To Build a Fire

Last weekend, I went to New Hampshire to watch my husband and eleven other men over the age of 50 compete in the Reach the Beach Relay.  The race is run in 36 legs over 200 miles, beginning at Cannon Mountain and ending on the coast at Hampton Beach State Park.  Along the way, the course runs in or near other state parks,  one of them being White Lake State Park.

Each year, one of the other wives and I set up a campsite at White Lake State Park.  We put up a tent for the guys to rest in and cook a hot meal.  For several years, we cooked on a Coleman stove, but they really don’t throw out a huge amount of heat, and when you are cooking for 12 hungry men, it takes forever to heat up that quantity of food.  So, the last few years I have been cooking over an open fire.  We have always started a fire anyway for the guys to warm themselves.  One never knows what the weather will be like, and some years it has been cold enough to see our breath.

This year the problem wasn’t cold…it was rain…lots of rain.  When we arrived at the campgrounds on Friday afternoon, it was pouring.  I mean it was coming down in torrents.  The campsite was awash.  In spite of a gravel base, there were puddles, the picnic table was extremely wet, and a dry spot had to somehow be created.  We began by putting up the canopy part of a screen house over the picnic table so that we could dry off that area and have a place to work.  Marsha and I were both wearing raincoats and hats, but by the time the canopy was up, we were both soaked.

Marsha continued with the preparations at the picnic table, while I tried to make the fire.  The fire circle, although on gravel, had some puddles in it.  The matches, even though they had not been out in the rain, were soggy from the humidity.  When I purchased the wood at the registration building, the nice park ranger had throw in a fire starter block which seemed to be compressed sawdust.  This too was damp with humidity.  I knew every match I lit was going to be quickly snuffed by the downpour.  Fortunately, I had tossed a very large umbrella in the car.  I put this over the fire circle and crouched underneath it assuming the fire would not flare up so quickly that the umbrella caught on fire.

I started with a base of crumbled newspaper which rapidly became damp from the puddles and the humid air.  We had brought a few pieces of scrap wood along.  We used to bring all our own wood, including small twigs for kindling, but it is against the law to carry logs/parts of tree branches across state lines anymore.  The woods were too wet to be a source of kindling.  I pulled some small wood fragments from the logs I had purchase and broke the fire starter block into pieces.  About 20 matches later, I was beginning to feel desperate.  I began to recollect a short story, To Build a Fire, by Jack London, which I read way back in high school.  A man traveling in the bitter cold of the Yukon realizes that he either has to start a fire or die.  He ends up dying.  I wasn’t facing death….just 12 hungry men who were expecting HOT goulash.

Thoughts of the Jack London story gave way to the Bible story about Elijah and the prophets of Baal.  Elijah challenged the prophets of Baal to put a sacrifice on an altar, but not to light the fire.  Instead, they would each pray to their god, and the god who sent fire down on the altar, would be acknowledged as the true God.  The prophets of Baal didn’t have any luck with their god.  Elijah even dumped barrel after barrel of water on his altar, but when he called on God, there was a bolt of fire from the heavens and the sacrifice burned and all the water was licked up by the flames.  I needed a bolt of fire! 

I just kept praying and lighting more matches.  Finally, a piece of the paper caught fire, it spread to the sawdust fragments, and then to the small pieces of wood, and finally to the soft wood I had purchased.  After that was well established, I placed some of the purchased hardwood.  I picked up the umbrella and stood holding it over the fire until I was sure it wouldn’t immediately go out.  Then I quickly lowered the grate and placed the pot of goulash sauce over the flames.  The macaroni would be added later, so that it didn’t turn to mush.  Once the pot was in place, rain was not hitting the fire directly under the pot, so that portion of the fire could be preserved.

Dinner was about 30 minutes later than I had planned for the first van which arrived, but the guys ate their first course of salad and Italian bread, and then headed for the bath house to shower while the goulash finished heating.  After dinner they huddled under the canopy, which we had extended by attaching a tarp between the canopy frame and some nearby trees.  They said this looked like a still. 

