Many Saturday nights will find me spending an hour wandering the several blocks of the old town main street of the small town a few miles away, Leica in hand. Among other things, I'm a photographer.
After years of doing it, I've got the drill down pat. Park the truck near the church and then do my slow meander. Wander past the fly shop and the small diner and the post office and down a ways to the Iron Bridge restaurant, where the rich people and the like-to-think-they-are-rich people eat. Stop in front of the courthouse and gaze up at the steeple with the clock. Then back up the other side of the street, past the bistro and more small shops that are closed and then past Molly's, the town's Irish bar - where the not so rich or don't-care-whether-they're rich eat. Once in a blue moon I'll stop for a beer.
The walk is always the same. But sometimes I see different things.
Last weekend, passing the small art gallery, I stood there in the near dark, the only light coming from the hidden bulbs individually illuminating the half-dozen paintings behind the large glass window fronting the street. The Mort Kunstler print "While the Enemy Rests" held my gaze. The scene depicted Col. John S. Mosby at Paris Mountain, observing an encampment of federal troops at sunset. The date was December 1, 1864.
There was snow on the ground.
Those of us in the Mid-Atlantic have a long shoulder season, then a relatively brief few weeks of consistently cold weather, then more shoulder season. Kunstler's print - and the similarly snow-scened "Strategy in the Snow," dated November 29, 1862, hanging a few feet away in my living room - reminded me that back then the area was just emerging from what would later be called 'The Little Ice Age.'
Not so much anymore.
And so for the six weeks I've been burning my new BK Princess, the only thing marring the otherwise deep and abiding magic breathed into it has been the soiled glass.
The "do you have a Yule log" thread got me to thinking. I didn't have a Yule log. But yesterday I had loaded up the living room wood rack with several days worth of splits. I might not have a big-ass log. But I could, I figured, fashion a big-ass fire.
And so it was. As Christmas Eve wended towards Christmas Day, I placed four or five medium-sized splits on the coals in the bottom of the stove. Then I closed the damper, sending everything back again through the cat. In a few seconds it was rolling strong. Normally, then, I'd start dialing back the t-stat. Last night, I let it go. After a few minutes I had to shrug out of the flannel shirt that is my normal attire. And after awhile, heat pouring out of the corner of the room, I reached for the Fluke IR gun. Just over 700 degrees on the top of the stove. I laid down on the couch, where my head was down below the strongest waves of heat that permeated the room.
For an hour I gazed into the fire. I'd get up periodically and check the temps again. They stayed steady there at right around 700. Good to go.
And the brown stains on the glass... just slowly sort of melted away. Like a pretty girl doing a striptease.
Merry Christmas everyone...
After years of doing it, I've got the drill down pat. Park the truck near the church and then do my slow meander. Wander past the fly shop and the small diner and the post office and down a ways to the Iron Bridge restaurant, where the rich people and the like-to-think-they-are-rich people eat. Stop in front of the courthouse and gaze up at the steeple with the clock. Then back up the other side of the street, past the bistro and more small shops that are closed and then past Molly's, the town's Irish bar - where the not so rich or don't-care-whether-they're rich eat. Once in a blue moon I'll stop for a beer.
The walk is always the same. But sometimes I see different things.
Last weekend, passing the small art gallery, I stood there in the near dark, the only light coming from the hidden bulbs individually illuminating the half-dozen paintings behind the large glass window fronting the street. The Mort Kunstler print "While the Enemy Rests" held my gaze. The scene depicted Col. John S. Mosby at Paris Mountain, observing an encampment of federal troops at sunset. The date was December 1, 1864.
There was snow on the ground.
Those of us in the Mid-Atlantic have a long shoulder season, then a relatively brief few weeks of consistently cold weather, then more shoulder season. Kunstler's print - and the similarly snow-scened "Strategy in the Snow," dated November 29, 1862, hanging a few feet away in my living room - reminded me that back then the area was just emerging from what would later be called 'The Little Ice Age.'
Not so much anymore.
And so for the six weeks I've been burning my new BK Princess, the only thing marring the otherwise deep and abiding magic breathed into it has been the soiled glass.
The "do you have a Yule log" thread got me to thinking. I didn't have a Yule log. But yesterday I had loaded up the living room wood rack with several days worth of splits. I might not have a big-ass log. But I could, I figured, fashion a big-ass fire.
And so it was. As Christmas Eve wended towards Christmas Day, I placed four or five medium-sized splits on the coals in the bottom of the stove. Then I closed the damper, sending everything back again through the cat. In a few seconds it was rolling strong. Normally, then, I'd start dialing back the t-stat. Last night, I let it go. After a few minutes I had to shrug out of the flannel shirt that is my normal attire. And after awhile, heat pouring out of the corner of the room, I reached for the Fluke IR gun. Just over 700 degrees on the top of the stove. I laid down on the couch, where my head was down below the strongest waves of heat that permeated the room.
For an hour I gazed into the fire. I'd get up periodically and check the temps again. They stayed steady there at right around 700. Good to go.
And the brown stains on the glass... just slowly sort of melted away. Like a pretty girl doing a striptease.
Merry Christmas everyone...
