Ode to Sam

John and I don't have a dog. We have a wood stove. We call him Samson (Sam for short) because for such a little guy he puts out a lot of heat. If we don't leave his front door open, we can heat our whole house for a day. This morning everything outside was frosted with one of those gentle snows that piles high on everything. Snow on a Saturday means I'll spend the morning in the kitchen, sitting in one of the wingbacks next to Sam.

I'll be here until about noon with my feet propped up in their Harley Davidson slippers and covered by my favorite wool throw. I will limit myself to doing only those things that I can do within six feet of Sam: drink coffee, read, look through my two new Benjamin Moore paint decks, etc. The flames inside his inky casing sound like sheets billowing in the wind on a distant clothes line. This sound and the occassional pop of the wood are nice companions to the world outside in all its muffled glory.

Now that I live in Indiana I've come to really appreciate a wood stove as well as the occassional snow. The winters are unapologetically gray here, and any spare bit of light seems to scurry out the nearest window or door when given the chance. Without snow, the sky and the blacktop form a gun-metal cacoon that numbs the senses as you drive down the road. Native Midwesterners seem built to handle such conditions (a trait I admire). As for me, I typically feel pretty droopy-eyed until late March. Snow on the ground acts like a giant mirror that helps keep me from slipping into a depressive coma.

Thankfully, our kitchen lets in lots of light during the day so when it snows it is a good place to be. And once we fire Sam up, very few things seem important enough to make me leave his side.