Walking the Hedge

Fireplace Day, the first day the fireplace or woodstove (etc) is lit up for the cold season. A page torn out of the book of my history; Chapter One: Early Childhood Memories.

The first fireplace I recall was a great big thing of white brick and a dark granite hearthstone that stuck far out beyond the reach of the fire itself. As a young child I could lay upon the hearthstone in front of the metal screen that kept the fire contained. Dad was responsible for that fireplace; I would sit on the carpet and watch him build up the fire, my knees tucked into my sweater, stretching it out of shape.

The second one came after the divorce. We moved into a tiny little yellow farmhouse not far from the old house. This place was heated by a small orange woodstove. Mom lacked my father’s skill at fire building, and it would often go out at night. Many mornings my brother and I wrapped ourselves in our quilts and walked down the long, cold hallway to Mom’s room to beg her to get up and light the fire because “We’re freezing!”

Fireplace Day usually comes between back-to-school and the Equinox. Whenever it starts to get cold enough at night you let the dog sleep with you to keep warm. In most places I have lived, this is the end of the Indian Summer and the beginning of a more rainy and crisp Autumn. The fire not only provides warmth  but also helps to keep the damp off.

Fireplace Day when I was a child meant watching Dad, or some uncle or family friend, split wood for my mother. It meant helping to clean the fireplace and spread the last ashes from last year onto the garden before the first frosts came. It was being wrapped up in afghans my mother or grandmother had crocheted and sipping hot chocolate as we watched an adult build the fire.

Now, in my own home, the woodstove is cleaned out, the first wood is split, and as the first fire is lit the first small offerings are burnt in the hearthfire. I watch it burn into the night and then bank it before closing the door to the woodstove. I tuck the blankets around the old dog that lies before the hearth and go to bed.

For three mornings I wake to the smell of wood smoke, the third morning is the peak of the Autumn Solar Tide. The Equinox.

I wake to the smell of wood smoke, fresh morning rain, and wet dog. Then the smell of sulphur and copper rising up from the well water as I brush my teeth, a gentle reminder I live in a land of dormant and extinct volcanoes, a landscape of mountains, valleys and the odd hot and/or mineral spring.

I go about my day as usual following the routine I have fallen into. When dinnertime comes around, as the sun begins to lower itself towards the mountains that surround me, I start the coals going in the BBQ out on the front walk where I am joined by an old cattle dog and a young hound. Confident the coals are heating up nicely, I wander over to the woodpile and select a random small log of cottonwood and tuck it under my arm. I also take up the hatchet I had been using to split wood earlier.

Trailed lazily by my dogs, I cross the still sunlit drive to the small grove of birch, pine and fir. There grows a trio of paper birches. I push some deer droppings aside with the hatchet before setting it down and place the log before the birches. Ivy the scent hound wanders over and sniffs the log. “No” I say firmly and she looks at me calmly for a moment before moving on.

I move on as well, followed by a curios young dog and an old dog that knows this routine well. I meander aimlessly about the property, keeping one eye on the BBQ. The smell of the BBQ and the crisp wind, the sighing of the trees and the song of birds makes it easy to slip into a light trance state as I wander down the side-drive. As we walk we find a few nice looking rocks, including a pockmarked volcanic rock, some leaves that have turned their colors and fallen, and a couple of twigs the dogs choose. A sprig of lavender chooses to be chosen, along with some milk thistle, Russian sage, wild daisy and a few others. We bring each item back to the trio of birches and arrange them around the cottonwood log.

I check the BBQ and spread the coals out and place the grill over them to heat up. Then I head into the house to bring out the steaks for the grill along with a bottle of whisky and a pocket full of bones Ivy and I found while walking not long ago and a few other little things. Before I put the steaks on the grill I steal a single coal from the BBQ and place it on a flat-ish rock and carefully carry it to the growing “altar”. Making sure the coal and its rock are well placed I pick a few dried evergreen needles from the ground and drop them onto the coal. Incense.

Then we head back to check the steaks and keeping an eye on everything burning and cooking, I climb the shed and bring down the bull skull I have up there. Found on the side of the road by my mother, it still has decomposing (and somewhat mummified) brains inside, though the rest of it is pretty sun bleached. My stag skull is packed away along with my raven skull. So slightly icky moo head it is. The skull is placed upon the log and after a few whispered words and the poring of some of the whiskey, its time to flip the steaks.

When the steaks are done the dogs are ushered inside and a piece of steak is also left at the altar, the coal is surrounded by pebbles to keep it in place and dinner is eaten on the deck, where I can see the altar in the side yard.

We go back to it after dinner, Ivy is chased away from the steak as Crash (the old dog) lays down not far away and sighs in a way only elderly dogs can. Words are spoken, offerings are poured, pine needles are burned, and a squash is placed beside the skull. Then we sit for a time and watch the smoke rise and the Sunset. The coal is returned to the safety of the BBQ and we truck inside for dessert.

For three days more the altar stands, slowly losing pieces as the days go by. The skull is placed back upon its roof to keep decomposing, the twigs are taken away by Ivy, the steak eaten by who knows what, the wind scatters the leaves. I scatter the rest.

That third night I trudge out into the dark, beyond the light of the front porch to the eave of the shed. The kindling available is mostly paper birch and little sticks of apple and pear, dead-fall from the orchard to add to the perfume of the fire.

The log pile is between the two sheds, in the deep dark of the night.  I turn the other direction and head for the slowly scattering altar. The well seasoned log of black cottonwood stands where it was left, now without its crowing skull. I move through the shadows in the grove of birch, fir and pine. I have no need of a flashlight, I move in the night with ease now. Stepping carefully I extract the log from its place and whisper “For the fireplace, to keep the puppies warm.” by way of explanation to any who might be looking on.

The woodstove is ready and waiting for this nights fire. For fire starter I have dried old man’s beard and birch bark, I also toss in a branch of dried sagebrush gone to seed. One slender branch of fir has gotten into the mix, its spits at me as it burns declaring its presence, adding a touch of evergreen to the scent of the wood smoke.

Words are spoken, offerings are burnt, and thanks are given. I watch it burn into the night and then bank it before closing the door to the woodstove. I tuck the blankets around the old dog who lies before the hearth and I go to bed.

Juniper,

Fall Tide 2009-09-26

Related posts:

1. Imbolg 2010
2. The Mandatory Altar Photos
3. An Unexpected Funeral