Later when the second van-load of guys arrived, we were able to serve dinner promptly.  The fire was roaring and the rain had slowed down.  The second van of men rested for a couple of hours…some in the tent and some in the van…before driving to catch up with the relay and run their legs.  All that was left for Marsha and me was to clean up the mess and fight off the raccoons which apparently like the aroma of the goulash.

It wasn’t on my “bucket list,” but I can now say I have started a fire in a puddle under an umbrella.

Remind Me Why I Fell in Love...

I’m not sure what brought it to mind this morning but I was thinking about an event from 47 years ago.  I met my husband in the summer of 1966, and I think this incident happened that first summer.

I don’t remember if we had been out on a date or if he had just come over to visit me at my parents’ home, but before he left, we were standing in the kitchen talking.  He remembered he had something in the car which he wanted to show to me.

To picture this you need to know that my parents’ back door had a combination storm/screen on it.  The door did not have a round handle, but a horizontal hook-like bar about 3 inches long which you pushed to open the door.

Bill said, “Oh, there is something in the car I want to show you.”  He spun around, opened the door, took one step out, and then leaped off the small porch instead of going down the 2 or 3 steps.  As he became air-borne, his sport coat, which was unbuttoned, flew open.  I can’t imagine what the odds of this might be, but the door handle hooked into one of the buttonholes.  He had enough forward momentum that this did not even slow him down.  As he flew off the porch, the handle ripped through the buttonhole and tore the front of the jacket in both directions creating a long dangling flap of fabric.  When he returned to the house, he had stuffed the remnant of the suit coat front into the pocket creating a ridiculous wad.  He wore a sheepish, but ever-so-charming, grin on his face.  I was initially horrified over the jacket damaged way beyond repair, but once I realized that he wasn’t upset, I convulsed in laughter.

I did not consciously think, at the time, about what this incident said about his temperament and character, but I do know people who would have allowed such an incident to make them angry and ruin the evening.  Instead, it was both a humorous digression from and an important part of the serious business of getting acquainted…and falling in love.  I smile whenever the picture comes to my mind.

Beach Bodies...NOT!

While visiting my daughter in Florida last week, we went to the beach.  I sat there next to the sand castle watching my granddaughters play gleefully.  I also watched the people strolling by.

I read someplace that once a woman is 40 she shouldn’t worry about how she looks in a swimming suit, because the only people looking at her are other women over 40 who are making comparisons.  Personally, I was pondering how I compared to other women over 60 and decided that those of us who even dare to wear a bathing suit, all look alike.

First of all, we have no buttocks.  The fat deposits that once gave us nice little round tushies have either been overcome by gravity and slumped into our upper legs or have run around to the front and deposited in our tummies.  A little round tummy isn’t nearly as attractive as a little round tushy, but that is what we now have.

The next characteristic is somewhat dependent on size to begin with, but everyone’s boobs sag.  No amount of underwire or wide straps prevents the downward pull.  The bigger they are to start with, the lower they hang.  Attempting to overcome this by tightening the straps, results in major creases in the shoulders.

If either osteoporosis or poor posture has caused some back curvature, the boobs and belly meld into a shapeless mass on the front of the body.  There is probably still a waist under there someplace, but it has disappeared inside the amorphous frontal lump.

Meanwhile those sweet young things, who are still in their prime, strut their stuff oblivious to what awaits them. 

I noticed several people watching me with amused expressions.  Where they laughing at my beach body, or had they never seen an old lady make a sand castle before?

Music in Her Soul

When we arrived at the San Francisco airport two days ago, the rental car area was a madhouse.  All of the lines were very long, and family members waiting for those in line filled up the remaining space.  People and luggage were everywhere.

While Bill went through the line, I stood against the wall near the pay phones with the luggage, which seemed like a good idea since pay phones are rarely used anymore.  Right in front of me stood a mother with a little girl about 5 or 6 years old.  She was guarding the cart loaded with suitcases, while her husband and older daughter proceeded slowly through the rental car line.

