This time of year means a lot of things to a lot of people.  Foods, smells, sounds, sights. . .all conjure up memories of seasons past and take you back to a time or a place. . .

This time of year always reminds me of Red Springs, North Carolina.  I was young.  It was hot.

I don’t recall what the temperature was outside, but inside it was not a single degree below 89.  It couldn’t have been.

My grandfather’s home on Peachtree Street was undoubtedly the warmest house in America hottest place on earth.  My grandfather had built (by hand) a wood-burning stove that had a blower motor on the bottom that could have heated the neighborhood.  But it didn’t.  It only heated his home.

It was so hot inside that house that the wall paper sagged.  Glasses of ice water evaporated in minutes.  To a kid of less than 10, I was certain this is what the surface of the sun felt like.

We sat around in our underwear sweating (which immediately evaporated) and we watched Carolina basketball.  It was so hot and dry that breathing through your nose made it whistle.  There were several times I was sure there was a stoppage in play in the game, but alas, it was just my father taking a deep breath.

My grandfather sat in the corner of the living room watching the game on TV and listening to Woody Durham call the game on the radio.  There was a delay between the picture on the TV and the call on the radio.  It was somewhat surreal.  Before I was old enough to understand what was happening, I was certain my grandfather had a television that told the future as the events always happened several moments before we heard them unfold on the radio.

Conversation was sparse.

“That was a good shot.  Now get back on D” was followed by five minutes of silence.

I don’t know if we were just silent in observance of the games, or we were afraid to expend the energy necessary to speak out of fear of generating just enough excess heat to cause spontaneous combustion.

We stuck to the furniture–and it was cloth.

My grandfather would occasionally look across the room over the top of his glasses and ask, “Is anyone cold?”

Cold?

There was no correct answer to this question, as no matter how you responded there was only one ultimate response:  one more log on the fire.

My grandfather used welders gloves to open the hatch on the furnace.  It glowed from heat.  Opening the doors exposed everyone in the room to a blast of heat that would singe the hairs on the inside of your nose.  The furnace, when opened, looked like an angry monster that breathed fire and was ready to eat any amount of wood you could place inside of it–and immediately be ready to take on more.  We have often joked that this furnace could hold nearly a cord of wood.  Thinking back on it now, I’m not certain it was a joke.  In my childhood, this thing was larger than life.

My grandfather would place piece after piece of dried wood in that monster, stoke the fire, close the door, and walk across the living room in his flannel lined pants and his flannel button up (with a thermal undershirt) and sit back down to continue to pull for the Heels.

He was satisfied.  He had provided.  His people were safe from the cold.  

I was miserable.

I wish I knew then what I now know.

That stove was provision.  Security.  Love.  It kept us warm and it was his way of showing just how much he loved us.  For a man of few words, it was gestures like these that said quite simply, “I love you.”  And, judging by the temperature in that living room, he loved us far more than I could have ever imagined.

I often wonder if the current occupants in that house appreciate that stove.  I wonder if they even use it. . .

This Christmas, I hope you take time to recognize the person in your life throwing logs into the fire.  The person who maybe doesn’t say it, but shows you just how much they love you.  Maybe its by cooking you a meal, opening a car door, shoveling off your drive way, or writing you a post that hopefully makes you smile.

In a multitude of ways, and with all of the hope I have, Merry Christmas–I love you all.