Respect, it’s all down to respect. That was the message drummed into me by my parents, grandparents and neighbours - and that covered all aspects of life.
Certainly in this day and age you’d have social services banging on your door with much hand-wringing at case conferences amid deliberation over your family’s capabilities to provide responsible care.
Now, let me set my stall out here right at the start. I was never allowed to play with fire, not once, not ever, but that doesn’t mean I was herded to the other side of the room, and constantly kept a safe distance from the fireguard and behind the clothes-horse.
I reckon it has a lot to do with Fife being a coal-mining community, and with my father, grandfather and great-grandfather all making their living down the pits, coal was a key part of our lives. And that meant so was the fire. You had to understand it, control it and always respect it.
The fire was central to our daily existence. It didn’t just warm us and the house, it was, certainly in my grandparents’ house, a cooking facility, it dried the clothes on dreich, drizzly days, and it provided our hot water.
I remember the arrival of our first immersion heater and my father keeping his eye on the electric meter and his watch and almost working out the cost of a bath on a summer’s day.
“Should be warm enough now,” he’d say as you traipsed off for a barely lukewarm scrub.
It was a different matter entirely with a blazing fire and the damper out, then you could have the water tank rumbling and not only a hot bath but near enough a sauna as well – a wee skoosh of Sqezy washing-up liquid and a drop of your dad’s Old Spice and you were in suds of luxury.
My relationship with the fire began on the street. That was where my dad’s ton of coal from the pit was dumped. That meant the wheelbarrow being dug out of the communal shed in the square, buckets utilised, shovels distributed from the big long-handled one dad used to the wee one for the children, and that black mound was slowly but surely transferred into the coalbox. None of this sack-to-box delivery back then. What would be left was some irretrievable dross and a big black circle that would tell the world for a week or so that there had been a coal delivery.
We also kept a sledgehammer in the coal bunker that was used to break the huge lumps but, as I got older and was given more responsibility for loading, I had my own system of organisation. In one area there was the easy-to-shovel, easy-to-burn pieces, around the size of golf balls or smaller. Next, and still accessible from the wee sliding door at the side of the coalbox were the bigger pieces that provided the more solid construction of the fire. Then, I stacked the muckle lumps that could only be reached by opening the front of the box. They were our reserves, able to be further broken down, or used for the long burn. These were the sort of pieces that would almost fill the fireplace and burn slowly, allowing you to go out and when you got back, you whacked them with the poker, allowing the glow to turn to flames. Add some smaller pieces, and you had a rare blaze going. These big chunks had another use too, but more of that later.
But what about the fire itself? Well this is where those who didn’t grow up with a coal fire really don’t get it, and certainly not child involvement. I reckon everyone had their own ‘style’ and, like a good broth or mince recipe, we all had our own secrets.
The respect started in the morning when the fire needed cleaned. This was, I suppose, the safest introduction for a youngster. Raking though the grate, shovelling up the ash from beneath it, taking it out to the bin – watching out for a ‘blaw’ from the wind as you dumped it. But helping with the clear, didn’t mean the fire was dead. There were often embers, still hot that could easily roll on to the back of your hand. I reckon these were my earliest burns, and you soon learnt to hover your palm over the charred remains to get an idea of where the heat still lay. Carefully, with the tongs and wee hearth shovel, these pieces could be put to one side of the hearth for a quick light and heat.
This donkey work being done, the hearth would be cleaned, ash wiped from between the tiles, and the new fire set. By the time I was at primary I knew how to set a good fire. You’d make the paper twists out of the East Fife Mail, just the right tightness and density. Too tight and they wouldn’t take, too loose and you risked them burning out without catching anything else and having to start all over again. Then, if you had it, kindling. If you had some dry wood, a fire was easy-peasy (sorry, no skill set required at all for those using firelighters). I had my own way of laying the kindling, allowing just enough air in, with the right size of coal pieces perched at the point of maximum combustion. You left two or three edges of paper sticking through the front of the grate, light them, and off you went.
Then it was down to your preference. To really get the day’s blaze going, if you were pushed for time or it was a cold winter’s day, you had to draw it. I’ve often thought if the nation had only ever known tabloid newspapers, the art of drawing with a broadsheet over the front of the fire would have been lost. You could do that with the damper on a slight pull to get a full-on sook. You had to learn that as the flames licked up they would drop drastically when you pulled away the paper. But, leave the newspaper in place too long and it would ignite. That brought its own emergency procedures with you often having to let the blazing paper scoot up the lum, hoping it wouldn't catch the soot. So you’d watch carefully, monitor how brown the paper was turning and you’d recognise the smell coming off the paper – your senses told you when it was time to pull away. Once caught, the damper could be fully extended; you’d hear the roar and that was you.
After that it was all down to feeding that family friend though the day.
From very early childhood I was instructed in this magical art, and the ways to deal with burning coal that fell into the hearth, sparks, balancing the different sizes of coal for the fire you wanted. How to use dross, how to manage the damper and all its secret powers. The one thing I remember is we were definitely a ‘coal family’. On occasions when we had logs, or sticks off the beach when money was tight, a coal-wood fire was a different proposition, burning faster with explosions of sparks that had you diving ahent the couch for cover then scouring the carpet for the smouldering shrapnel. Wood is definitely a primitive alternative!
But there is one fire I remember vividly, and with pride. My parents had gone out to a dance and I decided I would have a bath, with the hottest water mankind had ever known. And that meant the best fire ever set, ever.
