A Toronto buyer offered $30 apiece for the little fireplaces a 76-year-old Ontario stonemason first built for his late wife, so he could sell them for $329 under a boutique label. Lyall said no. The last 327 now go for $79, straight from his workshop.

Forty-seven years of hearths, a wife who wasn’t allowed a candle, and a fire you can put your hand through. Why families at retirement residences across Eastern Ontario are talking about Lyall Duguid.

Perth, Ontario. Lyall Duguid, seventy-six, will not be going back to the bench. In the old sandstone workshop behind his house, which he fitted with a woodstove in 1979, steel shelves line the back wall. On them sit rows of long, low black boxes, each about the length of a hardcover book.

Switch one on and a little fire comes up behind a row of logs. It glows low and uneven, the way a fire looks an hour after you stop feeding it. Then, out of a slot in the top, a flame starts to climb. It flickers and leans like the real thing. Put your hand straight into it and it is cool.

These are not ordinary night-lights. Each one is a fireplace, shrunk to fit a bedside table, built by a man who spent forty-seven years building the real thing, for a woman who was no longer allowed to have one.

Today Doreen is gone. Lyall can no longer hold a brush steady. And a buyer for a group of upscale cottage-country boutiques wants every one of them on those shelves, along with the right to have them copied in a factory and sold for $329 apiece.

What he decided to do instead has surprised everyone who knows him: sell what is left himself, directly to the people who need them. For $79.

This is how forty-seven years of hearths ends, and why one man’s decision has carried a long way past Perth.

Stone in his blood: a quarryman’s son and his first hearth

Lyall Duguid did not choose stone. He was born into it.

His father, Wilf, cut sandstone at the quarry outside Perth for thirty-eight years. Lyall carried water to the cutting sheds from the time he was eight. He learned to hear a good block before he could spell the word.

But what held him was never the quarry. It was what people built out of it.

“My dad would knock on a block and say, listen, that’s a good one,” Lyall says, one hand resting on a shelf of finished fireplaces. “Then one October a farmer out near Balderson hired us to build him a fireplace. I was sixteen. Dad set the first stone and handed me the trowel for the second. When we lit it that night, the whole family came in from the barn and just stood there, watching the smoke go up and the flames climb. Nobody said a word. I figured out right then what a fireplace is for.”

That fireplace decided the rest of his life.

Over the next forty-seven years Lyall built, by his own count in a spiral notebook, six hundred and twelve hearths across Lanark County: farmhouses, a church rectory, cottages on Big Rideau Lake, a lodge on Christie Lake whose owner he still won’t name.

By the time he retired in 2013, the phone had mostly stopped ringing. In 1990, about two out of every three new houses in Ontario went up with a fireplace. Last year it was about one in five. In new condos, it is about one in a hundred.

Doreen: forty years in the same two chairs

Doreen Duguid was not a mason. She ran the circulation desk at the library in Perth for thirty-one years, and she kept a little bottle of lavender oil in the top drawer of that desk the whole time. But the first night Lyall lit the hearth he had built for their own farmhouse, in the fall of 1983, she pulled two chairs up to it and never moved them again.

“I didn’t build that fireplace for the house,” Lyall says. “I built it for her. She’s the one who used it.”

Every evening, October to April, the same routine. Supper, dishes, two mugs of tea. She would sit down, pull the afghan over her knees and say the same three words: Light it, Lyall.

Forty winters. She read, he did the crossword, and neither of them paid the television much attention.

Between them they spent something like eight thousand evenings in front of that hearth. Lyall never once had to be asked twice.

Then, in the fall of 2023, everything changed.

A room where a candle wasn’t allowed

In October 2023, Doreen slipped on the stone step by the back door. The hip mended. The farmhouse stairs did not get any easier. By Remembrance Day she had moved into a retirement residence in Smiths Falls, twenty minutes down the road.

The room was bright and clean and warm. The rules were printed on a card by the door. No candles. No open flame. No space heaters.

“She never complained about the room,” Lyall says. “She complained about the evenings. She said the evenings were the television and the hallway light. Forty years she’d had a fire to look at, and now she had a smoke detector. And she said the place smelled like a hospital. She missed the smell of a fire burning down.”

So Lyall did what he had done his whole life. He went out to the workshop and built her a fireplace. Only this one had to fit on a bedside table, could not make a flame and could not get warm.

