Monthly Archives: January 2014

To build a fire

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January 25, 2014

I remember years ago reading the classic short story by Jack London entitled “To Build a Fire.”  It was the story of a man hiking in the Yukon in 50 degrees below zero, needing that essential element fire to survive. Tonight as I struggle to get a fire going in the wood burning fireplace insert, I feel something of that man’s frustration but not his desperation. Mostly I am irritated that the fires I have been building the past week are very slow to catch and require many trips to the fireplace to poke logs, adjust the air flow, and sometimes start all over from the beginning.

Build is the operative word. I try to build a base of several sheets of crumpled newspapers, a few pieces of fat wood from LLBean, and kindling that I have gathered from outside. On top I place a fire starter or two. I frame the base with two short logs on each side and two longer logs across the top. I have learned that after lighting the fire I need to keep one of the glass doors slightly open for the first five minutes, and not to choke back the air intake lever too soon. This is a new skill I am learning, or reviving from my Girl Scout camping days at Ft. Knox. Bill was the one who built the fires here. It was a guy thing. I just sat back and admired.

I think part of the problem right now may be slightly damp wood. Before the snow fell on Tuesday I filled up the wood rack by the fireplace with dry wood, but for the past few days the logs that I have been lugging inside were at the top of the snow covered pile by the kitchen door. I knocked the snow off but the logs still were damp. I guess I need to buy a tarp. A year ago that stack by the back door was five feet long and five feet high, split and expertly stacked by my friend Alan. I burnt most of those logs last winter, and now the stack is almost gone, meaning I will need to push the plastic lawn cart out to the horse barn where I have two full racks of aged split logs. After multiple trips I will have a new log pile outside the kitchen door. Wouldn’t it be loverly if there were manor house servants here to take care of these jobs?

If damp wood is the problem, how did anyone in the wilderness survive? And I know that the man in London’s story did not have fire starters or fat wood from LLBean or an infinite number of matches, nor the oil furnace that is the principal source of my heat. If you have forgotten what happened to the man in the Yukon, here is the link to the full story: http://www.jacklondons.net/buildafire.html

But I the meantime the fire in my fireplace is sputtering and needs attention, and I must return to one of the most basic tasks of humans through the ages:

Building a fire.

Snow Fall

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January 23, 2014 

This week about six inches of snow fell on my hilltop, with record cold temperatures. When a snow was predicted, Bill used to put the snow shovel by the back door, bring in some fire wood, and park the truck and car so they aimed downhill. So on Monday, I got out the snow shovel, brought in fire wood, and aimed the car and truck downhill. In addition I bought fresh gasoline for the snow blower and got it out of the horse barn.  

I wish we had had a snow blower in February 2010. That was the year a record blizzard hit our area, dumping more than two feet of snow on top of an earlier snow so that accumulations were almost four feet. A lot for the Mid-Atlantic area. Thousands of people lost power to their homes, including Bill and me. We were without power for four days.  We had a portable generator, but during our storm preps we had neglected to move it from the horse barn to the back door of the house before the storm hit. Bill who had stage IV cancer had to dig a wide enough path to get the generator out of the barn and up to the house, so he could plug it in. That meant digging a 20 foot path through four feet of snow.  We had only one large container of gasoline for the generator, and thus could only run the generator for limited periods of time.

On Day Two after the storm, we were relieved when our son and one of his friends came slogging through thigh-high snow with four full containers of gasoline; they had hiked in from the nearby subdivision through unplowed roads, a real act of heroism and stamina. With the new stores of gasoline, Bill and I could run the generator for a limited number of circuits, but at least we had running water and some heat. We cheered when the power company crew appeared on our lane. Even after power was restored, we were snowbound until the snow plows cleared our road.  

Five months later in the month of June, Bill started the process of having a whole-house stand-by generator installed at our home. He died of cancer a week after the contract was signed.  

When snow falls, I no longer have to worry about being in the dark and cold alone, or going outside in the middle of the night to add gasoline to a portable generator. That stand-by generator was Bill’s last gift to me. Thank you, honey.

