The Combination Stove: Keeping Us Warm Until Spring
The first thing anyone would see coming in through the main kitchen door or through the back door (from the unheated back room and barns beyond) was the kitchen stove. A gift from my dad’s parents, it replaced the wood-burning stove used prior to my father buying the northern farm and my mother moving in after their wedding on Aug. 28, 1948.
The Florence stove burned both propane and kerosene. If you were facing the stove, on the top right were four propane burners and a pilot light. In the center, below the range top, was the oven with blue, dancing propane flames that appeared after you took a wooden match and lit each side of the oven. A door on the outside of the oven, to the right, revealed a storage compartment for broiler pans.
The original timer
The left side of the stove contained two kerosine burners underneath the metal top that had several round plates you could open to see the burners and the space to the right of the burners. A little door on the left side of the stove also opened to the round burners and had two small windows covered with mica.
Decorated with white enamel, the stove stood on four black metal feet, several inches high, and a shiny pipe ran from the stove to the chimney behind it.
Frances and Chester, next to the stove.
The space in back of the stove was wide enough for barn cats to walk through and then crawl underneath. They curled up for a nap, soaking up the heat, until a cruel human pulled them out at night and sent them out the back room door into the unheated barns.
From late August until sometime in May, one of the kerosine burners stayed constantly lit (except for the rare occasion when a gust of wind down the chimney blew it out). Heat generated from that burner baked large, round white potatoes that were first washed and pricked several times with a knife and carefully placed inside the space to the right of the burner. Within an hour the hard, raw spuds were transformed into crispy skins and flaky, soft interiors.
Baked Maine potatoes.
The burner kept water simmering in Mom’s stainless steel kettle which moisturized the dry, winter air. Cast iron fry pans on top of the lit burner sizzled eggs, Canadian bacon, eggs-in-a-blanket, hot dogs and onions, leftover baked beans, potato hash, and toasted bread with cheese.
Coming into the house on a cold, dim afternoon, after fighting below zero F. temperatures outside or in the barns, you’d hear the kettle’s simmering water and feel the radiant heat from the stove pushing against your face. Hands, sometimes red, automatically reached out.
Frances in the kitchen rocker; Brenna by the stove.
The kitchen with its table, chairs, and rocker, and the adjoining farm office with its roll top desk, remained very warm throughout the winter. The dining room—used for watching TV, napping on the couch, and sewing in the corner—was filled with the stove’s friendly heat. The door joining that room to the kitchen and office was always left open.
Front room door, left, hallway door, closet and cellar trap door.
All other interior doors were shut most of winter and fall: the door to the downstairs spare bedroom, the two doors to the living room (also known as the front room), and the door connecting the downstairs hall to the dining room. There were gray radiators in every room (except for the spare bedroom) that were attached to an ancient hot water boiler in the basement. But except on the colder days, the boiler didn’t have to boil. The kitchen stove warmed what was necessary.
Decades later, after our family had grown and Mom and Dad had died, the farm was sold to a younger family. For awhile, the combination stove was kept, though I’m not sure if the kerosine part was lit.
Iris (Emery) Russell, owner of the 1948 stove.
After a few months, I was invited for a tour. I walked through the first floor, amazed. All the interior doors were open. Even both living room doors. The place did look much bigger, but after that next winter, I heard that the ancient boiler in the cellar had to be replaced.
Dad had kept that boiler going for years, replacing parts when needed. It never had to heat the entire house 100 percent of the time. Even nights when the last person to go upstairs to the bedrooms left one hallway door open for the stove heat to drift upward, even when the radiator pipes clanged and thumped, bringing more warmth to the rooms—the combination stove did its part.
When the stove was running and the extra doors were closed, you couldn’t be mad at anyone in the house for long. The heat caressed and coddled you until you felt warm and cozy and happy to be inside and not out. Cats purred while baking underneath, and the hot kettle sputtered on top. Fruit pies bubbled in the oven and spuds softened next to the kerosine burner. Wet mittens and gloves and socks hung nearby while a sleeping dog curled on the floor danced her paws in a dream.
Fred Russell chatting with family and farm workers, waiting for supper, 1957.
No, you couldn’t stay unhappy for long. The stove kept us congenial and content until the storms cleared and the outside temperatures slowly rose, when life on the rest of the farm commenced with planting and cattle out to pasture, cats roaming down to the woods and kids running off on their bikes.
The kerosine burner would be blown out and the stove kept cold as the humidity and heat from the sun grew strong.
Such were the rhythms on the farm, the combination stove included.
We always would return, however, when fall came and the burners were lit. And the happy, winter days drew near, once again.