The Warming House

His favorite part of the day was the early morning. He'd awaken just before the sun would light the sky, cold in his longjohns, pulling his socks from the foot of the bed, having kept them warm under the covers. Next, he hauled the jeans into shape from the cold, hard floor and, standing, tugged them up, buttoning, zipping and leaving the suspenders to dangle. He'd pull on another shirt, right the suspenders, throw on the heavy flannel jacket, goose-down hat and black scarf. The doorknob would be deathly cold, but he'd grit his teeth, touch the knob once, then twice, then wrestle it until the old oaken door pried ajar, just far enough for him to get his body out, without awakening his sleeping wife who lay quietly bundled up in blankets and nightclothes. The lantern guttered in the wind, then resumed its strength as the passed through the doorway and closed the guardian behind him.

The air ripped through his bones, even with all the layers attempting protection. He'd walk over to the shed, blowing warm air into his cold hands. Gloves were a bother, he imagined. They inhibited his work. Each day, he went to the wood pile as the sky began to gray and pulled 4 or 5 decent chunks of pine for hewing. He'd turn each piece over in his hands, expecting it for moisture, bugs and something else. He couldn't place it, but some pieces got saved for later carving. They were too good to be burned.

Once upon the chopping block, his arms and axe handled the lumber squarely. Whistle, chop, pry, grunt. Whistle, chop, pry, grunt. He'd repeat the process, exhaling a torrent of stream as he did so. He never cut enough wood for the next day. That was tomorrow's work and he wanted to be able to do something with his hands in the morning. The wood would be corded and slung over his large shoulders with a bit of twine, the ax returned to the shed after he tested the edge with his thumb. He'd trudge back to the log cabin of his youth, open the door and slide in. Close the door. Walk to the stove, kneel.

By this time, the sky was turning orange and red. His beard had snowflakes in it and his cheeks were rosey red. Take off the hat. Rest, palms on the floor. Untie the wood. Stretching his neck, he'd look into the fireplace and see the same old grate he'd stacked wood in since he was 9. Again, the wood went in and the fire lit. Hanging a pot of water, he'd warm it enough for tea, then continue warming the remainder for the wash basin.

The house warmed enough, he woke his wife.