The problem with wood fires is the PhD required to keep them going, and that's really oversimplifying the issue. More truthfully, it's like aquring a needy pet or a new baby. Every wood burning stove and fireplace has its personal quirks and preferences. And no fuel is created equal either. There's under seasoned wood, wood that's a little damp, wood that burns quick but not hot, and wood that burns hot but takes an entire emotional support team to stay lit. It's becoming much more clear to me why our ancestors created the existence of house brownies and fairies (and eventually invented central heating). I would have thought so too. I already am veering into the fanicful with my constant conversations with my fire. I feel like I've aquired a fifth child.
Last winter we kept our house toasty hot from November to April. This year we don't even notice it's cold in the house if it's above forty degrees outside. The nice thing about the Ozarks is it fluctuates wildly between seventy degrees and seventeen degrees, so you really don't ever know when you're going to hvae to conjure up a fire.
I can't complain because our woodburning stove is monstrous and ugly but quite efficient. It's in the center of the house so it keeps everything (including plumbing pipes) exceptionally warm. It has 5-7 dampers depending how you're counting so it's basically like playing a pipe organ. Our sweet bohemoth very much dislikes being dirty and throws a tantrum if it's not cleaned out every day. But once it gets going it will burn anything like the fires that consumed the soldiers who tossed in Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego. Sometimes I swear it will snatch wood right out of my hand and devour it. We can stock it full and it will last the whole night without dying. On the other hand, if you are trying to get absolutely anything done in the morning it will smoke, splutter, throw a hissy fit and otherwise act like a narcissitic sociopath if you don't sooth and coddle it for hours.
That's why we just choose to be cold sometimes.
We moved our pig into the barn, made Thorbin a little elevated platform so he can better bark at coyotes all night, and we built the chickens a better coop. The ducks adore winter as much as the chickens hate it, so they just wander around wherever (they have a coop, but don't always stay in it). I haven't found a season here I dislike, although I confess I am already preparing myself for spring and repeating mantras to myself "I do not mind the ticks. I do not mind the ticks." The best foraging and berry picking happens at the same time as peak tick season, so if you're enjoying any of my herbal tinctures, teas or jams, just know that I picked hundreds of ticks off myself in order to procure them. Even though I am one of the lucky one ticks don't like (they almost never bite me). It is somewhat disconcerting to look down and see hundreds of them on your pants and sleeves. I don't care, it's ok. I can pick them off.
And that is why winter is wonderful (no ticks and it's a nice break from the busy months). Spring is beautiful (so green and colorful but basically Florida for Baby Boomer ticks). Summer is hot and miserable but with lots of fun distractions, and fall is cozy and colorful but with a frantic feeling of trying to get everything done before winter.
I will miss the ice baths and showers once winter is over, but I confess I'm already secretly starting my peppers and scouring seed catalogs on the downlow.
