My parents owned a cast iron wood and coal kitchen stove. I don’t remember how old it is, but it is still being used at my brother’s camp on the Green River in Colrain.
When I was 7 years old — that was in 1933 — my grandfather’s funeral was held in my parents’ home on Meridian Street in Greenfield. When the pall bearers went to remove his casket — many times wakes were held in homes — they had to lift it over that old stove to take it to the hearse.
Each and every year, my parents had to buy a cord of wood and a ton of coal to run that stove. It was a wonderful source of heat, not only for cooking and baking, but also to keep the kitchen warm.
When we lived on High Street in Greenfield, it was on the second floor. We had steam radiators in each room, heated by a wood and coal furnace. On so many cold mornings, I’d rush to the kitchen to get dressed for school. That stove provided the warmth I needed to accomplish the task.
The stoves in my life weren’t just for keeping me and my family warm. They got a lot of use, especially during the holiday season. My mother would bake bread, and between the warmth of the heat emitting from those stoves, along with the aroma of freshly baked bread that wafted from room to room, my stoves still conjure a lot of good memories.
When my mother would bake bread, there would be a large container of dough and fruit in front of the stove. She would cover it with blankets and quilts while it rose overnight.
The next day, she would fill many pans with the dough mixture. Baking happened throughout the day, so that old stove got quite the workout.
Everyone got to enjoy the homemade bread, and I got to watch it come out of the oven.
I remember the hundreds of times we filled a wood box and brought coal from the basement to maintain the heat.
My parents took good care of that stove — that’s probably why it is still being used today. It’s funny how something like a stove can create so many memories for someone. Those memories have always been with me and always will be.