I LIVE WITH A COOKSTOVE AND LOVE IT

Enlarge Image Image Gallery

B. TOUCHSTONE HARDAWAY

My husband, Theo—bless his practical heart—looked at me with his mouth wide open, trying for the umpteenth time in our years of marriage to understand the workings of my mind. Finally, he found his voice. "Billie, surely you aren't serious about wanting a wood cookstove. Have you any idea of what using one is like?" He shook his head.

"Yes, I think I do. In fact, I'm sure of it." Boy, that last crack closed off every avenue of escape. If I weren't sure, I'd better get that way.

Theo went on. "Why, you'll probably break your foot the first day kicking the blamed thing when it doesn't do to suit you." He threw back his head and laughed. Theo had grown up with a wood-burning cookstove and claimed to know all their quirks.

His arguments were sound enough but I had a few of my own: "I know a wood-burning range would be sheer purgatory for many, but I think it will be therapeutic for my impatient nature. Also, think of the money we'll save on the electric bill and it's a great way to get rid of all that scrub timber growing everywhere . . . and, besides, I WANT IT."

A smile played at the corners of Theo's mouth. How well he knew me. "Alright. We'll buy you a woodburning cookstove but, once it's bought, there'll be no turning back. Okay?"

Okay! I swallowed hard because I knew I had some research work cut out for me before my stove arrived.

THE OLD WAYS WERE OFTEN GOOD WAYS

I guess you could say I'm semi-old-fashioned. 1 like sturdy iron bedsteads, big-legged tables, well-sunned mattresses, skirts to the knees, a fresh-scrubbed look and cakes made from the flour up. I enjoy watching hens scratching in the yard for their biddies and—occasionally—I like to scrub my floors with a bucket of lye water and a worn-out broom.

The latter could be a carryover from childhood, since I always associate lye-scrubbed floors and sunned mattresses with my growing-up period. The finishing touch on spring cleaning days was to place a large, fragrant bouquet of wild Sweet Williams in the center of an oil cloth-covered table. I can smell them now!

Because I am fond of so many things and traditions of yesterday, the idea of a wood-burning cookstove had sort of eased into my mind over the years even though I knew absolutely nothing about using one . . . and—suddenly—my stove was here!

Theo put the cookstove up with its long, glossy black pipe leading into the new brick chimney. Our little issues ran about gathering kindling and bits of wood for the first blaze in mama's new stove that was just like the one Martha Washington had used to cook meals for George.