Abby Country
and the Wood Stoves

I grew up in rural Missouri, way out in the country. The Mississippi River was just a few minutes from home and the bus ride to school in town was maybe eleven miles. Our creaky old house was heated with a wood stove (furnaces are for wimps). We kept a wood pile out back and boy could Mom stack wood. Grandpa made regular firewood deliveries in his pick-up (more on him later). Winters meant keeping a fire going and adding more wood just before bedtime but it would always burn out by three in the morning. If we didn’t add some logs overnight it was like sleeping in a meat locker. Who needs a fridge? But no more; in 2006 an F4 tornado carried the entire house away leaving just a few bricks from the cellar wall.

I played high school sports — basketball, volleyball and track — and traveled all over for soccer tournaments. We had frequent sleepovers at my favorite teammate’s house. Her family owned horses that roamed the large pasture that was their back yard. Her dad would routinely saddle one up to go visit friends in town. One of my first jobs was cashier at the truck stop on the interstate. I rang up lots of beer, Boone’s Farm and chewing tobacco. Everyone always turned out for our small-town festivals. If you’re ever down that way you want to try the pork burgers at Mayfest or the fried chicken at the Seminary Picnic. And you won't want to miss the Altenburg Fair, famous for the Mule Jump and the awesome grilled cheese sandwiches. No one has ever been able to find out what kind of cheese they use.

My family has had a farm there since the late 1800’s when my great-great-grandfather bought the first few acres. He and his brothers built the old farmhouse and finished it in 1905. It’s still standing and pretty much just like it was back then: one wood stove for heat, no running water or indoor plumbing. Rain water collects in an underground cistern and there’s a hand crank and spout a few steps from the back porch. Still works just fine. That’s where you get the water for cooking, washing or bathing. The outhouse has been in the same spot for as long as anyone can remember and is, uh, fully operational. Electricity arrived in 1952. There’s a light bulb in the outhouse — really! In the spring there’s about 50 acres to plant, usually corn or soybeans. And plenty of old forest timber to cut, you know, for wood stoves.

My grandmother was born in that old farmhouse and grew up there with her siblings, loving the country life. Her mom (my great-grandmother) gave birth to seven children. Growing up during the Depression and the WWII years; wood heat, carrying water and light from candles and lanterns was normal and never interrupted their fun. But sometimes the coyotes, bobcats, black snakes and copperheads did. My grandma had a wonderful giggle, loved bowling, camping and polka, lived for family and was the sweetest person anyone ever knew.

My uncle lives in the same house where he, my aunt and my mom were raised. Sitting on the back porch is the best place to watch the humming birds at the feeder. From there you can hear country music coming from the shed. Inside (you guessed it, wood stove) my uncle will be tinkering away on motors, tractors, chain saws or sharpening some kind of blade. And my aunt makes the best blackberry cobbler in the county. When I go back to visit I head out on his four-wheeler and cruise the countryside behind the house. There’s a dry creek bed and a trail through the backwoods. And the frogs make lots of noise at a certain time of day.

My other aunt and uncle regularly tour the back roads on their massive Harley. They ride that thing everywhere. Maybe you’ve heard of that biker rally in the Dakotas; they loved it and recommend the margaritas at the Sidehack Saloon. They biked through the tiny town of Hulett in the Wyoming Black Hills. The local Chamber of Commerce there sponsors something called “No Panty Wednesday.” Not sure what that’s all about. And when not Easy Ridin’ they’ll be squeezing the juice out of some random berry for a new variety of sweet homemade country wine. Just call them all “Huckleberry,” it’s easier. And for sure you'll bump into them at the Mule Jump or grilled cheese stand at the Altenburg Fair I told you about.

Grandpa is 95 and he’s a fishing machine. Over the years he’s hooked ’em all: catfish, trout, bass, carp, sunfish, perch, walleye, skipjack and such. He says Corse’s Pond is a good spot to catch crappie. He needs an early start to reach his quota because my family has this monster fish fry tradition and Grandpa pretty much supplies all the fish. And he needs to make sure my mom’s freezer is always stocked with bluegill in order to keep the peace. In his spare time he splits enough logs to provide family, friends and neighbors a steady supply of firewood. The splitter is set up just out the back door near where the corn rows start and Grandpa can pile that wood pretty high: all meticulously cut to 16 inches. And he always saves a few logs for his tool shed. There’s a wood stove in there.

Though there’s one less stove to feed since that 2006 twister I mentioned earlier.

But me, I’d rather just cut hair. So stop by my shop. It’s not way out in the country; it’s in St. Charles, right in town behind the Jeep dealer. There’s furnace heat, running water — and A/C. I promise.

Abby from Missouri