We’ve got a fire in the wood stove today. The third fire we’ve lit since we stopped regularly heating with wood sometime back in June. We had two whole months, and maybe closer to three, gloriously free of hauling armloads of wood inside and tracking bits of bark across the floors. (Lucky our floors aren’t finished yet. Lucky I was pregnant, and then recovering, and only hauled six wheelbarrows full of wood to the front door. Too bad I can’t use my giant belly or stitches as an excuse anymore.)
But there’s nothing like wood heat. It fills the house with steady warmth. None of this electric heat that cuts in and out with waves of cold air. Just a steady cackle and burn. On a day like today, when the wind is whipping the bay, the cackling is particularly crackly. Sylvia is fascinated by the stove, staring at the beast that has sat silent for her entire life (at least the recent part of her life she’s been aware of). The stove is now making funny noises and we’re doing interesting things to it in the morning and at night. she follows the noises up the chimney with her eyes, head whipping back and forth like a Wimbledon fan. She knows where the noise is coming from, but hasn’t yet figured out what’s making it happen. Upstairs, too, the chimney talks to her. What fun! In a few months we’ll be keeping her away from the hot stove. It might not bee so romantic when she learns to crawl.