Mama’s favorite horses had not come up to get his grain.

When a horse doesn’t come up to get its regular feeding something is really wrong with the horse.

Well, Mama went tearing off to find the horse. I tried to protest but she couldn’t hear me. I did the only thing I know how to do when I’m hungry. I cried. Daddy went too. I don’t get it, but then, I’m just a baby.

I guess the horse was really sick, and since Mama is a horse doctor she was trying really hard to save the horse’s life. After a while, Daddy came back. He was supposed to be working at his job, on his computer. He hadn’t planned on the horse getting sick today. Yesterday, Daddy and I spent the day together while he was working on his computer and that hadn’t gone too well. I think he was worried that today would be a lot like yesterday.

Daddy turned the oven off and took care of the bread so it wouldn’t burn. I was still very hungry and felt that crying was still in order. I knew it would get to one of them sooner or later, and I would get fed, but no. In a short while, Daddy put me in the carrier and strapped me to his chest and we went out to check on Mama and the horse.

She had pulled the sick horse to the barn and was trying to get it in a stall and give it medicine, but before she could, she got real excited about something else.

For a minute or two, I forgot about being hungry and watched Mama run out to where her little milk goat was standing in the road. She had some of the goat’s favorite food and was trying to get it to come to her. That reminded me of how hungry I was and I thought about crying some more.

Mama’s little goat that keeps running away from her.

Mama chased that goat from one place to another till she was satisfied it wouldn’t get run over by a car. She gave the horse some medicine. And then she came over to me and Daddy. I thought they had been having fun, but evidently not. Mama said to Daddy “What more could possibly go wrong next?” Daddy just looked over at our car and said “maybe that flat tire?”

I don’t know about grown ups. Why would a flat tire make them laugh? But I do know that I like to hear them do that. I also know that it is a very good thing when Mama and I sit down in the rocking chair because I know I’m going to get fed. As usual, I got full and fell asleep, but I could still hear Mama calling Grandma and telling her about me, the bread, the horse, the goat and the flat tire and her “what more could go wrong?” day.

A good cry and a full tummy always puts me to sleep.

God’s Best Color

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Recently I was invited to an evening of discussion. I think it was planned primarily to expose people to differing opinions and give them experience talking about those opinions in thoughtful and civil ways. Gathered around a long table in a candlelit room, we were representing a wide variety of age groups, political opinions, and faith backgrounds.

One of the opening statements was “we have lost the dinner table, and we have lost the front porch”, places where people used to find each other and talk. That in itself was worth thinking about and acting upon. It sounded true to me. The evening got more interesting as we worked our way through a good meal and numerous topics.

One of the discussions started with this proposal.

Blue is the best color in God’s creation because it is calming in all its hues.

Many of us present may have been thinking that it was a very superficial subject to discuss when we could have been solving world problems. In addition the proposal had words like “best” and “all” and “God’s creation” that begged for dissent and wasted time. Looking back, I see it as a clever proposal because of those very characteristics. Blue was going to become more important than I had expected.

You see, I like blue. A lot. I wouldn’t say it’s my favorite color, but as the moderator pointed out, most of us in the room were wearing something blue. We talked about what makes something “best”. We talked about the effects of certain light waves on the physical body and emotions associated with color. We talked about hues of blue that might not be calming (does the phrase “black and blue” calm you?). Were there some strong opinions on the subject? Yes, there were.

I had already talked enough on other subjects that I was feeling a little self conscious. I wanted to say some things about this one too, but decided to listen. Instead, I am writing now to tell you what I think about that proposal.

Oddly, I have thought about that very subject many times because I am outdoors a lot, in places where there is a lot of blue sky and blue water. My outdoor world is overwhelmingly blue, green, with snatches of grey, black and brown, all colors that I find easy on my eyes and psyche. They are, for the most part, colors that calm me, and add to my comfort level. Green is my favorite. I have often been thankful that blue and green are so easy to look at.

