Pine Hill Journal
　
　
        The sun had dropped behind Bellayre Mountain and a bitter wind hurled ice crystals at the kitchen window. The woodstove glowed red, as it inhaled the air from the room.
         An enameled cast iron pot sat on the woodstove. In the pot Grandma had melted a large chunk of beeswax and slowly stirred in some olive oil. She added a hand full of dried comfrey root, a tablespoon of golden seal powder, and another of cayenne pepper. She let it simmer for thirty minuets, then strained it through cheesecloth into small earthenware crocks. It solidified into a translucent green, the color of deep creek water in July.
        While I helped Grandma with the clean up, Granddad came in from his chores. He was rubbing his hands together and stomping his feet, I could feel the cold coming off a him, and I could see that he was tired and spent.
       Grandma dried her hands on her apron, and picked up the newly made comfrey salve. She rubbed it on Granddad’s neck and shoulders with her warm hands. He was groaning with sounds of pure contentment, and by the way they was looking at each other, I figured it was time for me to go up stairs to bed.
       I lay in bed listening to the low murmur of adult voices and was soon lulled into an untroubled sleep.