Cold Women and Coal Heaters

It was all my Grandma's fault for up and dying right after she had paid to have the winter's coal delivered.  

Everyone in the neighborhood heated their homes with wood, even the people we thought were rich.  It was what we had done since the first cabins were erected, and we didn't see any sense in changing as late as 1965. Wood was free and plentiful in those Tennessee hills, and almost everyone had a chainsaw by then.

Grandma and Grandpa were getting on up in years, and it became difficult to lift the heavy firewood to put in the heater to heat their home. Someone they knew had a good pickup and a source of cheap coal, and with a little encouragement, they bought a used coal heater and had a winter's supply of coal delivered.

Oh, it was so good!  They could get enough coal in a bucket to last for most days. Just a few pieces of the burning coal could  put out enough heat for them to stay comfortable.  No more piling enough firewood by the front door to last through the night! No more waiting on someone to deliver a load of firewood that wouldn't last long in January and February! It wasn't long before they noticed the smell and the black dust that seemed to settle on everything, but still, they loved it.

Grandpa passed away in October of 1966, and Grandma was thankful that the winter's coal had been delivered and she would be able to feed the fire herself.  It was her only source of heat until she passed away in November of 1972.  

My parents moved into her house after the estate was settled. The coal stove and a mound of coal came with the house, so they decided to use the coal that year to see how they liked it."I can't get rid of this black dust," Mama complained, continuously wiping every surface.  But she admitted it was easier than wood, and tried to get used to it. She sewed most days, and kept her beloved Singer sewing machine with its plastic cover in a warm corner behind the stove.

Mama did the washing in a Maytag wringer washer on the front porch; the house was small and there was nowhere to bring it inside. One late winter's morning, she was home alone, wrapped up to do the wash outside.  She put the clothes through the final rinse tub, then decided to go inside to warm up a little before she hung the clothes out.  The fire had died down and needed replenishing. With hands that had just been in freezing water, she added coal to the stove, then added several more pieces to get the house real warm, finally adding all that was in the bucket.  After she had warmed up a little, she went to hang out the big load of laundry on the clothes line.  It took about twenty minutes, with her having to battle the cold wind getting them pinned to the clothes line. Finally, she finished, moving quickly to get inside the warm house.

She opened the front door to a raging furnace with air too hot to breathe. The coal heater was glowing red. She left the door open to allow some of the hot air outside, but it took several minutes before she was able to enter the house.  When she did, she found the plastic-framed pictures on the wall had melted and were unrecognizable.  To her great dismay, the cover of her sewing machine was horribly distorted, but the sewing machine itself wasn't damaged. That was the day Mama learned that you can't pack a coal heater completely full.  Needless to say, when the coal supply was gone, my parents switched back to burning wood, which was cleaner and easier to control.  

Daddy never let her forget it.  He was hot natured, and thought Mama kept it way too hot in living room.  Every time she loaded the stove full of wood, he would remind her that maybe she shouldn't put so much in there. "You're gonna melt things off the wall again!"