I built my first fire of the season a few weeks ago. Certainly this is an unremarkable event for anyone who’s lived a long time in the North Country, but for me it marks a rite of passage.

When I moved to this area several years ago, I barely knew how to build a fire, let alone operate a woodstove. In my previous life my “ex” always started the fires. Sure, I’d throw a log on now and then, but that was the extent of it. Growing up as a kid in the suburbs of New York City, we only had a fire going on an occasional holiday.

The truth is, I was always a bit intimidated by fires and generally left them to the men in my life. The one time I did attempt to start a fire on my own resulted in the evacuation of the apartment building I was living in on Boston’s Beacon Hill. In an effort to impress a gentleman I was having over for dinner, I bought a paper-wrapped log at the supermarket. I lit it without knowing I was supposed to open the flue. I made an impression for sure, just not the kind I had hoped for.

Then I landed here. Despite my anxiety, that first winter I realized I would need at least some wood in the event I lost power, which seemed likely. So I arranged to have a load delivered. After it was dumped in my driveway, I stood there blubbering, wondering what I had gotten myself into. Did I order this much wood? Could I possibly burn it all? When I realized I had bought green wood, my tears turned to anger. Right there I vowed to conquer my fear and get this fire and firewood thing mastered.

I used my anger to invigorate the not-so-small task of constructing an orderly woodpile. I decided to move as much of the wood as possible into the shed. On a neighbor’s advice, I stacked the rest in the basement to expedite the drying process.

“Put as much as you can on end. That’ll help some,” he suggested. I thought she ought to know, having lived here the last 65 of her eighty-odd years.

Next, I located the manual and proceeded to familiarize myself with this cast-iron box. Notwithstanding good intentions, at this point I still had no plan to use the stove unless it became absolutely necessary. It did in October when the power failed for three days. I quickly realized the inevitability of the situation. I would have preferred to bury my head under a down blanket, but set about my task as cold began to creep into the house.

The manual was refreshingly clear and presented four concise pages of instruction on how to build and sustain a wood fire. I used most of the Sunday Times to coax the flames that ignited the kindling and the kindling to torch the logs. This first attempt resulted in a diminutive fire at best, but I was ecstatic to see some result. My sense of accomplishment was unabashed.

By day three I figured out how to keep the embers burning overnight. I was learning about the relationship between air flow and the fire, and which controls on the stove proved most effective in regulating it. I realized if I could stoke up a robust fire, I could damp it down for a long-burning, intense delivery of heat.

What I hadn’t anticipated discovering was the magical aura of a fire. The pleasant smell of it. Its mesmerizing quality. The cozy and friendly atmosphere it creates.

This will be my third winter in the North Country, and this year I plan to heat my home with almost equal portions of wood and oil. I can maintain a fire for days on end. A neighbor felled some trees for me last spring. I bought and learned to operate a chain saw, so now I cut and split my own wood. I purchased a tree identification book.

When my mother learned of my undertakings, she laughed nervously and remarked, “You’re using a chain saw? Oh honey, that’s too dangerous. Don’t you want to buy your wood? Do you need money?”

I replied, “It’s not about money, Mom. The sense of reward I get from the whole process is remarkable. And I’m very careful.”

Last month a friend came to visit from Boston and proceeded to help me with my wood tasks. I enjoyed even more the lugging, cutting, splitting, and stacking with his company. I know he found the physical nature of the work as satisfying and stimulating as I did.

A neighbor passing by yelled to him, “Wood warms you up a few times before you even burn it.”

He replied, “Yeah, I’m figuring that out.”

I had to agree. I’m figuring it out, too.

12/13/06

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