(From a vintage Dec. 28, 1991, Fred Miller column)

We have chores at our house, but I like the winter chores at the farmhouse better. There is coal and firewood to be brought in from out back of the toolshed, and drinking water to be carried up from the spring.

Opening up the old coal grate fireplace in the living room was one of the best things my father did after moving our family back to the farm in the early 1960s. You need the wood to start the coal. Coal is harder to get started and dirtier than wood, but I think my Dad liked it because it can be banked with ashes at night and there’ll be a bed of hot coals in the morning.

Coal burning in a grate is fun to watch. Back when we heated our house with a coal furnace you couldn’t watch it burn, but you can in a fire grate. Sometimes the tar in a lump of coal will liquefy and be forced out by the pressure of volatile gasses. It forms a little black cone with a noisy gas jet spurting out the middle, like a tiny black volcano. There may be a half-dozen of these miniscule volcanoes erupting across the fiery landscape of a coal fire in a grate. Now and then the spewing gas will ignite and burn like a tiny blowtorch.

As you may have guessed, I was easily entertained as a child.

“How about bringing up a couple of gallons of water from the spring?” asks Ol’ Food, and I command the two older kids to come help me. It is one chore they never complain about.

There’s plenty of water from the well, but it tastes of sulphur. Paw-Paw and Ol’ Food use spring water for drinking and cooking.

They keep eight or 10 plastic gallon jugs on the table on the back porch. When most are empty, like now, it is time for a trip to the spring. Daughter Shark grabs one. Seed, strong boy, and I take two apiece, and we head down to the spring, ducking under the big white pine limbs and treading on the soft brown needles on the path.

On our left is the old chickenhouse. I remember when there were still chickens there, and Grandma Edythe let me search the straw for the day’s eggs. Those eggs were warm and large and brown, and usually had a bit of something stuck to them. The chickenhouse is storage for antiques, junk and oddities now, like the butter churn powered by a dog treadmill that Ol’ Food bought at auction. I can’t imagine my grandparents using such a thing.

As the children run ahead, I hear Ol’ Food call from the farmhouse. “Worshrag’s coming, too!”

I turn to see our little one, bundled against the cold and carrying a half-gallon jug, pumping his short legs as fast as he can across the yard. He knows the way to the spring as well as I.

“Hurwe, Daddy, hurwe!” he says, passing me by.

As our path inclines gently into a hollow populated by giant white oaks, the carpet underfoot changes from pine needles to crisp brown oak leaves. Most of the oaks are 150 or so years old, and of such girth that it takes two or three people to reach hands around them at chest height. They tower far above our heads, lending their quiet majesty to this place.

A metal ladle for drinking used to hang on a twig, on the trunk of the big oak nearest the spring. These days we just use our hands to cup a drink of the cold, clear spring water.

A chronology of building dates passed down through our family states that the stone watering trough into which the spring empties was put there in 1854 by High Pugh, who also had the barn and farmhouse built. A wide stone basin set into the hillside receives water from an iron pipe. Both it and the trough are carved from single pieces of sandstone.

Immediately in front of the spring is buried a rectangular concrete reservoir which once held the farmhouse’s water supply. After the reservoir and pipes to the house developed leaks they were abandoned and a conventional well, whose water tastes of sulphur, was drilled beside the house

The front of the spring, an opening about four feet square, has in my memory always been covered by a flimsy piece of sheet metal kept in place by a propped stone or board. Even when the sheet rusted badly, we continued to use it out of habit. It took a fresh pair of eyes to see that its time was done. Uncle Sweetland, visiting from Connecticut, one day threw the rusted metal aside and made a new door out of wood. We like it because now we can lower the door and kneel on wood instead of concrete to fill our water jugs.

One reason the kids adore visits to the spring is that they are likely to find a frog or salamander, even in the winter. The frogs are usually northern leopards, slender and green with round spots on their backs and legs. The salamanders are long and yellow with black spots.

Daddy longleg spiders and secretive camel crickets are often found on the damp stone walls of the little enclosure. We don’t mind these creatures sharing the spring. We’d be concerned if they didn’t.

One by one we fill the jugs – including Little Worshrag’s half-gallon – trying not to stir up silt on the bottom.

One by one we troop back up the path to the farmhouse with our precious supply of spring water, proud as punch that we have done a chore for Ol’ Food and Paw-Paw.

I like winter chores, especially at the farmhouse, especially trips to the spring.

(Fred Miller’s second and third book of stories make wonderful stocking stuffers. They cost $10 and are available locally at Calcutta Giant Eagle, Pottery City Antique Mall, Museum of Ceramics, Frank’s Pastries, Davis Bros. Pharmacies, and the Old Ft. Steuben gift shop.)