The first years of my life were kept warm by a woodstove. If I close my eyes, I can still see Papaw bent over, loading it with split logs. I can even smell that memory.
When I was little, I’d stand with my back so close to the stove that I’d look sunburnt when I finally stepped away. It was a habit I picked up from Daddy—and it drove Mamaw crazy.
It felt like everyone heated their home with wood in the 1980s—and not just in Appalachia. Grandma and Grandpa had a woodstove in Wilmington, too.
Daddy taught me how to build a fire when I was about eight years old. I still remember the look on Grandma’s face when she watched me throw open her stove, stir the embers, and add wood like I’d been doing it my whole life.
I missed that. Not just them, but the smell of a fire. The pop of burning wood. Sitting just a little too close to the warmth.
That’s probably why a woodstove—or at least a real, working fireplace—was high on my list of must-haves when we bought our house. Nostalgia has a long memory.
But right after we moved in, we learned the fireplace wasn’t operable. The previous owner had converted it to propane—then ripped the whole setup out—leaving behind a fireplace that looked fine but needed real work before it could be safely used.
We drug our feet for six years. I started to wonder if it was one of those projects we’d talk about forever and never actually do.
Then we heard about the winter storm headed our way, and both of our minds went straight back to the ice storm of 2016. We lost power then, and with no alternate heat, we piled up at Mama’s house for two days.
That memory was the kick in the pants we needed.
Brandon pulled the old propane stem out of the chimney and mortared up the hole. He added a flue cap, and then we got serious—buying a new grate, a screen, and proper tools.
We stocked up on firewood just before the cold settled in, ready for whatever winter decided to throw at us—which, as it turned out, wasn’t much. It was icy, but the roads never got bad here. We never lost power.
But we did keep a fire going through the whole ordeal.
More than once, I found myself standing a little too close to it, letting the heat sink in. I could almost see Papaw there, split logs in his hands, hear the crackle of the wood, smell that same familiar warmth.
The woodstove still sits in Dutch Cove, while the house falls down around it. Grandma and Grandpa’s house is long gone—torn down decades ago.
Mamaw, Papaw, and Daddy are memories now. Grandma and Grandpa, too.
But here, in this living room, their ghosts dance in the fire. I stand a little too close, feel the heat on my skin, and for a moment, the years collapse.
Then I step back, smile, and know their memory helps keep me warm.
