Sunday, October 11, 2009

C'mon Baby Light My Fire

Fire. A couple of rocks and some twigs and mankind evolved. Fire.

We had electricity on the farm. Our Amish neighbors did not. Driving past their homes in the evenings, I could see their lamps flickering. I was rather envious of the romantic glow, of the simple life. Dad had an old, oil lamp he kept in the back room. When storms hit and lights flickered out, the lamp was lit.
On those occasions, we all huddled in the basement around the fireplace. We relished those times.

That fireplace was the center of our winter activities. The youth group kids would come to roast wieners followed by roasted marshmallows. Dad would bring home fish and fix them over the fire. Fire. The warmth of the hearth. In the summer, we used the brick fireplace outside. It was a summer kitchen where once more hot dogs, marshmallow and neighbors became an event.

When my father died, my best friend, Brenda, gave me a candle to burn in memory of  Dad. A few month later the candle was burned at my daughter's wedding in memory of those who were no longer with us. My son will marry in January. He and his bride will each light a candle for the same. Each year on 9/11 I burn a candle in memory of a day etched in the hearts and history of Americans. Fire. Remembrance.

Maybe Ben and his kite discovered something wonderful, but I prefer my hot dogs over an open fire, reading by candle light, smelling the ancient scent of a burning log.

Fall. Mmmmmmm, a good book and a fire.

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