It is autumn. Here in Hayward, Wisconsin, there are a few weeks in September and October when there is still a lot of blue sky and water but most everything green becomes something else. There is blazing orange, glowing yellow, and vivid red among the dark green pines. The contrast is breathtakingly beautiful.

Green, yellow, green, orange… over and over again.
Seemingly on fire!

But the thought always occurs to me, what if the forests were that color all year long? What if I had to live under an orange sky continually? I have to question what the world would be like if it were full of colors that make us hungry and aggressive (they say…). Wouldn’t it feel kind of hot?

And then I am thankful for blue, and I think the choice was probably on purpose by a wise Creator. Blue is the best color for the places where he put it. All the other colors are best for where he put them. He made a beautiful blue planet for us, but also gave us other colors to make us happy, because he could. That’s pretty cool.

And now I’ve said my piece about the color blue.

My brother’s beautiful red maple, every year. It makes me happy.

Each Unique Day

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I expect to pass through this world but once;

any good thing therefore that I can do, or any

kindness that I can show to any fellow-creature,

let me do it now; let me not defer or neglect it,

for I shall not pass this way again.

Stephen Grellet

Every day, good or bad, is unique and should be appreciated as such. There will never be another one exactly like it.

I awoke last Sunday morning, wondering what had roused me when it was still so dark, I realized that it was cold. That was not so unusual, but it shouldn’t have been the case. The RV that has become my room at Gwennie Ru’s farm cools off quickly at night so I leave the propane furnace turned on. Clearly it had not been running and it was 55 degrees.

But I soon realized that it was not the cold that was bothering me. I could hear a sound, a lot like a child crying, and it was repeating again and again. I had never heard it before, and it was disturbing. I put on shoes and a sweatshirt over my pajamas, hunted up a flashlight, and went outside to investigate.

It was Heidi, the goat. My RV is parked near the barn where Heidi has a stall. She is a small animal and was perched up where she could look out at me. She looked fine, was not tangled in anything, and had sufficient food and water. Yet, she kept calling, or crying, I’m not sure which.

I spent the next hour listening to her while I read my furnace manual from front to back. I understood very little of it, but one instruction stood out as being reasonable. Turn off the thermostat and reboot. I pass myself off as a genius with all sorts of devices by turning off and rebooting.

By the time I had learned about furnace “lock out” and done all my rebooting, I was late getting ready for church. I didn’t feel like hurrying and told Kevin and Julie I would come later by myself. This resulted in our family taking three cars for the half hour journey. Julia took her work vehicle because she was on call. She barely has room for Gwennie’s car seat in there. Kevin drove the family car and had Felix, the German exchange student, with him.

On my way, in my car, I considered the uniqueness of my morning. Being awakened by a bleating goat was so unusual. Learning about furnace lock out was interesting. And if those things weren’t enough, I looked up and saw a sign that I had never noticed before even though I had driven the road many times. That section of highway was maintained by the Doodle Cooke family. I had been clueless. Doodle Cooke. Too good to be true.

The rest of the day continued to be a marvel of experiences. Going to three different Walmart locations in one day, eating at the BEST hamburger restaurant in the U.S. (or so they claim), bottle feeding Gwennie Ru in the parking lot of Trader Joe’s, seeing Felix’s new, bright fuschia, gym shoes, traveling in our 3 car caravan back to Riverbend Farm.

Is this really the best burger? It was good…
Gwennie Ru, enjoying her time at Hops Burger

Once I start taking notice with an attitude of being thankful, each day seems a bit more special, and definitely unique. It’s good to be here, no matter where I am.

P.S. I have started taking Heidi outside to graze on the green grass and clover. I think she likes it.

Working in Gwennie Ru’s Orchard

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Today, on her day “off” from work, Julia is pulling weeds in the orchard.
I was out early pulling weeds too. Then Julia brought her truck with this lovely mulch to spread around the young trees.
She also brought the supervisor, who promptly fell asleep.
We hauled and spread, straightened fencing and did our best to frustrate the fire ants.
A dozen trees set free from weeds and two tired (and sweaty, dirty) people who are glad to have the job nearly done.
Gwennie Ru spending time in her orchard.

