The cold frustration of winter

This last blizzard got me thinking about how hard the old timers had to work just to keep the house warm from September to May, and to cook every day of the year. Both families and homes were often large in those days, many having a cook stove plus three or four heating stoves. I've been told that some of the houses used over 60 cords a year.

Our paternal great uncle took care of the firewood at the ranch, and always maintained the woodshed completely full of split blocks – probably 6 or 8 cords. After he died it took a year or so before the back of the building became visible, and when it did, some of the family saw that as a sign that the ranch was in moral decline.

I remember the last years of the organized wood getting, when in the interim between having the haystacks fenced and bringing the cattle home from pasture, the entire work crew went to the hills to cut firewood. The ranch didn't own a chain saw then, so it was all handwork, plus the woods were a substantial distance from the ranch. One trip a day was all that was possible. It took a couple weeks just to get the lengths home.

Then, after the snow had come and a winter routine was established, our father and his brothers got the old buzz saw out and spent a week or so cutting and stacking the blocks. Over the winter, our great uncle hauled it to the woodshed where he split and stacked it inside.

The process was slow, heavy work, and must have been a full-time job when the houses were heated with wood. I only remember the times after oil had been installed and the heating stoves abandoned, so the consumption was substantially less.

Our own house was always chilly. It was heated by glass panels installed in the walls, but they produced very little warmth. Most of them cracked and became useless after a couple of years. The only alternative heat was a small trash burner in the kitchen.

Everything was cold back then. Our father took us to school the morning it was 70 below zero on Rogers Pass, only 40 air miles or so from Helmville. The kerosene at the school had gelled in the tank, so we got the day off.

The cold morning rides in the old Jeep station wagon were agony. The vacuum-driven windshield wipers quit when the vehicle was accelerated, and the futile 6-volt heater was unable to keep the windshield clear, much less produce any comfort for the passengers. That added to the cold frustration of winter.

My childhood was in the days before synthetics. Even nylon was somewhat a novelty, so our clothes were either cotton or wool. The footwear was buckle-up overshoes for the boys and zip-up boots for the girls.

Once, on a cold fall day, I was playing cowboys with a grade school chum. I wore only light leather shoes, and my toes began to burn. Accustomed to being cold, I knew that the toes would soon get numb and I'd be more comfortable in my play. If a person didn't give up and go into the house before that, the technique of waiting for numbness worked well.

Life was the same for our hands. Our gloves only lasted a couple of days before they were lost, and our mother occasionally had to send us to school with old woolen socks as mittens. They worked fine for warmth but were no good for throwing snowballs, which is an important facet of living for a ten-year-old boy.

I learned that once my fingers became numb I could throw snowballs all day. The warming process was somewhat painful, but play was more important than a little discomfort.

Even the school was cold. The large, upstairs classroom was heated by a pathetic little coal stove which emitted a toxic smoke, but no heat. A few times the entire class gathered their desks around the stove, and a some students wore their coats all day.

Being uncomfortable most of the time was just a part of winter in those days. Mere maintenance entailed a lot of work. We never questioned the conditions because technology hadn't yet given us the clothing and heat to make life easier. We had no options.

Now, with old age and having spent two winters in Brazil, my comfort zone is from 80 – 82 degrees. Above or below that, I'm cold or I'm hot. The old timers labored hard to stay warm, and I think of them when I'm too lazy to get up and change a thermostat a degree or two.

The chagrin is strong, but I'll take the easy heat.