Well, I finally got my bonfire last night. I don’t know what’s going on with the weather this fine Wisconsin November, but you won’t hear me complaining. Nothing short of gorgeous.
So, just as Scott was finishing filling out the woodpile for winter, we dipped into the stores for a little evening blaze. An evening replete with all the things a bonfire needs. The crackle of dry wood punctuating the hiss of wet. Shooting stars aplenty. S’mores all around. Slowly drifting constellations. And no shortage of familial conversation. It may have taken s’mores to draw some of the kids out, but the bribe was well-worth it.
There were remember when’s easily reaching into the triple digits, as each of our teenagers floated back through time. Mud factories and games and Santa and ‘poor’ (oh, if we still enjoyed a touch of vicarious poverty). Beaver-bears and kittens through time (as Freckles the drooling feline wunderkind wandered across laps and lawnchairs). Teepees built by toddlers, ten-year-treehouses, and neverending incarnations of rootball forts (despite the danger of the beaver-bear). Busted ankles, cracked up bikes, and prematurely removed teeth. The memories flowed like wine at a wedding, and it was beautiful to hear their renditions of history, accurate and otherwise.
I guess in a way, if only partially, we’re at that place we always dreamed of: sitting back and watching our happy, functional near-adults basking in the warm glow of childhoods well-lived.
We also touched on politics.
May your fire-pit never grow weeds too tall,