Keeping up with the Joneses

The sky holds a single star and a single moon. The moon being single is nothing to remark at. Today its shape is candied lemon. Looks quite good. The trees are dark still, dawn’s early light not being early enough to light them. I can’t see any colors except in my head. I know they are shades of green, dark, light silver. I know that one tree is starting to color, high up. Keeping this much green in September is a little late, I think. A change. Now that one tree has started, another will follow. They do that. They talk to each other. It is a heavy nut year for one. It is a heavy nut year for all of them. We say “It is a good year for apples.” Well it is. The apples must say to each other “Apples away!” Or something like that. We have apple trees on both sides of the pond. They drop apples with great splashes. I wonder if the apple trees are communicating with each other.

These apples are not tasty. Merv and I don’t think they are tasty. Judge, who loves a good apple, ignores them. The deer are ignoring them too, right now. In a few weeks one deer will eat them and then the others will try fermented apple too.

I have had a little campfire envy. On any weekend night around here, village or country, at dusk, I see a campfire, comfortable chairs around it, people in the chairs. I have no reason for campfire envy. We have a great campfire area, surrounded by pressure treated wood, encircled by metal, filled with guitar memories. The big old trees circle the campfire spot but open up high above it. The space and the circle are big enough for a crowd.

We had a crowd there, 22 people, a week or so ago. Everyone settled in their chairs or on a tarp. It grew a little quiet. And then a voice said “If we start singing ‘Kumbaya’ I am out of here.” He spoke just in time, for it was the exact moment for ‘Kumbaya,’ or ‘Jacob’s Ladder’ or ‘Country Roads.’ We talked, and watched the fire blaze up as logs were thrown on.

It was the day after we sat around another bonfire. It was behind an old house, an early settlers’ house, great wide planks in the floors, old beams stretching across the living room. The bonfire was by the grapes stretching off into the distance, and by the garden. The fire nestled in a piece of old walnut tree. The tree had been older than the house, but became hollow and came down. We sat there watching the fire in the curve of the old walnut.

When you sit by a fire there is no need to talk. The fire snaps and chatters and flames and sparks up and falls back, like a good conversation. We in our chairs could just watch, or say something quiet, or something with meaning. “John McCain…stayed to be tortured…because of his mates…” The fire blazed up as a new log went on.

Camp PapaNana had NOT ONE CAMPFIRE at the spot this year. We took the littlest campers on a hike one day to a spot where their Dad and Uncle had made a campfire spot. Down a hill, an easy descent into a ravine, a glen, a narrow valley, by a rill, a creek, a stream, a rivulet. Near a little waterfall. One of the Canadaway headwaters. We took the required marshmallows, graham crackers, Hershey chocolate bars. We discussed the rules. “No waving your burning marshmallow in the air.” That is the rules. We started a little fire. We roasted the marshmallows. Small children needed to go back to the cabin. We put out the campfire. We left. It was the middle of the day.

The fact is, our campfire spot in the woods is too deep in the woods. Finding your way there in the dark is not easy. Finding your way back in the darks is tougher. And so, with little kids, and no reservoir of young adults to lug beer and guitars down there, there was NOT ONE CAMPFIRE at Camp PapaNana.

Merv, being good natured, agreed with an experiment. We would buy a metal fire pit. We would try it at different spots near the cabin. When we found the right spot, we would make a second campfire place, a sort of every day campfire place. A smaller one, good for 10 or so people. We had cousins visiting, so we placed it at the first spot. It turns out to be a challenge, siting a campfire spot. Fairly level. Enough room for several chairs. Not under a tree. Not too close to the pond.

The campfire burned. The campfire smoked. The campfire smoked right into the cabin. In the dark, moving chairs around, the pond loomed a little close. Not the right place.

We tried another spot on Sunday, right by the head of the pond. I had never sat there before. The swamp garden blooms of the turtle head, the boneset, the jewel weed, the joe pie weed, were close by to admire. The pond stretched off into the distance. The firmament stretched off overhead. The conversation ebbed and flowed and the fire crackled and jumped. We breathed and relaxed, and worries glided off to rise with the smoke. It just might be the place. For everyday campfires I assure the family. Not to take the place of the official campfire spot.

It is light now, and the orangey red of the first turning tree is clear to see. The crows are arguing again. A chain saw growls in the distance. The day begins.

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