Mr. Cheshire

Growing up, my family always used firewood. As best I know, most if not all of my parent’s homes over the years had at least one wood-burning fireplace. My mom is from the north, my late father is from the south. But here in central Virginia it gets cold enough, and our family enjoyed fires. In the family home, there was a woodstove in the basement that the family used for decades. It surely kept most of the basement warm, and its warmth would flow up the basement stairs to the living areas as well in part. In the family room above where the woodstove was in the basement, we had a fireplace. We’d light fires in there on occasion, to include Christmas Day as well usually.

Our home backed up to hundreds of acres of timber, and we would usually source dead hardwoods back there for our firewood needs. We’d sometimes go camping back in the woods, and we had plenty of forest floor timber to draw from. And when it snowed, if we prepared in advance for it, we’d light a fire or two along the snowy hill behind the family home to warm us here and there as we were sledding for hours and hours. A long, cold, marathon day of sledding and snowball fights ended with a thawing by the woodstove in the basement while enjoying homemade hot chocolate.

In our community, as best I recall every home had a chimney, or several. This was back before gas fireplaces became a thing. This was back before fire pits were a thing as well. Quite a few neighbors burned their fireplaces regularly, and several had woodstoves like we did. On a cold fall or winter day, our community buzzed with fireplace smoke wafting down the streets. That’s just how it was in many communities back a few decades ago. We all loved it, and I love it still. To this day, on a cold night, I open up the french doors to our rear open porch, and I inhale any fire feature smoke that I come across. I then smile and declare “Toasty’s” and then come back inside.

I had the great fortune to have several pals in my community growing up. By my count, there were eight other fellas that were my same age, born in the same year. If you counted some other fellas, those born say up to two years prior to me, or up to two years after me, that number would be about doubled. I knew them all, some I knew better than others, but I knew them all. And they most certainly knew our large family. The closest friendships as is often the case was with those that lived on my street. We’d all hang out constantly.

Their homes had fire features as well, all of their homes had a least two fire features. One friend’s parents always had a small antique-looking woodstove burning in their family room. Another friend’s parents would often burn their fireplace in their family room, and sometimes they would burn the fireplace in their kitchen as well at the same time. Still other friend’s parents would often burn their fireplace in their family room, and after a few years they placed a woodstove insert in the fireplace.

Mr. Cheshire (not his real name) was the father of some of my pals down the street. His two sons were my buddies as well, one was my age, the other a few years younger. Mr. Cheshire enjoyed his fireplace rather regularly as I recall. I recall we were in his Cadillac coupe one day back in the day, I was still in elementary school. He drove over to a nearby shopping plaza, and noticed a guy selling firewood in a truck. Mr. Cheshire simply drove up, honked, put his window down, and said “hello, follow me, we live nearby, I’d like to buy your firewood.”

Just like that, the wood seller followed us back to their home, about a 10 minute drive away. That’s how it was back then, no internet, no social media ads, etc. for wood sellers to sell their timber. You would have to look for maybe an ad in the newspaper, or the phone book, or a sign on a utility pole, or just see someone out and about selling firewood. As I recall it, the gentleman backed down their driveway and tossed the wood to the side. The Cheshire brothers and I dutifully stacked it.

Mr. Cheshire and his family also had a family vacation home on the water in the northern neck. I was a regular there, I was invited there so many times that I have lost count. To this day, I absolutely love the northern neck. This family, and my time I spent with them, comprise some of the most cherished memories of many cherished memories of my entire life to date. I joked to Mrs. Cheshire in recent years that “I was the third son.”

Mr. Cheshire allowed us to fashion a simple campfire on the sand beach on some nights at the water. The family had three lots on the water in a row. Their home was in the center, and two empty lots flanked the home on each side. Their home on the water didn’t have a fireplace. We had to collect up driftwood or sticks nearby for our fuel. We would also rake some some dry seaweed or cut lawn grass into the burn pile if it was available. On the weekends near to the Fourth of July, we’d have sparklers and other fireworks we’d use down by our simple beach campfire.

On one particular weekend in that era, were were down there closing out summer on the Labor Day weekend. The Cheshire’s had as river neighbors others that we all knew well that lived near us in our community back home, one family even lived next door to him at his home in our community. The other dads could really toss back the cans of beer. Having worked hard all week, many dads treated the long weekend like a college party it seemed. Mr. Cheshire was not a drinker, if he was, maybe a one-off beer on occasion. He always kept his composure, he was memorable for his humility and personal kindness.

He was also a meticulous and safe driver, I feel like my safe driving habits are inspired by his example. On that Labor Day weekend, the evening hours stretched seemingly late. But it couldn’t have been later than about 9pm, maybe 10pm. When you were a kid in middle school, perhaps 9pm or 10pm did feel kind of late, even if it was a summer night at the river. Mr. Cheshire, the host of the night with his beach campfire, gently announced “it’s kind of getting late, maybe we should call it a night.” Another Dad protested, kindly suggesting “we can’t end now, its like saying goodbye to summer.” I think perhaps after a few more pieces of driftwood on the fire, and a few more beers consumed by some dads, the evening was over.

Mr. Cheshire passed away a few years ago, and I didn’t even know about it until about two years after he had passed. I googled him for some reason, and to my great surprise and sadness, his obituary appeared on my cell phone screen. Not long after this news, I gathered my wife and our two boys and we headed down to his former vacation home on the water in the northern neck. I pointed out his former home and was pleased to see that a small addition had been added…with a fireplace. I snuck around to the water side, and I saw a stack of firewood under the broad, long, glassed-in porch above. A mutual friend later said that the present owners added a woodstove downstairs a few years ago, among other enhancements.

I have since reflected back on the many fun times spent with his family, and so many other friends, growing up. The older I get, the more I cherish all of these memories. The more time passes, the more grateful I feel for those I knew, and those that I know. Life is a stage, and characters walk on your stage for a season, and they walk off your stage. And you walk on someone’s stage, and you walk off someone’s stage. Its bittersweet to contemplate if you stop and think about it, but that is how it is.

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