Snow and the Pot-Bellied Stove : An Appalachian Memory

As I placed the log into the black cast-iron stove, I watched the orange sparks rise from the burning embers within its belly in Grandma’s parlor.

I often stood at its front, hopeful that it would make me feel warmer. It usually did—at least on one side, until I turned and let the other warm.

Of course, I was usually one in a line of young cousins who had just come in from playing in the snow, each wishing to take their turn at the fire.

Snow could be beautiful as a child, as you looked out the frosted pane while it gently drifted up against the cracks in the side of the house.

I remember my first snowman like it was yesterday: rolling those balls into nearly perfect spheres and stacking them until it resembled Burl Ives’ character in “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.”No matter how hard I tried, though, I never got mine to sing, dance, or tell any stories—but it was fun trying.

Venturing out in the snow wasn’t an easy task from our home, though, because it always involved being bundled in full winter wear. For my mother, that meant a shiny blue coat that made you resemble the Michelin Man, with layers upon layers beneath.

First came the white, waffled long johns, then your regular clothes—shirt and pants—followed by a pullover sweater that, if seen by any hungry wolf, would send it running for its life. Finally, that puffy blue coat. But that wasn’t everything: You still needed the itchy wool hat and the hand-knitted scarf from our neighbor. The coat’s hood came up over all of it, of course.

So, when you walked outside, you resembled the girl in Willy Wonka who ate the blueberry gum. If you fell down, you’d roll until you hit something to stop you.

This approach to dressing was always a drawback in a snowball battle, because you couldn’t see anything that wasn’t directly in front of you.

Despite the drawbacks, when you did score a snowball victory, it was all worth it. Besides, in that outfit, no matter how hard they threw, you barely felt it—unless they hit you in the face.

The adventure would end when I heard my mother or grandmother calling my name from the porch. I knew then it was time to head in, so I’d stop by the woodpile and pick up a few logs on my way.

Before I could feed them to the stove, though, I’d have to peel off those now-wet clothes.

Once deflated, I’d grab the wood by the door and head into the parlor. Picking up the glove we used for the hot handle, I’d open the door and shove the logs inside, watching the glow of warmth as I warmed my hands in front of it.

Around me were my mom and dad seated on the couch, my grandmother in her rocker, two aunts resting on kitchen chairs near the stove, and a couple of cousins playing board games on the floor. The laughter rose as gently in that room as the snow fell outside, sometimes seeming to cover the howling winds that passed us by.

I always hated to see the evening end, when it was time for the laughter to turn to sleep. We’d trade the stove for a stack of handmade quilts, keeping us warm on an old iron bed as we watched our breath rise while the snow fell outside our windowpane.

Find more stories of Appalachia in Randall’s book “A Mountain Pearl : Appalachian Reminiscing and Recipes”