Memoir- Grandma's Wood Stove

Real fire cooked the food I ate. My Grandma Moan had a big cast iron wood stove in her kitchen. It radiated warmth in the winter so I loved sitting close by. Looking down into the round holes that are usually covered with their metal covers was fascinating to me – seeing the glowing hot embers that made the even heat to bake with was magic. The special silver wound handle used to lift off that metal cover by fitting into the notch and leveraging it out was exotic.

My Grandma chopped her own wood. Even when she was past 80 years old. She was tiny but powerful. As a child I was almost her height. She endeared us to her even more by the “hole” cookies she always offered us. They were simple sugar cookies cut out with a doughnut cookie cutter and sprinkled with sugar so that they sparkled a bit. They came from that magical wood stove.

The table nearby was covered with a checkered oil cloth table cloth. We'd sit there, cozy by the fire, on a cold morning when we were visiting, eating some cream of wheat. Later in the day we'd play Old Maid or Slap Jack with our Aunt Edna, a real old maid, who lived her whole life with Grandma, until Grandma died. Edna had been crippled by being hit by a car. Her left hand was limp and her leg never worked the same after that. But she always made me laugh when she would make her hand into a spider that crawled up my arm, tickling, while her dark eyes twinkled.
---by Terra Rafael