It's cold outside, and it just might frost by morning. In preparation for tonight, I've taken the heavy cover off the bed and found an old t-shirt to sleep in. I put the kids down in jammie tops and socks, and put a bottle of water next to the bed.
Why these (apparently) backwards steps?
Because I married a Canadian, and he loves wood heat.
A week after we officially moved in together, he began lobbying for a woodstove, to be placed in the livingroom. We have an house so old it sighs in the wind, so I thought it was a great idea to have a back up heating plan, in case of power outages and such.
'Back up' became 'main source of heat'. Huge piles of wood began appearing in my side yard, dropped off by men who would wordlessly touch their caps and drive away when I ran out to see what was going on. Mr. Daysgoby would disappear for hours, emerging from the (newly-built) woodshed filthy, sore, and bark-covered, muttering strange things about splitting, stacking, and cords. (And I'm not a bondage girl.)
In a household where guns were forbidden we suddenly had four chain saws and an axe.
My cats were thrilled by the extra protein the spiders barreling across the floor gave them - and I was horrified by the dirt and dust being tracked in.
Fast-forward five years. The woodstove is still there, and the first few weeks of fall sliding into winter are still a sweatbath. Bear likes hot fires, y'see, and he likes to make them last. It is not uncommon to find me panting in front of an opened window in November, while he adds logs to the fire and tells me I'm letting all the heat out. After a month or so I can usually wrest control of the intake of wood, and the house cools down so the childrens hair isn't matted to their heads.
This winter, he wants to build a log-splitter. God help me.