The Adventures of an Almost Independent Tough Old Bird
I considered calling a professional chimney sweep last spring when the stove began smoking. I heat the old farmhouse with a wood stove, “The Boss.” In February, it keeps me warm and the pipes from bursting. Toward the end of the season, I ran out of seasoned firewood and began using green wood. After the stove began smoking, I decided to be chilly rather than smoky or risk a chimney fire.
Who needs to spend money on a wood stove mid-summer? Perhaps by fall, I would have more money to spend on a chimney sweep. Fall came and my finances were nowhere near flush, so I began again. I started a fire in the stove. The smoke engulfed the living room. A carpenter who rebuilt the frame of my hoop house briefly inspected the stove. He noticed that the metal pipe that connected the stove with the flue was rusted. Now I would have to call a professional, I said to myself, imaging the expense. Then I decided I could take one more step on my own: I jimmied the heavy cast-iron stove forward with a board, examined the pipe closely, took the damaged piece to the hardware store and spent fifteen dollars for the pipes I needed. I pulled out my shop vacuum and cleaned soot and ash out of the stove and the pipes. My friend, a former wrestler, returned and for thirty dollars and a pound of bacon, he attached the new pieces and moved the stove back into place. Perhaps that was all that was needed.
I started another fire; the living room filled with smoke again. This time, I really would have to call a professional, I decided. The farmers at the local church recommended a chimney sweep. I called him. He got right to the point, “ Have you cleaned the chimney?” he began. “Yes, every year, my neighbor and I do it together.” I replied. “Then you probably don't need me,” he continued. We agreed that I would call my neighbor and clean the chimney as we had done for the last five years. If the stove still did not draw well, I would call this professional again.
I called my neighbor, Tom. We have a routine. He drives his old truck down my farm lane with a 28 foot ladder strapped to its top. He pets my dog. We cut back the mulberry tree and honeysuckle that grow in front of the chimney. I pull the 5-inch metal chimney brush off the shelf in the equipment shed, get two long strands of white nylon rope from behind the seat of my old Chevy Silverado, several buckets for the creosote and a small shovel. He brings a small piece of hardware to put on the end of the brush, then ties the ropes to either end of the brush. He attaches a large bolt to the end of one rope. He wraps duct take around the knots. He sets the ladder next to the chimney, extends it to reach the roof line, and climbs up the ladder and then onto the roof, carrying one rope with him. He takes off the chimney cap, sets it beside the chimney and drops the bolt down the flue.
I kneel at the clean-out door at the bottom of the chimney. I pull the rope down to pull the metal brush through the flue; he pulls the rope back up the chimney. As we do this several times, the creosote falls like rain onto the floor of clean-out area. Then I shovel it into metal buckets.
This morning, the brush got stuck; it would go no further. I got an extendable pruning saw from the barn. He pushed it down the flue to clear the first block; we both pulled hard to get the brush through the second blockage. The work was dirtier and more difficult than usual, but when we finished, the flue was clean. My neighbor climbed back onto the roof and took pictures of the farm. It was a perfect day: warm weather, green grass, blue sky, white feathering clouds and freshly dug earth where I had just planted cover crops. I picked him fresh turnips and gathered a dozen fresh eggs for him. I spent a total of $120 and did not smell too badly of creosote by the time we were done.
Another day, another year, and this tough old bird is still standing—thanks to the help of neighbors and friends and a sense of adventure that has me taking one step forward, one step at a time.