Despite discouraging you from seeing anything I say as a “how-to,” it occurs to me that yesterday’s post was exactly that. I instructed readers on how to clean the glass in a woodstove door.
Simple. Easy.
I still hope you don’t take what I say as advice.
And now, here’s more woodstove advice.
A hot burn a day keeps the creosote away. Long, slow, overnight smolders are more likely to be incomplete burns, which can give buildup a chance to take hold in the flue and chimney. I try to get the flue temperature up to 450°F (as indicated on the magnetic thermometer stuck to the stovepipe) first thing in the morning.
A half-hour at that temp can reduce the chance that creosote becomes a problem. It’s no substitute for sweeping and regular maintenance, but it helps.
When opening the door while a fire is burning, first pull it open just a crack. A half-inch will do. This lets the draft begin to flow in through the door and helps prevent smoke from billowing out into the room. I don’t mind the smell of wood smoke myself — I consider it one of the perks of heating my home this way — but it doesn’t take long to get too much of a good thing.
The best tool for tending a fire is a pair of welding gloves. I have a set of conventional fireplace tools — poker, tongs, shovel — but nothing has worked better (for me) than the leather welder’s gloves I bought at Harbor Freight (three pair for ten bucks).
Using gloved hands gives me more control over rearranging things in a hot firebox. As well as they work, however, stupidity should still be avoided.
Keep those welding gloves with the firewood. I’m tempted sometimes to just grab a split bare-handed, open the door and poke the fire. Usually, and done with due care, that doesn’t pose a problem.
All I know is that I don’t heal as fast as I used to. I can’t imagine how long it’d take my thin old skin to recover from a serious burn. I keep my gloves right on the firewood rack, so that I have no excuse not to use them.
Smudge has the woodstove figured out.
I’m not talking about being cautious, although she seems to respect it. And, of course, she recognizes that it’s a source of comfort — she’ll hop up into her chair in the living room and bask in the warmth, as a dog will do.
What she’s learned, apparently, that I’m in charge of it. The last several mornings, when we get out of bed and the cabin’s relatively chilly, she runs to the stove, sees that the fire’s out, then runs back to me and bitches me up one side and down the other. The harangue continues until I make a move to get a new fire going.
Good girl.
I ‘m starting to think that Ozarkansas may not have a very colorful fall. This week I’ve seen glimpses of yellows and golds from redbud, hickory and elm, along with reds on maple and sweet gum that a few locals have in their yards, but there really isn’t much.
It feels like we’re about to go quickly from green to brown to down. I hope I’m wrong.
Even so, random splashes of color here on The Mountain make me smile.
I know I’ve been vague about what’s occupied me post-divorce, referring to it as “matters of civil procedure.” That’s intentional. I don’t enjoy it, and I don’t want to prolong the nausea by writing (at any length) about it.
Basically, I must catalog and disclose every material item in my life — everything I own, everything I’ve worked for, including my home, to facilitate what’s called an “equitable” outcome. (See what I mean about nausea?) If you’ve been through this sort of thing, you understand.
And if you haven’t, consider that it’s equivalent to building the gallows on which you’ll be hanged at dawn. Or being forced out of your job but having to train the guy who’ll replace you.
It’s unpleasant, at best. And now you know.
Take care of yourselves, Patriots. Stay calm. Stay sharp. Stay free.
#WiseUp #LibertyOrDeath #Ungovernable