Wood Heat
By Basira Harpster
Snow is falling in the forest tonight beside the little pond where I dipped my feet in summer. The night is so dark, I can’t see water or rocks. Gazing into the emptiness, I listen.
***
I put an ad in the county paper: House Wanted with room for garden, for woman with one good dog. Wood heat OK, no plumbing necessary. I liked cuddling up beside a wood stove, and I was used to carrying water. Besides, it was a cheap way to live. Within a week, there were three phone calls from people who called just to find out what kind of woman would want a house with no plumbing. One lady had me drive to the south end of the county, just to show me a house packed full of furniture. She had no intention of renting it; she just wanted to meet me.
A week later, a man with a soft drawl called. “I saw your ad, and I felt I just had to answer it.” He spoke hesitantly at first, as if uncertain he should be calling a stranger. His voice struck me as genuine. By the end of the call, he invited me to look at his empty house up in the Blue Ridge Mountains.
The 35-minute drive took me up winding mountain curves. I turned left at Orinoco onto 10 miles of gravel road, went past a waterfall and the old Macedonia church, then turned left into the driveway, crossing a little creek. On the hill above me, a classic white T-shaped farm house stood beside two massive oaks.
The landlord was waiting for me at the back door. I told him my story: alcoholic husband, divorce, left my garden behind.
I thought I sounded confident, I thought I was ready for this. But inside my chest, a black hole breathed my breath. I’d lost the life I’d been living for the past thirteen years.
I thought I sounded confident, I thought I was ready for this. But inside my chest, a black hole breathed my breath. I’d lost the life I’d been living for the past thirteen years.
He showed me around. I would have to heat with wood, but happily, this house included a bathroom, a kitchen sink, and electricity. We agreed on the rent with a handshake.
That spring and summer, I made a garden out of the rocky pasture, plowing myself into that ground, planting myself with every seed. When the corn grew above my head, releasing pollen to the breeze, I stood underneath, listening as bee wings hummed and the air shimmered gold. Corn Woman, I told myself.
Weeks later, I opened an ear of corn. Neat rows of kernels swelled full. At one bite, sweet corn milk filled my mouth.
In July and August, I canned tomatoes and froze corn and beans. In the evenings, I sat on the porch, played guitar, and sang to my dog by the light of a kerosene lamp. When mornings became chilly, I split firewood for the kitchen stove. I was beginning to feel the rhythm of my own life.
The future was an open sky. In September, I met a man, a folk singer, and I remembered longing. He lived 100 miles away, visited once with his young daughter. I waited for a phone call that never came. I thought of moving to Roanoke. Like November fog, a vague discontent seeped into me.
An old man down the road warned, “Come winter, you won’t be able to drive out in that car.” I was more worried about chopping and carrying enough wood to keep warm. There was no insulation, no storm windows, and it was a big two-story house. I knew what to do, but after a decade of having a man do most of that work, I wasn’t sure I could.
The snows didn’t come until January. Late one day, just before nightfall, I turned on the outside light to get the evening’s wood. Snowflakes fell through the illuminated air—looping, floating, landing on the frozen ground. Enchanted, I got my flashlight and went out walking, my dog beside me.
As I walked out of the circle of house-light, I noticed the sound of snow. Far-away sounds were muffled, close sounds loud and crisp. Snowflakes hissed past me.
I walked toward the woods. The snow seemed to generate its own light, so I turned off my flashlight and walked by snow-gleam. Snow touched my face—cold and soft, flickering like wings. It fell and fell, and I followed the path into the woods, beside the creek. As it got darker, I walked without seeing the path anymore, my feet feeling the way.
Beside the big hemlock, the stream swirled over a small waterfall into a deep pool, hidden in the darkness. Snowflakes fell into it, disappearing as they touched the surface, the great dark water welcoming the snow back into itself. I heard the delicate sound of ice becoming water: ah-ssshh. The sounds of flowing water and snow-hush rose up around me, into the overhanging branches of hemlock and pine. The trees leaned closer, witnessing.
I stand there until my feel get cold. Slowing my breath, I let go of my name and my story into the world of forest-water-snow. Scattered pieces of myself come together, fall into the emptiness, into the fullness. The air whispers to me: One, one, one.
Basira Harpster is a speech therapist, writer, and gardener in the foothills of Virginia’s Blue Ridge mountains. Her poetry appears in Sows’ Ear Poetry Review. She’s currently working on short personal essays and has a memoir in progress.
