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.

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.

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.