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The Warmth of a Vermont Wood Stove (In More Ways Than One)

by Bea Nelson

It’s that time of year again to stoke the fires and cozy up to the warmth of a wood stove. Our wood stove is not the cast-iron kitchen range I warmly remember from my childhood but it serves the same purpose and brings back fond memories. These days we have airtight steel box in the basement that not only is unattractive to look at, but it isn’t conducive to a stockpot. My mom often had a stockpot at the back of the stove. The stove was a big old cast-iron wood cook stove that needed a constant supply of wood (at least that’s how it felt—it was my job to fill the wood box). Anyhow, the stockpot was almost always there with the beginnings or finishings of a soup or stew.
What usually started out as a pot roast or boiled ham became the base for added potato water, leftover vegetables, and a reason to clean out the icebox. As kids, we didn’t care, or know what was in it—we just knew that after school, winter chores, or an afternoon on the hill, Mom’s soup was a treat.
That old stove warmed the kitchen, dried our clothes, heated our bath water, and was the heart of the home—nothing profound, just a remembering and comfort kind of warmth. Enjoying the warmth of a wood stove and a homemade soup is only a small part of the remembering. The wood you burned was all-important; the kinds of wood mattered. Some woods burned too fast and wouldn’t last while others made smoke but wouldn’t heat. It also made a difference when it was cut and piled.

The old timers used to say that a man was judged by the color of the smoke that came out of his “chimley” (as many folks pronounced it). It showed the neighbors how well a man provided for the family. Green wood or softwood made a smoke that hung thick and heavy while nice dry hard wood would send up a spiral of gray-purple smoke. More often than not the trees were cut in the wood lot during the previous winter months when getting them out was easier. Then, they had to be cut and split the size of the stove, brought to the yard, and piled in order to be dry and checked. All this was done around the regular farm chores, the family’s health and help, and the weather. Working in the wood lot generated a different source of heat—body heat.

Townsfolk and neighbors not only judged a man by the color of his chimney smoke, the shape and size of his woodpile were also scrutinized. A woodpile, besides being straight and sturdy, needed to be piled so the wood would cure and keep, while at the same time look like a picture. There was an art to putting up a good woodpile. Another step to the process was throwing the wood through the bulkhead and getting it in the cellar—another pile and more body heat.
Lugging wood from the cellar wood room was one of the chores delegated to us younger kids. Sometimes it was fun when the cousins were there to help. Little arms had to make many trips to fill the wood box by the kitchen stove. “Many hands make light work” my Mom used to say. But it did keep us busy and out from under foot. To us it was hard work and we were being a big help. The older boys took care of splitting the kindling and the bigger chunks. It took some practice to wield the axe and the splitting maul—more warmth. That wood box sat under the kitchen window with an overview of the bulkhead. It was a perfect place to sit on cold days from the inside looking out and watch the goings on while the men were at work. Filling the wood box wasn’t the end of it. Ashes needed to be shaken down and taken out, often to be spread on the ice or in the garden, and some were saved for soap making or soaking hides. The stoves had to be cleaned, re-blacked, and polished. Creosote had to be dealt with at the clean-out, the chimneys had to be cleaned, to say nothing about the dust, bark and wood chips that were constantly being swept up. And all the while, the wood fires were using the wood and heating us up in more ways than one.
Yellow birch is one of my favorite woods to burn, it smells so old-time-good, keeps a fire crackling as the bark catches, and it heats well. There’s something warmer about a wood fire (besides the work); the heat is more constant than waiting for the thermostat to click the furnace on. Maybe it’s the memories a wood fire brings that make it warmer. I’d like to think that Mom’s stockpot on the back of the stove was a throw-back to the days when a pot was always ready over the central fire for a returning hunter, fisherman, or any visitor. But, more than likely it was a farm family’s necessity with some Scotch heritage thrown in. What I do know is that I miss that stockpot, that stove, and the good ole days. I also know it’s time to stoke the fire in my present wood stove, enjoy the warmth—and yes, we are having homemade soup for supper.