He split pieces of maple off their own woodpile, the wood Doreen had watched him stack every September, and used them as the pattern for a row of small logs. He painted the embers into the cracks by hand, in the dull orange a fire turns once it has burned down. Behind the logs he set a light that flickers low and uneven, the way coals breathe. He made the box long, low and black, like the mouth of the firebox in their living room. Twenty-four centimetres long.

Then came the part he is proudest of. Under the lid he fitted a small tank that takes a glass of water. The water turns into a fine, cool mist that rises through a slot in the top, and a light underneath catches it, so it climbs and flickers over the logs like flame. “Every fire I ever built, the best part was watching it go up,” he says. “A fire that doesn’t move isn’t a fire.”

Into the water went a few drops from the little bottle of lavender out of Doreen’s desk drawer. He added a small remote so she could switch it on from bed, and a timer so it would turn itself off after she fell asleep.

The staff checked it twice. No flame. No heat. Nothing to knock over and nothing to catch, and it switches itself off. It was allowed.

That night Doreen switched it on from her pillow, turned off the lamp and called him. “She said, Lyall, it’s lit. And it smells like lavender. That was all.”

Within a month the woman across the hall wanted one. Then her daughter asked for another for an aunt in Almonte. By spring Lyall was building them one at a time for families he had never met.

Doreen is gone: when the workshop becomes his last refuge

February 2025. Doreen Duguid passed away. They had been married fifty-one years.

“Doreen was the reason for every fire I ever lit in that house,” Lyall says. “Without her I’m a man with a trowel and no idea what to build.”

For months he did not open the workshop. The bench stayed covered. Their daughter Krista, a dental hygienist in Ottawa, called every evening. She offered to come over and sort things out. He told her no.

One morning in May, not sleeping, he went out to the workshop at four o’clock and switched on the light. He took down a set of logs, picked up the smallest brush he owned and began painting embers, the same work he had done the winter Doreen got her first one.

“I couldn’t have told you who they were for,” he says. “There was nobody left to give one to. I built them because the workshop was the only place the house wasn’t quiet.”

For nearly a year Lyall built. Every morning. Ten. Fifty. Three hundred and twenty-seven. Each one finished as if Doreen were going to switch it on, and each one a little different, because nobody paints an ember the same way twice.

Why a little fire you can put your hand through still warms a room

“Forty-seven years I built fireplaces, and I’ll let you in on something,” Lyall says. “Almost nobody sits by one for the heat. The furnace does the heating. People sit by a fire to look at it.”

That is where most imitations go wrong. The cheap ones put a flat orange bulb behind a plastic log, and from across the room it looks like a store display. Lyall built his the way he had watched real fires burn down for half a century: the glow sits low in the cracks between the logs and moves unevenly, never on a rhythm you can count. And the flame on top is never the same twice, because it is real mist moving in the air of the room. From the sofa, or from a bed across a small room, it reads like a real fire an hour in.

Then there is the flame test. It takes about five seconds. Switch it on, let the flame rise, then pass your hand straight through it. It is cool and a little damp, like fog off the Tay in the morning. No flame to blow out, nothing to tip into the curtains.

Then there is the smell. Lyall adds a few drops of lavender to the water, the way he did for Doreen. Lavender and sweet orange are scents a lot of people use to slow down and unwind in the evening, and the residents noticed it the moment they walked into her room. “The staff started calling it the quiet room,” Lyall says.

Gord Lalonde spent thirty-one years with a fire department in Eastern Ontario. “Candles start hundreds of house fires a year in this province alone, and more than a third of them start in a bedroom,” he says. “December is the worst month, and Christmas Day the worst day of the year. Once you’re past sixty-five, you’re about twice as likely to be hurt in a house fire. That’s why the residences ban them. A thing like Lyall’s gives people the part they miss, without the part that used to get me out of bed at two in the morning. And it turns itself off, so nobody has to remember.”

“Your hands will not get you through another winter”

Spring 2026. The X-rays are read to him at the hospital in Perth. Both hands, the joints worn through by forty-seven years of setting stone. His grip measures thirteen kilos. A chart from 1998 in his file says fifty-one.

“You need to put the brushes down,” the doctor tells him. “If you keep forcing those joints, you will lose what you have left.”

Krista drove out from Ottawa that weekend. She had asked him before to come and live with her. This time she wasn’t asking. The farmhouse would be listed before the snow, and the workshop with it.

