Spontaneous Combustion

The decade-old revival of the wood-stove industry is cooling as quickly as it heated up. Upstart market leader Vermont Castings counts on the reputation it has for quality to warm the hearts of customers for new products.

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One weekend last August, some 10,000 people invaded the town of Randolph, Vt. They convened in a meadow on the outskirts of town and for two days drank beer, ate barbecued chicken and corn-on-the-cob, watched square dancing, heard country fiddlers, and talked about wood-burning stoves. The New York Times was there to cover the event, as was National Public Radio.

Now, wood-burning stoves aren't news; nor is the town of Randolph. What was extraordinary about the event, however, was that it was an "Owners' Outing," sponsored by a company named Vermont Castings Inc., and the 10,000 people who attended were a virtual army of satisfied customers whose regard for their Vermont Castings stoves borders on adoration. "It's almost become a status symbol to own a Vermont Castings stove," says Michael J. Herschel, president of U.S. Stove Co., in Chattanooga, founded in 1869. "Their product pushed the right buttons for the consumer."

Last year, Vermont Castings' wood- and coal-burning stoves pushed the right buttons for more than 50,000 consumers, generating revenues of close to $30 million. Founded eight years ago by Duncan Syme and Murray Howell, Vermont Castings has become the leading manufacturer of cast-iron wood stoves (ranging in price from $500 to $900) in the country, both in units shipped and in total revenues.

"To a couple of backyard hippies," says Syme, vice-president and secretary, "it's ironic as hell. Seven years ago we thought we'd have a couple of people -- like running a diner or something. At least, we hoped we'd get that far. If we tried to start the company all over again today, we couldn't do it. We had the right product at the right time -- and a lot of luck."

Syme's allusion to propitious timing is no mere entrepreneurial understatement. In 1973 only 1 million households in the United States still heated with wood, compared with 8 million as recently as 1940, which, in turn, was far below the level a century earlier when wood supplied an estimated 90% of the country's fuel. The Golden Age of the wood-stove industry, in the middle 1800s, climaxed with a flourish of Byzantine design: nickel-plated Grecian urns perched atop increasingly exotic shapes, themselves ensconced in excessively detailed cast-iron filigree. Hundreds of stove-plate foundries went the way of the buffalo as first coal then oil moved to household basements. Only a few companies, including U.S. Stove, Washington Stove Works, in Everett, Wash., and Martin Industries, in Florence, Ala., survived the onslaught of central heating.

But the wood-stove industry was rekindled when the Arab oil embargo struck in 1973. High-technology, twentieth century America quickly remembered the ways of its forefathers. More and more people began cutting, sawing, and splitting their way to a long winter's supply of assorted hardwood logs, which were then stuffed into that long-forgotten piece of Americana -- the wood stove.

All this was hard work, especially for novices whose previous commitment to energy conservation had typically ended at the thermostat setting. But it was also vaguely patriotic, tethered at some point to the American heritage of resourcefulness and self-sufficiency. And if that motivation was too obscure, there was the compelling fact that wood -- slipped discs notwithstanding -- was cheaper than oil. By 1979 the sale of wood- and coal-burning stoves and accessories had reached $1 billion. More than 2 million units were sold in that peak year.

The old-timers certainly got their share of the business, but more than anything else the wood-stove renaissance was a riot of entrepreneurial opportunity. The most unlikely sorts turned out to be wood-stove promoters. There was Eva B. Horton, a self-described "little girl who used to be a housewife," who imported Jotul stoves from Norway. There was Bob Fisher, who handcrafted the famous Fisher "Papa Bear" stove and soon had licensees across the country. And then there were Murray Howell and Duncan Syme.

"This company began," Howell says, "as the combination of two people who have distinctly different yet complementary abilities. I've often said that I'm as creative as the sole of my shoe and Duncan's as organized as a plate of spaghetti."

At work, they sit in the same room at opposite ends of a long, wooden trestle table. Although they are brothers-in-law, the strength of their interaction appears to rest on the steady, unquestioning confidence of two people who have spent a lot of time together and like it. Howell, who at 38 is chairman of the board, is well over six feet tall and rangy. He is a bit contemplative and answers questions quietly and slowly. His hands, long and graceful, are particularly expressive. Syme is shorter and stockier. He has dark eyes, round, gold-rimmed glasses, quick movements, and an after-thought hairstyle, which together project the distracted intensity of an artist or scholar. He is 45 and looks much younger. They are well educated -- Howell went to the University of Pennsylvania and Syme to Yale.

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