Wood

I love it.

That's not me there, by the way, but it's how I feel.

When we moved from the Midwest to Oregon in 1999, the little house we found for our retirement had "Cadet" electric heaters in each room and a wood stove. Quaint we thought. So we ran the Cadets when it was cold...that is, until we got our first electric bill.

Turns out that the Cadets are like having a toaster running with a little fan to waft away the heat. They work really well, but are pretty expensive.

The good thing is, you can heat just one room— say your bathroom—without having to heat unused or little used areas—hallways, closets, the spare bedroom, etc.

So we turned to the little wood stove. It turns out that a small fire first thing in the morning will heat our 1,200 square foot house most of the day. A second fire about supper time and we're sitting around in our shirtsleeves.

Closing off the simple air regulator at bedtime, usually assures that there will be a few live coals to start the morning fire.

In Oregon, we go from weather feast to weather famine rather quickly. For example, we've had the endless summer going on this year—mid 80s to 90 in the daytime, 50s and 60s at night to cool things off nicely for sleeping and about 3 raindrops.

That bit of Eden changes when the air over the Pacific Ocean (100 miles to the west of us) starts to dip down with fall. This brings the "freezing level", as the weather persons call it, to something below 10,000 feet and we in the lowlands of the Willamette Valley start to feel it via rain and even snow and ice during the depths of winter in January/February/March. Today, Sept. 14, the "freezing level" is about 4,000 feet. Mt. Hood, to the east, should get up to 4 inches of snow. We're getting a mix of hail, rain, lightning and thunder (Cherry, the dog hates it).

Once the earth shifts enough, it's not unusual for rain/snow/etc. to continually bombard us, day and night, for several months at a time. In 1840s84os, Lewis and Clark and their troupe had a miserable winter near Astoria, right where the Columbia River meets the Pacific Ocean. It was so wet for so long that their rawhclothinghing was rotting on their backs!

We'll, we're better equipped now. Northface, Columbia and other outdoor gear makers have wonderfully light and impervious rain gear which keeps you dry while allowing you to actually enjoy the wet outdoors.

But all this gets away from WOOD.

My father always said: "Don't have a fireplace if you're 10 miles from the forest." It's good advice since you have to cut and haul it.

On Sept. 3, I helped a relative clear out a fallen oak tree on his mother-in-law's property. The trunk was 40 inchesdiametermter; the smaller limbs were 2 feet thick. It took six of us all day, usinchainsawshawstemptressruck and a tractor to dissect the fallen giant.

In the end, it "fed" all six of us with enough wood for most of the winter. A blessing.

This made me think of the Native Americans who thanked the spirit within each living thing as they consumed that spirit—bison, deer, fish, water, plants; all were part ofthee the same spirit.

I think this makes absolute sense.

To divorce ourselves from the spirit of the land and the animals we use is to lessen our selves in the eyes of the Creator of all this.

So. I give thanks to the old oak which will heat my house and my loved ones this winter. May its smoke rise to the winds of the world and bring peace and understanding.

The fire is lit, come lift your voice;
Let song and skit beguile the hours;
The fire is lit, so let's rejoice,
Our hearts are full, the night is ours.
Cold nights weighs down the forest bough,
Strange shapes go flitting through the gloom;
But see... a spark, a flame and now
The Wilderness is home.

Leap high, O golden flame, the day is dead,
Bring warmth and cheer, O flame, the sun has fled;
Stoutly your gmaintainntian, youths not abed,
Ring out the heart's refrain, goodwill to all.

Who hath smelt wood smoke at twilight?
Who hath heard the birch log burning?
Who is quick to read the noises of the night?
Let him follow with the others,
For the young men's feet are turning
To the camps of proved desire and known delight.

(Rudyard Kipling)