Sunday, March 9, 2014
I could say it’s the lesser light, and more brief, since the shorter days, with dropping temperatures, are cues for plants and animals to turn toward winter. But here in the forest, winter is in the wind, carried on the smoke from wood-burning stoves and fireplaces.
That scent of wood stoves, fired up with fuel, has become for me an almost atavistic prompt for winter. This year, having delayed buying firewood, I almost overlooked it. But I was not sure whether I would still be living in the cabin north of Gray, so the purchase of a cord never came up.
Summer, and then fall, came and went, but I never really got serious about relocating to another lair, and by mid-October I could tell my heart was set on staying put.
Still, during the last three months, many plans for change and the completion of household projects have fallen by the wayside. I never tilled or tended a garden, nor did I manage to finish unpacking crates that came with me from Massachusetts or box up items not being used here in Maine.
I even failed to arrange for firewood – a foolhardy oversight with the northern New England winter coming on. At the last moment I relied on the generosity of a neighbor who hauled over a half cord, and promised to split and stack the pile.
I have had one fire in the wood stove already this fall, a test run conducted when the landlord came down from up north to construct a new deck on the back of the rental house. He arrived, and jotted down on the back of an envelope all necessary repairs and timely chores to accomplish during his visit. Checking on the stove was simply one mental note among many during his spontaneous two-day project with the deck.
The stove had been stuffed with newspaper and kindling all summer, seemingly a sign of unusual forethought and preparedness for cold weather on my part. But I had merely run out of the need for heat before I exhausted the pile of last year’s kindling. One day in late spring, I had taken the time to fill the stove with alternating horizontal and vertical layers of crumpled newsprint, a few bits of downed limbs and ends of molding strips, figuring a day would come in early summer when I would still want to take the chill off an early morning.
But that day never came. A whole season and then a second expired, before I needed heat in the house at twilight. All summer the stove remained unused and cold, and even the advent of some chilly nights had not sent me scrambling for a rolled up section of newspaper and the strike-anywhere tip matches.
Then the other evening something unanticipated happened when I took the dog out into the deepening night. The moon was nearly full, its unfinished sliver appearing almost like liquid or steam along the edge. I was studying the sky and the dog was surveilling the yard when suddenly I sensed for the first time this winter that the neighbors – many of them – had turned to their wood stoves for heat that night.
The air was heavy with the scent of wood smoke and conifers, a kind of dusky pine fragrance that is as suggestive to me of winter as a few notes of music can be of lost innocence or love conveyed. For a few seconds, everything else in my world dimmed in my senses, the dark night dissolving into invisible landscape, stripping away what could be seen and amplifying only the kind and character of smoke in the night wind.
(Continued on page 2)