We recently burned a brush pile. It needed to be burned, it’d been hanging around the front yard WAY too long. (Yes, I live in the country, don’t think most homeowners associations would take kindly to a big ole honkin’ brushpile in the front yard.)
I’m the official firestarter in the family. DH sometimes lovingly calls me “one match”. Come on, it’s not hard, strike the match, set it under some quick burning material, and voila you have fire. (well, I was a girl scout…) Starting a fire outside always makes me think of the fire scene with Tom Hanks in Castaway.
We gathered our things, water hose, chairs, long fire poking stick, rake, Dr Pepper (hey that’s important – it’s a long walk back uphill to the house!!) and we were rarin’ to go.
Soon that fire was rarin’ itself! Burned high, and hot and eventually turned into a normal, but rather large, campfire size kind of fire. From that point, DH’s job was to watch the fire. You know, make sure nothing creeped out of bounds.
He sat there in his ‘fold-up’ canvas chair, all comfy and cozy, and while his eyes were hidden by the sunglasses he was wearing, I swear he went to sleep. Hmmm. I told him, “You look like you’re fishing.” He had that same laid back posture of many an old man sitting at the edge of a creek bank.
Hmm, he said “Maybe I will. Know where my pole is?”
He didn’t get up, and no I don’t know where his pole is. But when he’s ready to go fishing down at the nearby river, he’ll certainly be ready, he’s got the sitting part perfect!