2020 is almost over. I don’t know about you, but at year’s end I start noticing things to do. The kitchen floor needs a thorough washing. The clock needs winding. The wood cut last near still needs to be brought up the hill and put into the woodshed.
Here at Wishetwurra Farm, near the woodstove, screwed on to the trim of the door to the crawl space, is an old-fashioned cast iron wooden match dispenser. When I got up at 5:15 this morning, I noticed that the matches were running low.
I turned on the kettle, started the fire, and by then the water was boiling and ready to pour into a big teamug. While the tea was steeping I went to the pantry for a new box of matches. They’re on the top shelf because you don’t need a new box of matches every day. On the way back from the pantry I opened the “everything drawer” for a screwdriver. Due to a design quirk involving the lid, the match dispenser has to be unscrewed from the wall in order to refill it.
Without that design quirk I’d probably not be telling you this little story about the thirty-five-year shadow.
As a house ages, its wood, if not painted, darkens from exposure to light. Even in a spot where the sun never shines directly. Underneath this dispenser, no light ever shines, and the douglas fir wood is still almost as light-colored as the day the trim was first installed.