Home Fires

Nothing reminds me of my childhood or makes me feel like home, more than a fire in the fireplace.

When I was a kid, it was the only heat we had in our little house. Yes, we were in California, but we got freezing temperatures often in the winter. I remember my brother and I would hear the fire being built early on a school morning--we didn’t have to get out from under our electric blankets until we heard the crackling--then we'd scamper out in our jams to warm up and eat breakfast in front of the fire before venturing back into the cold bedrooms and bathroom to get ready for school. We had to stack firewood and chop kindling every day when we got home, like some kind of pioneer children, we thought.

When I was in high school my parents put in the central heat (and air thank God), and, although we still had a fire most mornings, we’d sometimes hear the click of the furnace and knew we had to get up--not nearly as cozy as the crackling. My parents still have a fire most days in the winter, it’s more of a lifestyle thing now, I suppose, they enjoy camping out there in front of it and the big screen. I love going home and feeling that radiant heat soak into my skin until I have to go outside to cool off. It’s common to venture out onto the porch in barefeet and pj’s when I’m home to grab a couple of sticks, just like when I was a kid. You know those feet will warm up quick once your laying back in front of that fireplace next to a lazy dog.

Well here, for the first time in a few houses, we have a real fireplace, two of them actually, in our tiny three-story rowhouse. Yesterday I decided not to turn on the heat, but to move my writing space downstairs next to the fire. I ventured out to the deck in pjs barefooted, grabbed a couple of sticks and got one started quickly. After I get the coffee going I was so jazzed with myself and my space—I felt like me, smelled like me (smoke), and decided it was going to be a great winter here. I’m thankful for these chilly days, and for the gray skies. With the cold I get to feel the heat from the fire, and the flames shine brighter next to the window when there’s no sunlight.

Anyway, the toothless man who knocked on the door and sold me the wood a couple weeks ago is going to have to come back soon--I’m burning through that first stack quickly. My salary goes to all my indulgences--better wine, better cheese, better bread, better coffee, dark chocolate (for my dog), and wood. Lot’s of dry, easily burnable, instant warmth and comfort.

I'm happy when I’m not having to do anything but dress in jeans and a sweater, boots and a scarf, walk among the fallen leaves out in the cold, then come home to build a fire for the evening. It’s where I’m from, and maybe where I belong. The desert? The tropics? The city? Even a foreign country? Sure I can do them, love and enjoy them, but to feel like me I need some kind of outdoors not unlike central California, and a season with some chill so I can follow up an autumn walk sitting before a crackling fire with a sleepy dog.

So, I'm feeling at home here.