Wood with a gift for burning

 

Frank Harmon draws and writes this morning about the cold we've had...alligators in the east freezing, children skating on creeks not known for freezing over, and birds going about what birds do, even in this chill.  He is inside with a wood fire burning, about which, he notes, the climate people are confused whether that is environmentally good or bad.  I wrote back to him what first came to mind, and then decided to share it here:

"A wood fire burning in the fireplace.  Warmth of body and soul.  Wish I had one here, too.  Graduate students living in a farm house way out in the country halfway to Pittsboro, we had three fireplaces, one in each downstairs room.  The cozy front room where we built the bookshelves was my favorite.  I burned old wood all winter and sometimes into the spring, and read there."

Do you know that poem by Adrienne Rich, I asked him, and now ask you, about the difference between being lonely and being alone? It's called "Song"; I listen to it often these days.  That last stanza,

If I'm lonely/ it's with the rowboat ice-fast on the shore/ in the last red light of the year/ that knows what it is, that knows it's neither/ ice nor mud nor winter light/ but wood, with a gift for burning.

Last week, feeling the cold sneak through these old aluminum-framed windows while I sat reading, no fireplace to warm by, I called the window man and ordered new ones.  It's been on my continuing list of things to make sure the house is ready for when I'm old.  As I walk each room, doing what I usually do, I keep an eye on what needs to be changed or bettered (re-fitted, the elderly-care people say) for aging here.  I've kept my eye on such things ever since I first walked into this house, the only one for sale inside the small circle I drew on the town map, outside of which I firmly declined to consider living.

Despite the scepticism of some ("I wouldn't buy it," from my perfectionist cousin), I could see its potential for the long term.  I could spread out in first years, and consolidate in later years, leaving room for others, should I need them (not for loneliness, no...I know the difference between lonely and alone...but for care.  As it happened, theirs as well as mine).  There were lots of windows for light, and being high on the hilled street, walking distance to everything, gave it a wonderful outlook.  I bought it exactly ten years ago, never questioning, and thus began its renovation toward age.

Two weeks ago, I began the 12 months toward my 80th. (There's a funny story about that, but it's for another time.)  The years of the 9's have, historically, not been kind to me, or me to them, although this one began with lots of friendly and loving fanfare and gifts, for which I'm grateful.  But I'm more intent than ever on keeping up with that list.

Even Joseph felt it time to have the talk with me..."But what if...?" he asked me over again, attaching clauses rife with possible crises as they occurred to him.  Thankful as I was, I had to smile...it's a younger person's question, after all.  We who are about to age know it has no answer.  And, anyway, do we really need to know?

Because we can renovate all we want to or can do, but there is a double edge to that word re-nov-ate:  a freedom in knowing the future is wide open to reinvention.  In the last light of the year, ice-fast on the shore, still there, with a gift for burning.