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We also kept a sledgehammer in the coal bunker that was used to break the huge lumps but, as I got older and was given more responsibility for loading, I had my own system of organisation. In one area there was the easy-to-shovel, easy-to-burn pieces, around the size of golf balls or smaller. Next, and still accessible from the wee sliding door at the side of the coalbox were the bigger pieces that provided the more solid construction of the fire. Then, I stacked the muckle lumps that could only be reached by opening the front of the box. They were our reserves, able to be further broken down, or used for the long burn. These were the sort of pieces that would almost fill the fireplace and burn slowly, allowing you to go out and when you got back, you whacked them with the poker, allowing the glow to turn to flames. Add some smaller pieces, and you had a rare blaze going. These big chunks had another use too, but more of that later.
But what about the fire itself? Well this is where those who didn’t grow up with a coal fire really don’t get it, and certainly not child involvement. I reckon everyone had their own ‘style’ and, like a good broth or mince recipe, we all had our own secrets.
The respect started in the morning when the fire needed cleaned. This was, I suppose, the safest introduction for a youngster. Raking though the grate, shovelling up the ash from beneath it, taking it out to the bin – watching out for a ‘blaw’ from the wind as you dumped it. But helping with the clear, didn’t mean the fire was dead. There were often embers, still hot that could easily roll on to the back of your hand. I reckon these were my earliest burns, and you soon learnt to hover your palm over the charred remains to get an idea of where the heat still lay. Carefully, with the tongs and wee hearth shovel, these pieces could be put to one side of the hearth for a quick light and heat.
This donkey work being done, the hearth would be cleaned, ash wiped from between the tiles, and the new fire set. By the time I was at primary I knew how to set a good fire. You’d make the paper twists out of the East Fife Mail, just the right tightness and density. Too tight and they wouldn’t take, too loose and you risked them burning out without catching anything else and having to start all over again. Then, if you had it, kindling. If you had some dry wood, a fire was easy-peasy (sorry, no skill set required at all for those using firelighters). I had my own way of laying the kindling, allowing just enough air in, with the right size of coal pieces perched at the point of maximum combustion. You left two or three edges of paper sticking through the front of the grate, light them, and off you went.
Then it was down to your preference. To really get the day’s blaze going, if you were pushed for time or it was a cold winter’s day, you had to draw it. I’ve often thought if the nation had only ever known tabloid newspapers, the art of drawing with a broadsheet over the front of the fire would have been lost. You could do that with the damper on a slight pull to get a full-on sook. You had to learn that as the flames licked up they would drop drastically when you pulled away the paper. But, leave the newspaper in place too long and it would ignite. That brought its own emergency procedures with you often having to let the blazing paper scoot up the lum, hoping it wouldn't catch the soot. So you’d watch carefully, monitor how brown the paper was turning and you’d recognise the smell coming off the paper – your senses told you when it was time to pull away. Once caught, the damper could be fully extended; you’d hear the roar and that was you.
After that it was all down to feeding that family friend though the day.
From very early childhood I was instructed in this magical art, and the ways to deal with burning coal that fell into the hearth, sparks, balancing the different sizes of coal for the fire you wanted. How to use dross, how to manage the damper and all its secret powers. The one thing I remember is we were definitely a ‘coal family’. On occasions when we had logs, or sticks off the beach when money was tight, a coal-wood fire was a different proposition, burning faster with explosions of sparks that had you diving ahent the couch for cover then scouring the carpet for the smouldering shrapnel. Wood is definitely a primitive alternative!
But there is one fire I remember vividly, and with pride. My parents had gone out to a dance and I decided I would have a bath, with the hottest water mankind had ever known. And that meant the best fire ever set, ever.
Having evened up the existing fire, given it a good going-over with the poker, I then laid my magical combination of small coal, larger pieces round the side, then, opening the front of the box I chose a perfect slab, maybe three inches deep, foot long, eight inches wide. I laid that on top of the tried and tested foundation, whacked it with the poker so it cracked then filled in around it with coal pieces around a two-bob bit size … then, once it had a good glow all round, I pulled out the damper, full.
What a heat! I had to push my chair further and further away from the fire. Then I heard a banging. Looking into the scullery, the water tank was vibrating. Now science isn’t my strong point but even I knew the hottest water you can get is steam! And sure enough when I turned on the taps that’s what I got, along with shards of rust. Terrified, I was going to blow the side of the house off, I rammed the damper in and, using the washing-up basin, started to douse the fire.
Much to my relief nothing did blow up but I was left with a filthy hearth and mantelpiece, and the living room stinking of coal steam … and a pathetic fire. By the time I cleaned up I was filthy, the fire was a sodden mess, and almost impossible to get going again.
It was a pretty cold bath I had to clean myself up, brown water, which left quite a tidemark, and a silt of rusty metal, but what a fire that was!
The coal fire – it’s a lost art form these day.
Picture: Alicja_ from Pixabay
Much to my relief nothing did blow up but I was left with a filthy hearth and mantelpiece, and the living room stinking of coal steam … and a pathetic fire. By the time I cleaned up I was filthy, the fire was a sodden mess, and almost impossible to get going again.
It was a pretty cold bath I had to clean myself up, brown water, which left quite a tidemark, and a silt of rusty metal, but what a fire that was!
The coal fire – it’s a lost art form these day.
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