Gwennie Ru and the Magic Sleep Suit

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One morning last week I came to do granny’s day care with Gwennie and daddy Kevin met me at the bedroom door.

“We had a great night! We put her in this sleep suit and it worked like magic. She only woke up once!”

Well, I could hardly wait to see what on earth a sleep suit could be.

Sure enough, Gwennie was asleep, and it most certainly was a suit that she was wearing. She looked like an astronaut, minus the helmet. She was lying on her back in this puffy yellow fleece coverall with zippers coming up both sides. Her arms were stretched out wide on either side and the thickness of the suit kept her from bending them very much. The lower part of the suit was bulging around the abdomen with two tubes out the bottom for her legs – lots of room for moving around. She looked very warm and cozy. I am very much in favor of keeping babies warm.

That’s kind of ingenious, I thought. A cross between an incubator and a straitjacket. Normally, when Gwennie Ru rouses from sleep, or is startled by noise, she starts jerking her arms around, hitting herself in the face and rubbing at her eyes and ears. That wakes her up for sure. This suit gently holds her arms out but still gives her some room to move inside the sleeve. And the same with the legs. I watched as she fussed a little, gave up, and went back to sleep.

Ingenious. I kind of want one.

In my size.

Most of the time her legs aren’t even in the leg compartments.

Life at Gwennie Ru’s House

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Gwennie Ru, my new granddaughter lives in North Carolina with her mom Julia, and dad Kevin.

One late evening at the supper table, my daughter Julia said “Oh, by the way, there wasn’t anyone signed up for bringing a meal to youth meeting this week so I signed up.” This was the night before the meeting and my eyes went wide. I might have said something like “and how is this going to work out?” I knew that Julia and Kevin both had to work all the next day, and I also have a problem keeping my mouth shut. But, no one seemed overly concerned, and Julia got up from the table and went to Dollar General (at 8:30 pm) for spaghetti supplies for 30 hungry kids.

The next morning I came over to do granny daycare duties and saw that the table was loaded with french bread, linguini noodles and sauce in jars. Hmm…

Gwennie Ru took her bottle and an hour or so later was sleeping in her bassinet. I went out to the kitchen to say good morning to Kevin, who works at home, and found him in the kitchen. He was cooking noodles and trying to get ready for a conference call at the same time. I thought he looked a little tense.

He had opened all seven packages of linguini and put them in a pot of water, which was starting to boil. But who could really tell since the pot was so full that it couldn’t be stirred? It was hard to even put a spoon in it to try to stir.

I am not a wonderful cook and generally have very little advice to give on the subject but this was clearly a disaster in the making. “Kevin, this is not going well. Seriously, you need help.”

“Are you offering?” Hope sprang up in him. I could feel it.

“I guess I am.” I nodded.

And with that he went, rather quickly I thought, over to his desk and a couple minutes later was on his call.

Honestly, I could not move the noodles around in the pot at all and decided that the first needed thing was more space, and the second was more water. I found another large pot and filled it with hot water from the tap and set it on the stove. I began lifting clumps of linguini out of one pot and into the other.

I suppose many people my age know that as kids we used to make glue out of flour and water, right? Those are the basic ingredients of noodles as well and, unstirred, they pretty much glue themselves together in large clumps. The process was well underway.

I took out what I estimated to be about half of the noodles, and tried again to stir the pot. Now there was room for more water so I added that as well. I thought I was making good progress and the added water had cooled down whatever was taking place in the pot. The second pot was going considerably slower than the first and was not a worry.

What was a worry was thinking about where all the noodles were going to go at some soon approaching time. I don’t know about you, but I always think I’m not cooking enough spaghetti. When they’re dry, the noodles look so little and thin, so you throw in a few more and end up with spaghetti for a week. Think for a minute about seven packages of noodles… Okay, that’s long enough.

