I came in the other day from a chilly evening outdoors and thought, well, summer’s over. I’m building a fire. And I did.

I love heating our home with wood. I love every aspect of it (some more than others). I love dropping a dead tree in the forest and blocking it up in bright rounds amidst the spray of sawdust. I love to split it down; for me there’s no more satisfying form of play than splitting wood with a maul. I love watching the wood stacks dry and crack in the summer heat. I love the feeling of security that comes from having our heat source secure, of stacking dried wood into a dry woodshed (even if the stack collapses later). I love building a fire, from the crinkling of paper and stacking of kindling to the striking of a match, and watching the heat catch into the edges of the wood, and the light and heat ignite the bigger pieces, until I can toss round logs into the burning mass and feel the heat rise like comfort into our cozy house. There is no delight on earth quile the the flicker of firelight in a dark room, when the music is softly playing. I like polishing the clouded window until the fire gleams brightly again (all you need is a damp paper towel dipped in cold ashes). I even like cleaning the chimney, because I only have to do it once a year, and there’s a pecuilar delight in cleaning something out that is really dirty.

Maybe I’ll get old and decrepit one day, and won’t be able to do all the work that’s entailed in the entertainment, satisfaction, and low bills of heating with wood. But my friend John is in his 70s and he still does it with gusto. Maybe in that sense I can be like John.