Back Home by Chris Hardie
The coffee was brewing as I crumpled up some newspaper and carefully constructed the beginnings of a fire.
Outside the house the battery on my outdoor digital thermometer blipped out, apparently deciding the minus-20 temperatures was beyond its capacity. Inside the house at the wood burning stove, I placed the kindling and a few larger pieces of firewood into a pyramid shape, opened the draft to full and struck a match.
I left the stove door open a crack for optimal ventilation and within seconds the stove was blazing. A puff of smoke drifted my way and I inhaled the comforting smell. I added another chunk to the infant fire, closed the stove door and settled in for a cup of coffee.
These days I don’t rely on wood heat to keep our house comfortable. With the touch of a button the propane-fired furnace kicks on and circulates warm air. The last winter that I used the outdoor wood boiler was five years ago, when I cut 46 pickup loads of wood.
But I still cut some wood and like to burn it, especially during cold snaps or simply as ambiance. There’s also reassurance in having a backup heating source, especially when you live in the country where ice or heavy snow events can take out your power for hours or sometimes days.
As I stared at the flames, I remembered 50-some years ago to cold winter mornings on the farm. Dad would be the first up at 4:30. I could hear the creak of the wood stove door hinges as he stirred the embers and added fresh wood. The smell of smoke would drift up the stairs. I dreaded being summoned out of my cozy warm bed to battle the frigid temperatures and begin the morning milking.
We never had enough wood to last the winter, so Saturday afternoons after the morning chores were done we would head into the woods to cut. Dad would scope out dead or dying trees that we could reach. Usually we drove the tractor and the manure spreader, which served the dual purpose as a wood hauler.
Dad would cut and my brother Kevin and I would take turns splitting and loading the chunks. Splitting was all done with a maul, which was good for shoulder and arm muscle development.
We would leave the biggest and gnarliest chunks that we couldn’t split to Dad, who could usually conquer them. The ones he couldn’t split were declared “overnighters” and tossed into the spreader anyway.
It was hard work and harder when the snow was waist deep and the tractor couldn’t get close enough to the trees. We cut a path and hauled the chunks by hand.
Sometimes we’d pack lunch and eat it over an open fire to warm us up. But often we only had time for one load – especially when it was too cold to shut down the diesel tractor for too long or we were due back for the afternoon chores.
After my wife Sherry and moved back to the farm, Dad and I – sometimes joined by my son Ross – would cut lots of wood for the outdoor boiler that heated both our homes. In between cutting and splitting there was time for stories and bonding, passing through the generations.
I don’t know if heaven needs woodcutters, but if it does, Dad’s probably sawing away.
My cup and the fire needed refilling. I grabbed a chunk of wood that barely fit through the wood stove door and smiled.
Yes, Dad.
I still call them overnighters.
Chris Hardie and his wife, Sherry, live on his great-grandparents’ Jackson County farm. He is a former member of the Wisconsin Freedom of Information Council and past president of the Wisconsin Newspaper Association. His book “Back Home: Country Tales by the Seasons” is available through Amazon.
