What is it about sitting around an outside fire into the night that feels so satisfying???
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It must be something primeval in the human psyche.
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Starring into the fire in the deck chimura with a Dark and Stormy or a Lagavulin.... or both in short succession.... makes for a most enjoyable evening.
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1 comment:
Great for firing up the palaver, being aside a fire. I stare into them flames licking on that wood, like a baby at a lolly, and my mind wanders. . . . it was 1946, the war was just over and the town was full of boys who had gone off a fighting, ceppin thems that came back waren't boys no more. Pappy's shine business was booming, and we was a preparin' to get ourselves an indoor outhouse. Times was good. Daddy didn't have to turn momma out on the street for her dancing lessons but on weekends, so we was getting a proper washin' and etiquette learnin' about how to hold a door for a lady and how yeh wasn't sposed to play with yerself in public. Anyhow, ole Jughead Wilmer, he was called Jughead cause before he went over there he always had one of daddy's jugs up to his head, he come back with a chest full of medals and one of them European gals with stocking that you could catch fish with and lips as red as a cherry. Which of course made not interferin' with yerself in public a wee challenge, her walkin' by. But ole Jughead, he and his senora got about taking airs with plain folk, and having things, saying thems is ontrpranoors, and before you know it, Mrs. Jughead has picked up all of momma's old dance students and Jughead is afixin' his own corn likker, calls it "Bohemian Sweetwater" says he got the recipe from some Archduke over there. Soon enough, the men are lining up at Jugheads barn for the likker, and at Jughead's house for the dancing lessons.
Well, daddy, he was as mad as a wet hornet. And he was not going to take this one lying down, no sirree. As plain as day, I can see him staring into fire beneath his still, stirring the coals, rubbing his hands up and down his pants like momma says we wasn't sposed to, muttering something about a new plan, about fixin' wagons and such. My daddy was always resourceful.
Right around then, the town was hit by a spate of barn burnings. We kids would all rush out, watching these fantastic conflagratins, and seeing the human suffering, and wondering, who could do such a thing? The biggest one, the one they talk about to this very day down at Cecil's barbershop, was the torching of Jugheads barn, how it lit the sky, and how the preacher come a running out of the house before his dance lesson was over, and how pappy just stood there, chewing the nub of his pipe, watching that fire, muttering to himself, rubbin his hands the way moma says you wasnt spose to.
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