It is easy enough to obtain. Not that I go wandering in the woods with arms laden with fallen limbs. We spent half a paycheck taking down a hundred year old tree on our land this October and it would have made a splendid trove of firewood if it had been anything but white pine. Hence the decision to have the lumberjack haul it all away. 

I bought a bundle at the grocery store this week, to bring the inimitable glow to our Christmas morning. More than just warmth, a fire brings that urge to cuddle, and the popping sounds are like corn without the butter.

Wood is a marvelous container, even without being planed into a cedar chest. Firstly it absorbs the heat of the sun over a decade of summers. Then it brings sweet sweat to the man who chops it down. Thirdly it releases those joules that swivel a cold room into a cozy one.  

How does one store up for life's inevitable chill? Singing carols, even badly, seems to be a sure fire way to access nostalgia from childhood. Unpacking ornaments, however worn, that have been infused by the contentment of a dozen holiday seasons is another direct line to joy. The tiny Raggedy Andy that lost his leg long ago is a welcome addition to my own tree. Whom the twins named Douglas.  The faces of people who have gifted me with glass balls, and crocheted snowflakes, beaded stars, and cross stitched nutcrackers all blaze in my mind even as I lift those memory caches to be suspended by a curved wire on a willing branch. 

The thing about Christmas is, we know it will return. Even as we surrender to the task of putting strings of lights back in the basement, the surety of another Advent is sealed.  Which makes it all the more prudent to be mindful of where those dear remembrances are stashed. 

After all, chill is in our future. So bring on the firewood.