Although fairly unfamiliar with Julia’s kitchen, I found several large colanders and set them in the sink. I didn’t run, but walked fast to the basement where there were some large foil catering pans in storage. By this time I figured the first pot might be done cooking and need to be tested. I tasted them, and these were done but might have had a slight burned flavor? It wasn’t bad, so in spite of a few dark noodles coming to the surface now and then, I gave them the green light and poured them into the two colanders and started rinsing. While not always necessary, in this case rinsing was needed.

The majority of the noodles were fine, although I had to cut out clumps that had welded together and refused to separate. I had to do a little surgery getting the final layer out of the pot too, leaving the parts that were stuck to the pot. I split the burn flavored ones between the two pans and lubricated them with olive oil and a large jar of sauce. I repeated the process with the second pot of noodles which were not burned, so each pan had both flavors to kind of keep people guessing. More sauce, parmesan cheese, and voila, spaghetti dinner for 30!!

Julia came home early from work and took the spaghetti and bread down to the church to be heated and consumed. For her, it was another night away from home until 8 pm. As it turned out, there was nearly a full pan of leftovers for us to eat – see what I told you about having spaghetti for a week? It happened. Thankfully, a miracle occurred somewhere in there and it actually tasted pretty good. It’s just another story of crazy blessedness at Gwennie Ru’s house…

What I Learned about Love and Walks in the Woods

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Still a part of my new life as a widow and a grandma in the making…

Esther and I were enjoying our time in North Carolina, the second day after her arrival. When we get together, Esther often brings me some piece of clothing that she thinks I would like. This time I was gifted with a nice cotton dress, the kind of dress that should be worn often and enjoyed, so I was wearing it on this day and feeling quite comfortable in a fun, old fashioned way.

Gwennie Ru and I went on a walk, as was our new custom. This time I stayed on the paths that were not difficult to negotiate while wearing the dress, that was just a bit above my ankles. It was easy to check my legs for wood ticks, and there were none after the walk. But, strangely, there was a bite that looked and felt like a tick bite. I was bothered all night, wondering where the tick might be. Every little sensation, anywhere, had me searching all over again. If you’ve ever lived in wood tick country, you know what I’m saying.

The next day the four of us girls started on our trip to Pennsylvania. It was a rainy day with tropical storm Ophelia. The night before, I had seriously thought about cancelling. I could imagine having an accident on the way and risking all of us, Dennis’s whole family, being wiped out on the way to his memorial. But, I’m not superstitious about my worrisome thoughts, and it didn’t seem like a message from God either. Morning came and gave us a break long enough to load the car and set out. Of course, I prayed for safety and then began the drive. I was concentrating on the road all day and didn’t think about bug bites, or itching.

We arrived at our destination and were getting ready for bed that night when I realized there were bites all over my legs and midriff. All over, and they were inflamed, and they itched. They were not wood tick bites, they were chiggers. I had heard of them, but never experienced the misery. I spent the next two days taking Benadryl every four hours just to get through the weekend. I am rethinking going on walks down by the river, in a dress. Just so you know, there were no bug bites on my grandbaby.

Thankfully, nothing was able to ruin the time together with the Pennsylvania family. The memorial was a chance to reconnect with them and strengthen family bonds. We talked and remembered things about Dennis and his growing up years that made him who he was. I saw my children and their cousins coming to appreciate each other and their life experiences. I enjoyed the same welcoming spirit and comforting love from Dennis’s brother and sister and their families that I had always felt. I realized that I had let some of that lie untended and forgotten.

The truth is that with any love, for myself, for others, or for God, doing with intention is necessary. Even though I may not have told love to die, it will up and do so all by itself, unless I tend to it. Time goes by and the distance created becomes more tolerable. I can forget how special it is to love and to be loved. That is a sad position to be in.

Now, we are safely back in North Carolina. My bug bites have healed. I am sticking to safer paths for the time being, no matter what I’m wearing. And I am seriously thinking about how the next Dietz reunion might look. The weekend had some valuable results, just sayin’…

The cousins, and Gwennie