The day was dank and dreary. A persistent drizzle chilled a body.
The boy, angry at having chores to do, lifted the axe and with one heavy thud of metal against wood, split a log in half.
Quickly, he gathered an armful of freshly splintered wood and carried it inside the house. Slamming the door, he shivered.
Kneeling before the charred fireplace, he layered paper, kindling and logs on the grate. He struck a match; a tiny spark flickered. But the flame blazed tall when he touched match to paper. Soon a fire crackled, seared, then leaped upward toward the chimney top.
He poked a log, pushing here and there to create a perfect atmosphere - just enough air, just enough wood. Flaming tongues licked the logs before biting deep into the wood. He sat back on the hearth, watching, feeling the warmth seep into his body, removing the cold and the anger which had invaded his being earlier.
Once the fire was burning well, everyone gathered round his masterpiece, juggling for a spot in front of the blaze. It’s warmth spread to all who came near. And red and yellow flames dancing within the darkened cavern of the fireplace hypnotized and relaxed anyone who stopped long enough to watch the fiery show.
The flame slowly died back. He rose and fed its voracious appetite. Again and again, all afternoon and into the night, he chopped wood just to supply the fire’s never ending greed for fuel. But the penetrating warmth which the fire provided him made his repetitious efforts seem profitable.
“Back in the olden days, when a fireplace was the only means of keeping warm and cooking food, people must’ve spent a lot of time chopping wood and feeding a fire,” he commented, poking the embers and tossing yet another log on the blaze.
A good fire, like love, takes careful tending. It is not self sustaining. But the pleasure which comes from its warmth makes all the work seem worthwhile. It is quite a lesson to be learned on a wintery afternoon.
1978
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