FINDING THE REAL FIREPLACE
Next, we turn to the fireplace. Fire is more than decoration or warmth for me; it is the heart of a home. I think the originators of the Arts and Crafts movement would agree. Seems they’d design the fireplace and build the house around it. It is the center, and the soul of the home.
We grew up with a wood stove. When stoked, it chugged and churned out heat. Every fall, when the sap would sink, we’d fell extra trees on the property, cut and stack wood to season. We’d then split from last year’s pile, and haul into the house.
At age 17, I went to work for the Forest Service. We’d stoke a fire and hang out wet wool from nails above. Snow would drip and hiss. We’d grease our work boots. The room smelled of pine and sap and beeswax and woodsmoke. I cannot imagine a more earthy, rich, and rugged smell as it filled the small CCC cabin.
This house’s fireplace, originally built for long rainy winters, had been sealed off, gagged with a shiny brass decorative screen, boarded by particle-board trim, slopped with bright blue paint, and then tiled with stick-on linoleum squares. It had the shape of a fireplace, but none of the function, and certainly, none of the charm.
We tore in with pry bars. Off came the plastic squares, off came the particle board. We unhooked the brass screen and donated it to the Rebuilding Center. Then, when the dust settled, we saw a simple brick fireplace, a wide open hearth, and the remains of an old-growth mantle.
The bricks had been painted, but I scraped them with a steel brush. It helped enough. The bricks looked like bricks. The fireplace breathed again.
Next, we turn to the fireplace. Fire is more than decoration or warmth for me; it is the heart of a home. I think the originators of the Arts and Crafts movement would agree. Seems they’d design the fireplace and build the house around it. It is the center, and the soul of the home.
We grew up with a wood stove. When stoked, it chugged and churned out heat. Every fall, when the sap would sink, we’d fell extra trees on the property, cut and stack wood to season. We’d then split from last year’s pile, and haul into the house.
At age 17, I went to work for the Forest Service. We’d stoke a fire and hang out wet wool from nails above. Snow would drip and hiss. We’d grease our work boots. The room smelled of pine and sap and beeswax and woodsmoke. I cannot imagine a more earthy, rich, and rugged smell as it filled the small CCC cabin.
This house’s fireplace, originally built for long rainy winters, had been sealed off, gagged with a shiny brass decorative screen, boarded by particle-board trim, slopped with bright blue paint, and then tiled with stick-on linoleum squares. It had the shape of a fireplace, but none of the function, and certainly, none of the charm.
We tore in with pry bars. Off came the plastic squares, off came the particle board. We unhooked the brass screen and donated it to the Rebuilding Center. Then, when the dust settled, we saw a simple brick fireplace, a wide open hearth, and the remains of an old-growth mantle.
The bricks had been painted, but I scraped them with a steel brush. It helped enough. The bricks looked like bricks. The fireplace breathed again.
posted by mccluskey | 10:10 PM
1 Comments:
Anyone who would put stick-on tiles over brick should go to prison. Good for you for bringing the thing back to life.
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