“Sing a song in seasons; something bright in all,” wrote Robert Louis Stevenson in “Autumn Fires” from 1885. “Flowers in the summer; fires in the fall!”
Oh, how tempting it was Wednesday and Thursday last to light the fireplace as the dogs of summer had their heated barks silenced by the first northwest winds previewing the autumn to come.
Tempting — but not yet prudent.
For the chimney sweep has yet to make his rounds; a fire in that stack just below the top damper would have been an inauspicious, if not embarrassing, start to the “burn” season.
And as these waning days of August attest, there will be plenty of dog-bark days left, perhaps even past the calendar date proclaiming fall; there’s nothing worse than the dank and musty aroma of humid soot as the sun bakes a chimney.
But, alas, the burning season will come. The old familiar scents of locust and of oak, of ash and of cherry and of apple and perhaps even a bit of sizzling mulberry, not quite fully seasoned, will fill the air soon enough.
The low flames of the fireplace will whisper to the knock-off Stickley recliner to come closer.
The recliner will “Pssst!” to the nearby floor-to-ceiling western red cedar bookshelf to push out an old, familiar and favorite book.
That book will catch the eye of a certain bibliophile, enticing him to partake.
It will be a routine repeated many times as the autumnal winds rise and the fall sun gives up the ghost in a steady march to winter. The shorter the days grow, the longer the fireside lingering will become.
And the bill for tea, sugar and cream, not to mention homemade breads, sweet and sour, will rise commensurately. After all, a good book is not the fireplace’s sole conspirator in pursuit of cozy companionship.
But, sadly, we don’t seem to put much stock in the power of the hearth anymore. For too many, if there’s a fireplace at all, it tends to be of the gas variety with faux “logs.” Day after day, night after night, week after week, month after month and fire season after fire season, those “logs” and the fire are static.
A fire meant to be convenient is a fire that’s cold. The lick of the fire’s curl never alters. Nothing ever shifts. There’s nary a sizzle and no pops. Scents? Mechanically medicinal. And the art of banking for the next day atrophies.
The power of the hearth comes from a log-burning fireplace, different each time it is lit, offering new perspectives in sight, sound and smell that, in turn, help us to find new perspectives in our lives.
And such a real fireplace also requires time – time to cut, split, stack and season wood. And time to enjoy it as well. Ah, time. How ironic that one of a fireplace’s greatest gifts has become its enemy in this modern age.
But, for the moment, let’s leave that matter to sociologists to ponder. For time is running short and time must be taken to engage the chimney sweep.
Colin McNickle is a senior fellow and media specialist at the Allegheny Institute for Public Policy (cmcnickle@alleghenyinstitute.org).
