I slept in the bedroom with my cousin.  He was older.  He went to school.  He resented having to share his bedroom with me.

In those days, when insulation was an unknown, heat escaped mercilessly.  The livingroom at the far end of the hall, the bedrooms and bathroom, the hall itself—all of them chilled overnight.  Slowly the temperature dropped, even though summer still held.

Getting up in the morning followed the same pattern.  I’d wake up, usually with the covers over my head and only a small hole through which to breathe.  When I pushed back the covers I could see my breath in the cold morning air.  I only pushed them back after I heard Uncle Ted stomp on the back porch as he came in from milking the cow.

I’d get out of bed and go to the chair where I had laid out by pants the night before.  As soon as my suspenders were properly on my shoulders I’d pick up shoes, sox and shirt, hurry through the door and down the hall.  Opening the door to the kitchen I’d slip through.  Blessed warmth surrounded me.  I had a chair to one side of the stove where, in its warmth, I’d sit and finish dressing.

Warmth from Aunt Jerry’s stove filled the kitchen.  Her stove dominated it.  Polished chrome set off the white of the doors and the black of the stovetop.  The stove burned coal. Uncle Ted kept the lumps in a black metal bucket especially made for it. Uncle Ted regularly added coal to the firebox.  He had to be careful.  Aunt Jerry hated coal dust.  As he added to the fire I’d stand behind him so I could look over his shoulder and see how fiercely it burned.

Breakfast cereal was an unknown, something rich people ate. Not us.  Sometimes Aunt Jerry made pancakes or biscuits.  Toast was more often called for.  On those days, I played my part in the ritual of breakfast.  She would scour the black top over the firebox.  I would take a piece of bread and place it carefully on the black.  I was just tall enough to see where to put it.

Several moments would pass.  Pinching the crust, I’d turn it over.  Once toasted on the second side, I’d pick it up and put it on a plate Uncle Ted held out for me.  He’d butter.  I’d watch fascinated as the melting butter filled the little white dimple where my fingers had pinched the crust.  Once buttered he ‘d put the plate in the warming oven above the stovetop.

After breakfast Aunt Jerry would make sandwiches for my cousins.  I’d stand next to her leaning against the counter, feeling the cold from the stone soak into my cheek.  Her deft hands spoke of care and order.

In my mind she and her stove remained inseparably bound together.