Chimney Smoke

The blue-gray smoke is rolling from the chimney, indicating a recently lit fire. As the fire grows in the stove and the chimney warms, the smoke will gradually diminish, until it's only a ribbon of white against the cold gray winter sky. For now though, it drifts slowly upward and to the southeast, as the north and westward winds push it over rooftops and through the winter-bare trees. I stop and watch for a moment as it billows in the cold air. Its lifting, widening, up and down dance is hypnotic to me. There’s something about chimney smoke that gives a body a warm, peaceful feeling inside.

As a young lad I would climb the towering hills of Bullitt County, Kentucky to reach the very tops, and then look down over the beautiful Salt River Valley below. There, surrounded by green cedars and perched on a rocky ledge of  white limestone, I could make out the houses and farms of friends and relatives along the narrow rope of country blacktop road that meandered between the hills.

From my stony perch I could see my  maternal great-grandpa and grandpas farms. I could also see a family friends place, with their saw mill that was backed up tight to the hill behind it. The house was wrapped in old clap board siding that hadn’t felt a coat of paint for years. The roof was gray metal and slightly rusty. Old hounds wandered around usually, or stretched out lazily on the porch. The sawmill shed was rough sawed lumber and its roof matched that of the house. Piles of logs lay neatly along one side, waiting their turn to be ripped into lumber for barns and sheds along the valley floor. Some logs were shaved and squared, to be replacements for rotted logs in sheds. Up in the hills I could faintly hear the whine of the giant saw blade as it worked its way through the tree that would become lumber.

There were still a good many log outbuildings around in the 1960’s in Kentucky, and a few old timers still believed log structures to be the stoutest. A few of those log buildings are still standing solid today, proving the old farmers right. Leftover slabs of bark (slats) were piled high to be used for firewood. Smoke always rolled from the sawmill shed chimney, and in the winter and at meal time, from the chimneys of the stoves that provided warmth and food in the house. Smoke from the sawmill meant prosperity for those folks.

The valley was quite narrow in some places, maybe only 150 yards of space between where each hillside began its rise to the blue Kentucky sky. Some houses were so close to the rising hills, my great-uncle would say, that "folks had to throw their bath water out the front door. If they threw it out the back door it would just roll right back inside again". In other places, there were wide flat and level areas that made for good crop fields and pasture ground.

Tobacco was a good crop in the valley at one time, and big barns would be filled at harvest time with rows and rows of hanging or racked leafy brown plants. After the tobacco was hung in the barns, fires of smoldering hardwoods would be lit in containers to smoke and cure the leafs. Tobacco for snuff, pipes and chewing are fire cured this way yet in many areas. Many an uninformed city slicker has stopped at a house to excitedly exclaim to a grinning farmer that the barn was on fire, as the smoke from the hardwoods rolled from the long doors and gables. The barns are kept smoky for weeks at a time in some cases.  Another old building, this one on my great-grandpas farm, was only useful when smoke rose from it.

The smokehouse provided a wide variety of good meats for cooking. The old log and wood plank structure was designed to allow air to filter just right through it, and surround the hams, bacon and other salted meats with curing smoke. The many days of curing from hickory and apple smoke yielded some of the best tasting pork a man can imagine. An old wood-fired cook stove in the kitchen of the house, always had some leftover biscuits and homemade sausage sitting on the back. A quick snack for hungry boys passing through. Yes, when smoke rose from that old wooden building, you knew that good food was in the making.That old smokehouse still stands today; but sadly smoke rises from it no longer. I miss the smoke that meant good family meals together.

While some of the houses had “coal oil” heaters in them, there was usually a wood stove or fireplace in sheds or some other part of the house. At some place, at some time, wood was burning and the chimney smoking on those little farms. Looking for miles out over the valley,  seeing dots of houses, sheds, and barns, each sporting a puff of white floating over them, was a sign that all was well. It was if each chimney was answering roll call. Folks were harvesting, working, and eating there. Necessities were being met. Comfort was there. The smoke signaled that peace was in the valley, and day to day living was good.

So, as I head into my shop, I take another glance at the rising white ribbon passing over the rooftop, and I smile. The wood stove crackles and pops as I enter. It’s like being greeted by an old friend. I open the door to the stove and toss in another piece of oak. The smoke from my chimney will answer the roll call today. It writes in wispy letters across the winter landscape, “ Yes we are here at the Chicken Ranch, alive and well, warm and comforted, and pray others find themselves the same.”

 

 Our old family smokehouse.