My first house was built in 1865. So it was about 100 years old when I was born, and aged gracefully while I grew up. The deed became mine when in was in my mid-twenties. I always told people the place had been pre-owned. A lot.

We bought it in the fall of the year; the heat source was only wood. Two Vermont Castings iron stoves belted out a creaking, crackling song as hardwood became smoke, ember, and ash.

The wind whistling through the old window frames and loose panes as sparsley insulated walls gave those stoves all the oxygen they needed for a good burn. Strategic sitting was required to avoid a draft on your neck or your ankles; usually at the same time.

I was young, broke, dumb, and happy.

My lady-friend, later to be called Mrs. Cotton, was a scavenger of formerly well-loved furniture. She found a good used couch and chair; both were uncomfortable.

She was finishing her degree and stopped by from time to time to replenish the bare cupboards or throw up an antique mirror or three that she found in yard sales. She loved to reflect on a bargain. Some of those mirrors were later found to be valuable. She had a good eye for everything but men. God bless her.

I didn't care as having all the lovely mirrors and minimal furniture allowed me an unimpeded view the off-white lace curtains dancing smartly in other rooms as the wind blew right through the ancient plaster and lathe walls.

Winter nights, like tonight, were blistering cold in the old place and I had a regimen of adding wood to one of the two stoves about every two and a half hours. This gave each stove about a 5 hour burn time. One in the living room, and one in the dining room; I slept on a mattress on the floor in the corner of the dining room. I say dining room, but there was no table for a while- which must have made it a bedroom.

I had shut off the upstairs for the winter because, well, there was no reason to add running up and down stairs to the endless stoking of stoves.

My companion on those nights was a black and white Redbone Hound/ Labrador-mix named Jackson. I picked him up at the mall, back when people would sometimes bring a pen full of puppies to the center-court to sell. These were not puppy-mill puppies; they were inadvertently bred farm mutts. I use the word mutt with full respect to Jack's parents.

I paid five-dollars for the boy. Abe Lincoln never made a better deal.

Yes, his name was Jackson Lab; homage to the famous Bar Harbor genetic research facility where fine white mice are raised and studied. The name made me laugh and it stuck.

He was loyal and a fierce watchdog. His 80 pound body was a welcome bedwarmer for those times when I would stretch the stoking times to three hours.

For quite a time there was no operational lock on the kitchen door and I never worried about burglary. For one thing, I owned nothing but a mattress, a few mirrors, and lovely lace curtains.

Secondly, that kind and loving animal turned into the Tasmanian Devil when folks tried to enter his turf. Any burglar who was worthy of the moniker would have been easy to catch on the way out, and easily followed in a light tracking snow.

Jack kept me safe and warm as the curtains moved like tethered ghosts in the darkness while cast-iron wood stoves groaned under constant expansion and contraction. He snored, and I think I did too, neither of us complained.

I would listen to the wind on those nights wondering when I would have the money for new windows, or when I might afford to add a furnace to the antique cape. Those needs were eventually met, and Jack was rewarded for his hardships with a new king-size mattress and the eventual arrival of Mrs. Cotton.

Jack's been gone about 21 years this winter.

You always want more when you have less, and while a worthy pursuit to aim toward lofty goals, or to strive to have better things, you'd never have appreciated even one of them if it weren't for the leaner times or for those who shared it with you.

Now, the same wind blows cold snow over the top of a warmer home with far fewer cracks and much better windows; and here I am just wondering how Jack is.

Be well.

TC (cottonblend at blauer dt com)