OPINION: Cold weather and the comfort of a fireplace
Thomas Vinciguerra lives in Garden City.
It's here, I can feel it - that exquisite moment when the mercury dips irrevocably into the chill zone, when the wind starts to spear you through your overcoat, when you realize that nothing short of permanent exile in Jamaica is going to thaw you out.
I'm in heaven. Now I can start making fires again.
Seven months of the year, my living-room fireplace stands empty, surrounded by an untouched hodgepodge of brass and ironware. Come November, though, I know it's time to crank up my own personal inferno.
My fire fascination may well stem from a deprived childhood. Our fireplace went unused for years because my grandmother didn't want it sullied by soot. Finally my father rebelled and gave our fireplace a baptism by - well, you know. I soon found there was nothing quite like the thrill of starting a conflagration in the privacy of your own home.
Now that very same hearth has become the focal point of my fall and winter weekends. Certainly I spend enough time in preparation, keeping a constant lookout for fuel. Branches left out at some unsuspecting homeowner's curb don't stay put very long. Following a gale, I dash around town in search of limbs snapped from ancient maples.
On Saturday and Sunday afternoons, I pummel logs with a sledgehammer and wedges. The more unwieldy specimens get cut down to size with a bow saw. I also rely on the kindness of my gardener, who occasionally dumps a pre-cut cord or two on my back lawn.
To actually get things going, I favor slivers of Georgia fatwood and twigs that I've gathered here and there. Once the first darting tongues of flame begin to slowly lick at each other, I pile on the heavier stuff. From time to time I toss in chunks of cannel coal, which burns so intensely and splits with a crack so sharp that I sometimes fear an errant piece, like shrapnel, will jump through the grate and incinerate the rug.
My fires usually get under way around 11 p.m., when the rest of the house is about to nod off and I can luxuriate in delicious privacy. Usually I have a book in hand, but I frequently break away to watch the chaos of the not-so-spontaneous combustion before me.
I am, I confess, a restless firebug. Like a channel surfer in search of the perfect program, I am forever prodding and rearranging, trying to tease out the most roaring display I can. Often as not, I end up practically snuffing things out.
And then, just as it seems that I've achieved the perfect blaze, I suddenly realize how late it is. At that point, there's nothing left to do but turn off the lights, stretch out for a final few minutes, and watch as the action dwindles down to a mound of gleaming orange embers. One last jab with the poker to extinguish a smoldering scrap, and I amble wearily upstairs to bed, at peace and utterly relaxed.
Now I can face another Monday.
