Our Port Angeles rental has a wood stove in the living room. Note that the temperatures in Port Angeles rarely stray from the 40’s day or night, and electric baseboards are ample to keep us snug, but a wood fire is both cozy and comforting. The week we moved in, I called up a sawmill and ordered a cord of firewood. The same day, a truck pulled into the yard and dumped its load onto the lawn. The wood had sat outside in the weather for several months and most was too damp to burn. Art and I spent a frantic hour under a sprinkle of raindrops stacking the wood in the shed to dry. Fast forward six weeks to December on the eve of a 36-hour storm event. The time is opportune to break in the stove. I gather an armload of eight or ten splits and stack them by the stove, and since that doesn’t feel generous enough, I bring in a second load. The wood feels dry, at least on the outside.
The stove is a model unfamiliar to us. The interior is lined with bricks, top, bottom, and every side but the door. Just above the door, the chimney vent is a narrow opening stretching the entire width of the stove. We would rather not have the house fill up with smoke, but we can’t locate a damper to open. We will take our chances. A knob on the side regulates the amount of air admitted to the firebox, which is barely large enough for three logs.
There’s no science or craft to our fire: crumpled paper under some kindling, larger pieces on top, in the middle a Duraflame FireStarter block. Art flicks his lighter. The fire catches and burns! It spreads slowly but before long all the logs are lit. They hiss and sizzle, not entirely dry. We turn off the lights and sit in a circle around the stove, Art, Lady, and I, orange flames and shadows flickering in our faces as rain patters on the roof. Life is good.
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