It’s a cloudy, cool day in Connecticut. Perfect for the first fire of the season. In anticipation of this day, Juana and I gathered branches of varying sizes a few weeks back, storing them in two old plastic milk crates for starter.
There is a cord of well-seasoned wood stacked and covered on the property, though I will need to split more before the snow’s first fall. We remove the folding patio chairs next to Juana’s potting bench in the garage, replacing them with a Rubbermaid 55-gallon tote to hold and contain logs for the wood stove.
Ashes from the last burn are removed from the stove, leaving a thin white-gray dusting on the dark slate hearth. The window on the stove is clean, giving a clear view to the dancing flames that soon fill our view and warm our limbs.
“This really calls for some mulled cider and apple doughnuts,” says Juana. I agree but can do little about her suggestion as the stove’s heat and even burn casts a spell on us both, making our eyelids heavy.
