First snow of a lifetime

Busy, hustling start this morning. People to see, things to do. A dusting of snow--our first of the winter, and our granddaughter's first ever. Stoked the fire, feeding glowing coals from the night before, and warming the cabin from the effects of the cool night. I took food to our German Shepherd; she shivered out of her igloo doghouse, wiggled while waiting for me to rub her head and pat her side before she had a brisk breakfast, then retreated to her shelter.

I had a cup of coffee, on my feet, packed my laptop for the day, and headed out the door. And then I came alive. Something in me caused me to look up and see the smoking chimney at the only other home nearby. White smoke puffed into the cool air and turning back, I saw the same blossoming from our own flue. Warmth from the tended fire at home and next door where my granddaughter was starting her first day with snow...it was warm inside.

Don't know why it seemed worth smiling about, but I did. Don't know why it seemed worth writing about, but I am. The ride down Sams Hill was a little more fun than usual today, turning a bit sideways toward the end. But the fire is burning back home, and when I return there to sleep tonight, I'll tend it--and try to remember to smile again.

The beauty of small beginnings

I made quite an issue of providing artificial kindling this morning. A full double sheet of newspaper, rolled into a long tube and tied in a knot. I put three of those contrivances in the wood stove, arranged a couple of large logs over them and set them afire. When I came back with my coffee a few minutes later, the logs were blackened, the paper was gone and so was the flame.

So stepping through the fog and out to the carport woodpile, I grabbed the hatchet and began to chip off small pieces of a larger log. Slivers mostly. A few cut away from the log as thicker brittle sticks--much larger than slivers, yet unimpressive. Carrying my treasures back inside I arranged them in a hollow pile, then poked the tiniest pieces of newspaper underneath them. Ah, the power of small beginnings.

I knew when I began with the grandiose display of knotted newspaper that my fire had little chance. Heavy logs take time to get in the mood for burning. But the sliver effect--the small beginnings of tiny flickers reaching ever larger tinder...makes ever larger fire. And now the large oak logs have surrendered. The cabin is warming and the box of fire is glowing. And the quiet, day-off morning is beginning.

Small beginnings indeed.