Feed the Fire


The winter of 1984 only seemed to get colder each day. As a former coastal girl, Eastern Washington winters were brutal. I had tried wearing extra sweaters, but I couldn’t keep from shivering. At the time, we lived in a single-wide trailer, out in the middle of what once was an old pasture. Now, narrow strawberry rows graced our ten-acre farm. Nothing stopped the determined winds from rushing down the steep hills behind us and blowing against our trailer. Each blast rattled our metal roof. Whatever wasn’t tied down outside tumbled down the fields.

In the mornings, I would bundle my toddler in bulky layers as we drove to the grandparent’s house. Papa cared for her while my husband and I worked. The wind pummeled the car as we drove. The locals informed me that it was too cold to snow. At least snow would have made the brittle cold worth it.


As I opened the folk’s front door, a blast of frigid air came in with us. I quickly shut the door behind me.


“Come in here where it’s warm.” Papa beckoned.


I scurried over to where he was sitting next to the wood stove. It was one of those metal cast-iron stoves that had a small window. I watched the dancing orange flames. Pulling off my gloves, I stretched my hands towards the heat.




“Wood heat is the only way to really warm your bones,” Papa declared. He sat back down in the rocker close the fire and helped take his granddaughter's bulky coat off. He offered me the adjacent chair, even though I would only stay for a few minutes. It was indeed bone-warming.


He reached down to the small stack of firewood next to the stove. Opening the door, he carefully placed two more pieces atop the smoldering remains of what had been burning. 


“You need to feed the fire. Wood stoves won’t give you their heat if you don’t take the time to keep feeding them.”


I listened to his explanation but appreciated the warmth even more. 


“Marriage is like that too. If you let your fire burn too low, it’s hard to get it started again. Be sure to keep feeding it to keep it going strong.”


I nodded. I’d married his son five years ago. But between our farming struggles and the challenges to pay our bills, were we letting our fire burn too low? 


I put on my jacket, mittens, and hat. As I left for work, I determined that I wasn’t going to let a cold season of life dampen the fire in my heart. And I wouldn’t let it put out the fire in my marriage either.


Thankfully cold winters don’t last. And neither do seasons of adversity.





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