When I first moved to the mountains the thought of
wood stoves was mesmerizing. Growing up in Yorba Linda we used to
beg and beg and beg for Dad to light a fire in the fireplace in the
“winter." Southern
California, of course, does not have anything even resembling real
winters, but this we did not know growing up.
It was 60 degrees and it was cold to us.
(Now 60 degrees is shirt sleeve weather to me.)
I do not know where dad got wood or if he just lit one of
those fake logs in the fire place. I
will have to ask him because I no longer remember. We would then form a mosh pit in front of the
fireplace and machete each other over prime butt warming spots. Any reason to machete each other was a good
one in our opinion.
Our heat in Yorba Linda
was, I guess, natural gas. It was not
warm, just kept the chill off the house.
What I have never told mom and dad is that the sound of the heater going
on was extremely comforting to me. Sort
of a “harrumph” and a “whoosh” and then the soft humming. When I had trouble sleeping, I would sneak
out and crank up the heater so it would go on.
I would rush back to bed and listen intently, then I could feel my body
relax. I would not turn it up much, just
enough to hear the voice of the heater and make the bill skyrocket, I am sure.
We would have campfires going camping. Dad would either bring wood or get it from
Louie and Yvonne, the people who lived just inside the June Lake Loop whom we
rented trailers from. After lighting the
campfire we would begin the traditional Camp Fire Dance. Not unlike most ceremonial dances, except for
the screaming, pushing, hitting, and whining, we would constantly do-see-do
around the fire trying our best to avoid the smoke. But it was FIRE. There is nothing like warming yourself in
front of a real fire when you have frosty fingers and toes.
So the idea of always having a fire for heat was
intoxicating. Dad and Jeff would go
woodcutting in the summer. You purchase
tags and head off, manly man style, into the woods with saws and axes and other
deadly tools. Dogs would be involved as
well. After a couple years of splitting
wood by hand, Dad bought a gas powered splitter – the first nod that maybe wood
was not all that it was cracked up to be.
When I got married 20 years ago, the responsibility
of “doing the fire” was left to me.
Hubby worked 12 to 14 hour days and I would freeze to death if I waited
for him to do it when he got home. We
purchased our wood, usually a combination of cedar (for kindling) and oak (for
BTU power) and then later almond (even better BTU power). I, however, had to bring it in, split the
cedar for kindling, light it and keep it going.
I did not mind at first; while not the most enjoyable part of my day it
was just another winter chore. Just a
“gotta do” like my retired kindergarten teacher friend states.
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| Our Woodstove during our power outages and the Toyostove next to it. |
But have I mentioned my irrational, all-consuming phobia of
fire? I think I was 17 before I was
brave enough to light a match to light a candle. Lighters terrified me as my thumb was far to
close to the flame for comfort. So one
day I put on my big girl panties, found a matchbook, put the head of the match
in between the cover and the striker like I has seen someone do, pulled hard,
and was rewarded with a lit match in my right hand. Within nanoseconds I was also rewarded with a
burned left hand because I apparently lit the whole damn book on fire when I
pulled the match out.
It was another 11 years before I would try lighting a match
again, and this time it was because of sheer necessity: light and have warmth; don’t light and freeze to death. Or at
least be horridly uncomfortable. I
perfected my fire building skills to the point where I built better and more
reliable fires than Hubby. I crumbled
the paper just so – not too tight nor too loose. I stacked small kindling with the precision
of a Swiss watchmaker – not too much nor too little. I lit the paper and waited the perfect
amount of time before adding in larger kindling, and then the larger almond. After only an hour’s worth of work, I could
sit down and relax in front of the heat.
Well, not quite yet since it took another 45 minutes or so for the
wood stove to heat up and begin to radiate.
This went on for fourteen long years. Falling in love with wood burning fires is
not love – it is infatuation. There is
no joy to sustain a long term relationship.
The little things begin to bother you immensely. The soot, the dirt, the spiders and roaches
that hitchhike in on logs, the smoke that poofs in during really windy days,
the allergies (turns out I am allergic to oak which is one reason we switched
to almond), the wheezing. All of this
makes wood fires undesirable for a long term commitment. Did I mention waking in the middle of the
night to a freezing house because for whatever reason the fire went out? Or waking in the middle of the night to
discover that it is now 102 degrees because you stoked the fire very well but
cloud cover came over that you did not know about which insulates and keeps
heat from escaping? I have had to open
the doors and windows at 2AM in the dead of winter just so we could sleep.
Then there is the “harrumph” and “whoosh” sounds of
wood stoves. Unfortunately, this is not a
comforting sound. This indicates the
probability that you have a flue fire. I
tense up and break out into a sweat when I hear the fire catch at first, and
watch the stovepipe like a fighter pilot looking for a bogey hoping, praying, I
did not see an orange glow form in it.
The stovepipe caught fire three times in the 14 years we relied on wood
heat. Each time I successfully shut
things down (closed all vents) and the fire went out. Most people aren’t so lucky and the result is
extensive damage or a home lost completely.
Then there is the anxiety of having to leave for work. Do I stoke the fire and pray nothing bad
happens? Do I let it go out and come
home to a 50 degree house that takes 6 hours to warm up?
After 14 years, however, the final straw was my cat
Solomon. Well, not him personally, you
see. But one evening he was over by the
wood I had piled next to the stove to dry off a bit. His head was moving frantically side to
side. It was obvious he was tracking
something, some kind of a bug. I walked
over and looked and… ewwww! The log I
had brought in the day before had warmed up hibernating cockroaches and they
were now skittering all over the floor.
We normally do NOT have roaches.
I frantically threw the log outside, and began stomping the wretched
things. This is one place my pro-life
stance is not in play. I found roaches
for days after. Not three weeks later I
had ordered my Toyostove and kerosene tank and have never looked back.
No, the Toyostove most certainly has neither the character
or ambience of our wood stove. At first
I wondered what I had done, I felt like I had truly betrayed our temperamental,
yet reliable, wood stove. But with BTU’s
nearly that of wood heat, and heat at the touch of a button in seconds instead
of hours a day, I quickly fell in love.
This is a long term relationship.
The Toyostove is not exciting, not particularly good looking, and rather
predictable, but it is always there for us.
Except in power outages. That is
when our wood stove sticks out its tongue and shines.
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