Talking Southern – Literd

      Any decent fire-builder knows there are four necessary elements to building a roaring fireplace fire, aside from an open damper, a bit of ash belove the grate, and  dry elements.  Those are crumpled-up newspaper sheets, appropriate kindling, split and air-dried logs of hardwood, and a match.  Since it is now wintertime, a discussion on fire-building seems rather timely.

     Your compiler believes it was Fayette County’s own Jim Minter, legendary newspaperman, who once observed that the proper time to begin thinking about firewood is on one of the hottest days in July or August.  That is because hardwood needs to be cut and split no later than summer to be seasoned enough to use come late fall and winter.   Of course, one who buys firewood rather than cutting his own needn’t worry about such things, but he or she misses a nice communion with nature, plus a good exercise session.  Your compiler believes it was Henry Ford who suggested that one who cuts his own firewood is twice warmed.

      Split firewood is, in your compiler’s opinion, far superior to whole logs, no matter how small in diameter those whole logs might be.  Split wood simply burns better than non-split wood; it ignites more quickly and burns more evenly than a whole log of any size.

    But the key to a good fire, in many people’s opinions, is the kindling one uses.  Crumpled newspaper is essential to light the fire, for even seasoned hardwood often takes a bit of warming up to ignite.  So a middling agent is needed; kindling serves this function in a well-laid fireplace. 

     Kindling comes in many shapes and forms.  Your compiler keeps baskets of dried pinecones handy, for those ignite quickly and last a bit longer than the newspaper does.  But pinecones alone flame out too quickly to be one’s only kindling. 

     While there may be all sorts of other kindling types, your compiler hates to beat around the bush, and wishes to go straight to the king of them all – fat pine, fatwood, or “literd,” as it has historically been called in Middle Georgia for ages.   One can buy it cut into strips in a box – where it’s usually called “fatwood” – or one can pick it up in raw form in the woods.   What literd is, is the long-lasting, resin-saturated core of a pine tree, and one who knows what it looks like in raw form can spot it from yards away on a walk through the woods.  Your compiler always keeps a store of it on hand from walks through the woods on his farm in Brooks, and when he needs, it, will use a power saw to cut it into small chunks to be used as kindling.   A foot-long chunk of literd can kindle one fire if all used at once, or perhaps up to a dozen if cut into chunks. 

    In many ways, your compiler’s presence in the world has something to do with literd.  See, in early December 1962, his mother was nine months and three weeks pregnant with a baby who didn’t want to leave the womb.  She had already been to the hospital twice by the time the second Sunday in December dawned.

     That morning, she and her husband got up, dressed, went to church, and came home to one of your compiler’s grandmother’s delicious Sunday dinners, after which they decided an afternoon by the parlor fire would be delightful.   But they were out of kindling.  So your compiler’s parents bundled up and went out to gather some literd on the farm in Brooks, hoping to kill two birds with one stone:  gathering kindling, which sometimes involves the rather strenuous activity of rooting up stumps, and perhaps stirring the baby loose through such exercise.

     It worked, and by suppertime they were speeding east on the McIntosh Road in their black 1959 Chevrolet, on the way to Griffin-Spalding County Hospital, where the heavy, knockout drugs of the day were administered to the young mother, and where a bouncing baby boy – your compiler – was pulled from the womb with forceps (which folks who know your compiler well say explains a lot) at about a quarter to eight that evening. 

     But the young mother hemorrhaged badly and did not regain consciousness – not until Wednesday morning following the Sunday night delivery.   A custodian in the room, who  saw the young woman’s eyes open for the first time in days, cast down her mop and went to the young mother’s bedside.  “We’re so glad to see you awake, honey; we were afraid you wasn’t gonna wake up at all.  I bet you don’t even know what you had.”   The young mother, groggy after her long sleep, thought back to the last thing she remembered – Sunday dinner – and replied, “Yes, I do.  I had roast beef, green beans, mashed potatoes and gravy…”

    Your compiler has always been thankful he wasn’t nicknamed “Green Bean” from the start.  And he would rather credit literd than forceps for his introduction to the world.