Stagecoaches and Roller Coasters

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January 23, 2014

Almost everyone has heard of the stages of loss and grief: denial and isolation; anger; bargaining; depression; acceptance. This model was introduced by Elizabeth Kubler-Ross in her 1969 book On Death and Dying and was meant to explain what terminally ill patients experienced as they faced their own impending deaths. Later the model was expanded to include other losses, including the loss of a spouse.  These stages were not intended to be linear, as though we are riding in a stagecoach, stopping at inns labeled Denial, Anger, etc., but that is the way many people think of them. Another way to look at grief is the roller coaster image: we are on a rollercoaster that drops into abysses of sorrow, but gradually over time the drops are not as severe and there are more spaces between. 

I know for me the first year after Bill died really was The Year of Magical Thinking, as Joan Didion titled her book about her husband’s death and the year that followed.  I read that book the second month after Bill died, and found myself saying aloud, “Exactly! That is exactly how it is!” From the outside I think I appeared strong and calm and highly functioning, but on the inside I wailed.  And at night when I was alone I wailed aloud. All I wanted was for Bill to come back. A friend who had been widowed two years earlier said to me sadly, “We think if we do everything right, they will come back.” Widows are advised not to make any major decisions in the first year, and that is good advice. In fact, make as few decisions as possible. I had a memorial garden created for Bill on one side of my driveway, with native plants to attract butterflies and birds. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but in reality it cost much more than I had budgeted and is very difficult for me to maintain.

 The second year is almost harder than the first, because by now we realize that the one we love is not coming back. It is going to be like this forever. At about the two and a half year mark I began to wonder if I had lost not only Bill but my essential self, the woman who was happy and optimistic, who made silly jokes. I felt as though I was wrapped in a gray mist. I knew I could not get Bill back, but what about me? Fortunately my church for the first time offered a grief support group that met for eight sessions. It was for anyone who had suffered a loss, so there was a mix of people, some very recently bereaved. I realized that I was further along the path of sorrow than I had thought, and I could reach out and help others. Before the third anniversary of Bill’s death I could feel myself whole again….as whole as one can be who has lost her beloved life partner.

 Denial, depression, acceptance…and a tumultuous ride on the rollercoaster of grief.

“Grief turns out to be a place none of us know until we reach it.” Joan Didion

Sands in the Hourglass

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January 11, 2014 

My birthday is a few days after the turning of the year, and so each New Year I get a double whammy: a new year with all its promises, and the fact that I am a year older. This year with my 71st birthday it hit me that there are many more grains of sand in the bottom of the hour glass than in the top– I am indeed growing older… and that this is an hour glass that I will not be able to turn over and start again. (Of course, Shirley MacLaine may be right and I may already have lived a number of lives.)

 How long might I live? Should I look to my family tree? 

Both my parents died in their early eighties. My father had a hemorrhagic stroke followed by paralysis and dementia, and died of pneumonia. My mother who died a year after my father had a faulty heart valve and died of congestive heart failure. They spent much of their seventieth decade traveling extensively in Europe. One year they rented out their home and were gone for six months. My parents were frugal travelers, but they were intellectually curious, independent travelers, and I think if I could ask them, they would have no regrets about the money they spent for travel.

My paternal grandmother lived to a very healthy 97. When she was 96, she flew with my aunt to the East Coast to see me and my family. Her mind and body were in excellent shape right to the end. She was writing her memoirs when she was 96. There is a possibility that the sands in the hour glass will last that long for me, too. And barring a major breakdown in government pensions and stock markets, my funds will last. But my health may not.

I have been reflecting on the fact of the dwindling sands of time this week, because I have been composing a list of all the home repairs and improvements that should be done or that I would like to have done. On another paper is the list of all the places that I would like to travel; I have been very fortunate to have traveled widely in my life, especially over the past seventeen years, but travel is my passion. I consider it an essential part of my continuing education. Do I spend my limited resources on my home? Or do I spend the minimum on my home, and push my travel up to two big trips a year, while I still am well and strong? One of my widow friends laughed when I posed the question. “If we knew the future,” she said, “then we would know how to spend our money.” 

I think I will follow my parents’ example, and travel as much as I can, while I can. Home improvements, beyond the necessary essential repairs, can wait. 

Carpe Diem