She walked out to the workshop and saw the shelves of finished fireplaces, and her mother’s reading glasses, still on the bench where he had left them.

“Dad, you have to do something with all of these,” she said. “Mom would not want them sitting on a shelf in the dark.”

Lyall knew she was right.

The buyer in a pressed suit, and the offer that changed everything

That same week a dark sedan came up the gravel lane. A buyer from Toronto, working for a group of upscale cottage-country boutiques in Muskoka and up at Blue Mountain, had heard about the Duguid fireplaces from a supplier who had seen one at the residence in Smiths Falls. He offered to take every one on the shelf, and the rights to the design along with them.

Lyall asked what he intended to do with them.

Put them in the shops as they were, first. Then have them copied in a factory overseas and sold under the boutiques’ own label. In those stores, the buyer said, a piece like this would go for $329, displayed next to the cashmere throws and the scented candles.

Lyall asked what he was offering. Thirty dollars apiece, cash, the whole shelf in one go. It was less than the parts had cost him, and the buyer knew it. But the money was not what stopped him. Standing there in the gravel, he could see where this was going. Doreen’s little fire would end up in a shop window in Port Carling with somebody else’s name on it, bought by people who had a real fireplace at home and wanted a cute one for the cottage.

And the people it was built for, women in rooms like Doreen’s where a birthday candle is against the rules, would never see one at $329.

The decision got made that evening at the kitchen table with Krista. The fireplaces would not go to the buyer. They would go straight to the people who need them.

$79 fireplaces: a lifetime of hearths, sized for a bedside table

The idea came from Krista. She had seen how the families at the residence found them: one daughter telling another. The plan was simple. Take the fireplaces Lyall had already finished, box them in the workshop and send them directly to the people who want them, with nobody in between. Krista had one more idea: three small bottles in every box, lavender for her mother, sweet orange and tea tree, so nobody has to go out and buy anything before the first evening.

Not $329. Not even the $139 Krista first wrote on the price list. Lyall crossed that out himself and wrote $79, a number set to cover the parts, the paint, the oils, the box and the time it takes to pack one, with no boutique markup on top of it.

Lyall agreed on one condition.

“No fancy marketing,” he says. “No sale banners. I want people to know this was made for a room like Doreen’s. And I want them to put a hand through the flame the day it shows up, feel that it’s cool, and understand that’s the whole point.”

What sets this little fireplace apart from anything sold in a store

The rest is deliberately plain: a long black box, a lid with a slot, a remote, a cable and three small bottles. Nothing to assemble. Fill it with a glass of water, add a few drops, plug it in and it’s lit. Three hundred and twenty-seven exist. There is no restock, because there is nobody left at the bench.

The workshop goes with the house before the snow. This is not warehouse stock. It is what one man built in a sandstone workshop in Perth, most of it before the sun came up.

“I don’t want anybody’s charity,” Lyall says. “I want these in the rooms of people who still miss sitting by a fire. People who’ll switch it on after supper and leave the television off for a while. People who know the difference between something built for them and something built for a shop window.”

The first owners share their stories

Word moved through the residence in Smiths Falls first, then through the families’ friends and neighbours. The first owners started writing in.

“The first gift I ever gave her that she was allowed to keep lit”

Lyall figured he would be building for women like Doreen, in rooms like hers. What happened next caught him off guard.

Daughters buy them for mothers. Sons buy them for mothers who have moved somewhere smaller. Grandmothers buy one for their own bedside table, then a second one for a sister. The little fireplace turned into something people give to the person they worry about most in December.

It makes a certain sense. A fire is one of the oldest ways a family has of saying: sit down, stay a while. For someone who can’t have one anymore, this is the nearest thing, and likely the only fire they will be allowed to keep lit.

How to get one before the shelf is empty

What is on those shelves is everything Lyall built in the year after Doreen. Nobody is going back out to that bench. When the last one is boxed, it is finished.

The launch price is $79. That is not a promotion. It is the decision of a seventy-six-year-old man who would rather see his work on the bedside tables of people who need it than in a boutique window selling for $329.

Every order is checked and packed by hand, ships within one to two days and carries a 30-day money-back guarantee. “If it doesn’t make the room feel different, send it back,” Lyall says. “But nobody has sent one back to me yet. Once it’s lit on somebody’s bedside table, they don’t want to give it up.”

For anyone who misses sitting by a fire, and wants one small fire back in the room before what is left is gone.