Without a doubt, summer is my favorite season, so these cold, dark, dreary months are difficult for me.

I am especially grateful at this time of year for central heat, garages and electric blankets. That may seem to be a strange combination of luxuries, but if you grew up without those items, you will probably understand.

Now I know that a lot of us still use wood heat, and I did also for quite some time. There is nothing better than being able to back up to a roaring fire on a cold winter morning until all your parts are toasty warm, but I had central heat as backup and kept the thermostat on 60, so the house never got overly chilly. And all the bedroom doors remained open. But when I was a child, we had a wood stove that, when my dad had it cranked up, could probably have heated Cowboy Stadium, and for some reason, the bedroom doors were always closed. It could be 104 degrees in the living room and those bedroom doors never even cracked. Sometimes the front door would be waved back and forth for a minute or two, but nothing else.

So, at bedtime the sheets were ice cold and there were so many comforters and quilts on top of you that you felt likeyou were slowly having all your wrinkles pressed out. (Hmmm, maybe I should give that another go!) Anyway, so you made a mad dash to bed, jumped in and curled up in the fetal position to conserve as much body heat as possible. Within a few minutes, due to the 400 pounds of goose down and batting on top, you began to feel fairly warm and the need to stretch out. So a foot would venture forth, only to be pulled back immediately, because the rest of the bed was still an icebox (icebox, that’s another story). Well, eventually the sheet would warm a little just from the friction of you sticking out your leg and jerking it back so many times and you were able to unfold a little.

Then your nose would begin to get cold. I did not like sleeping with my head under the covers, so I learned how to wrap my whole head up, just leaving a small hole for my nostrils. So, warmth seeped in, you began to relax, then …oh noo! You really should not have had that last glass of water! You laid there until you couldn’t take it anymore, then hurled yourself toward the bathroom, also outside the realm of the wood stove, and finished as quickly as possible; which was ASAP when you consider placing your warm backsideon cold porcelain was not a pleasant experience.

And many cold winter nights, there would be a baby calf, half frozen from being born in a raging winter storm, sleeping in a box in front of that stove. One morning we woke up to find one wandering about the house, having unthawed enough to revive and venture out of his box during the night. Daddy and I thought it hysterical; Mom, not so much.

Then there were the times when something would go wrong, the barometer was falling or rising or going sideways and the smoke just refused to go “up” the chimney like it should. Now don’t get me wrong, I love the smell of wood smoke on a cold winter day, and the wonderful memories it evokes. But only if you are smelling it from outside of the house. Those occasions that it filled the living room and made everyone’s eyes water were not my idea of a good time.

Once a month or so, we would have to cut a load or two of wood and, since we had plenty of land, finding it wasn’t a problem. Daddy would locate a dead tree and proceed to cut it up with the chain saw, unless it was still standing, in which case he would have to cut it down. I will admit we had some scary moments. Daddy was good about notching the tree and trying to make it fall where he wanted, but as with so much of life, nothing is ever sure. I have seen fall-ing trees twist themselves around and land where you really weren’t expecting them to, such as just a few feet from the top of your head. Or break apart on impact with debris flying everywhere, especially into our un-safety-glassed eyes. He also had a wood splitter that I called the “widow-maker,” ‘nuff said. Most of the time he used his ax to split the wood and always warned me not to walk behind him. He had first-hand experience of what can befall someone who walks behind a swinging ax. Many things can be lost in such an instance, such as every tooth in your head, save four. (This hadhappened to my dad before I was born, courtesy of my older brother.)

Since I was rather fond of my teeth, (and my life, for that matter) I made sure I avoided the arc of that ax. And splinters, so many splinters! All just hazards of the job. It was up to me to load the kindling, all the little twigs and branches scattered everywhere. Once the bed of the truck was full, we would stack it on the front porch and stand back and admire our accomplishment. We knew, no matter what other hardships we had, we would always be warm.

One of my fondest memories is waking to the sound of a fresh fire popping and crackling in the stove. I knew then that my dad was up and warmth was to be found, just a few feet away.I would stand next to him in front of that old wood stove, both of us turning and turning until we were all evenly warmed up, our mouths watering from the smell of the bacon and eggs Mom had cooking in the kitchen.

And though I enjoy having heat at the touch of a finger, central heat never seems as warm as the heat from a blazing fire contained in a very small space, and some mornings I long to be able to back up to that warmth and turn and turn and turn, until all my parts are toasty and all my worries gone.

Don’t forget your local animal shelters at this time of year. They can use donations, volunteers and fosterparents! A quick call will let you know their needs. Thanks for reading, and hey, don’t stop remembering! You can contact me at: Tamela.[email protected].

Opinion, Pages 6 on 01/30/2013