After I had been there only a couple of minutes, I realized that the little girl was singing.  I couldn’t catch many of the words, but she had a lovely voice for a little one.  As she sang, she swayed with the music and waved her arms in the air with her fingers vibrating to the rhythm of her song.  This continued non-stop for the entire time she waited….close to an hour.  She sang quietly in the very noisy room.  She was not trying to attract attention.  She clearly couldn’t help herself.  Singing came for her as naturally as breathing.

I recognized what she was feeling, because I have felt this myself.  I grew up loving music and not being able to prevent myself from singing.  I sang when I rode in the car, when I was outdoors playing, or when I was lying on my bed thinking.  As I grew up, I sang when I was doing housework, driving the car, or painting a room.  For those of us who know this feeling, music allows our very souls to find expression.  Everything we are and feel finds a pathway out through our voices.

My voice is now shaky and unreliable, but I so enjoyed watching the little girl and being reminded of the pure joy of being able to express oneself in song.

Andromache by Euripides

Andromache was the wife of Hector, but when Troy fell to the Spartans following Hector’s death, she was taken as a slave and mistress to Hector’s murderer, Neoptolemus.  She bore a child, Molossus to him.  Neoptolemus also took a legitimate wife, Hermione, who is the daughter of Menalaus and Helen.  Hermione is childless and blames Andromache for causing this by some strange powers.  Andromache is innocent of this charge and is in great misery as the mistress of her beloved Hector’s killer.

While Neoptolemus is away, Hermione and Menalaus conspire to kill both Andromache and her son.  Andromache hides Molossus at a friend’s house and takes refuge herself in a temple believing she will be safe there.  Hermione comes to the temple and there is quite an argument.  Later Menalaus comes and tricks Andromache into leaving.  He has found her son, but he says he will spare him, if she agrees to be killed herself.  His actual plan is to kill both of them.

Before Menalaus can carry out his intentions, Peleus, who is father of Achilles and grandfather of Neoptolemus arrives on the scene.  He believes in Andromache’s innocence and demands that Menalaus release her.  They argue.  Menalaus insults Peleus saying he is old and feeble and couldn’t possibly stand up to him in battle.  Peleus insults Menalaus, implying that he thinks of himself highly because he was a general in the Trojan War, but it was really his men who did all the work.  Menalaus finally retreats.

Hermione is now distraught.  She feels abandoned by Menalaus, and is fearful that when Neoptolemus returns he will kill her because of her plot against Andromache and Molossus, for although Molossus is a bastard, he is still Neoptolemus’ son.  She wants to kill herself and is prevented from doing so by her nurse.  About this time, Orestes arrives on the scene.  Hermione was once betrothed to him, and he still wants her.  Besides, he knows that Neoptolemus is dead.  He arranged for this by spreading false rumors about Neoptolemus while he was at a temple offering sacrifices.  Hermione runs off with Orestes.

Messengers arrive and tell Peleus that Neoptolemus, his grandson is dead.  Since his only son Achilles is also dead, he is distraught.  He says that he now has no offspring and no reason for living.  His wife Thetis, who is a goddess, appears.  She reminds him that Molossus is his offspring and promises that a line of kings will come from him.  She further promises that after he buries Neoptolemus, she will arrange for Peleus to become a god, and they will be together forever.

Euripides ideas on women permeate this work.  Some make me angry:

*’tis woman’s way to delight in present misfortunes even to keeping them always on her tongue and lips.

*though some god hath devised cures for mortals against the venom of reptiles, no man ever yet hath discovered aught to cure a woman’s venom, which is far worse than viper’s sting…

*never, never….should men of sense, who have wives, allow women-folk to visit them in their homes, for they teach them mischief…

But, some of Euripides' thoughts on male-female relationships  are wise:

*’tis not beauty, but virtuous acts that win our husband’s hearts.

*I would have a husband content with one wife whose rights he shareth with no other.

*…every prudent man will seek to marry a wife of noble stock and give his daughter to a husband good and true, never setting his heart on a worthless woman, not even though she bring a sumptuous dowry to his house.

Other interesting quotes:

*We ought not on trifling grounds to promote serious mischief.

*…wilt thou slay me, passing by the cause and hurrying to the inevitable result?

*Thinkest thou God’s hand is shortened and that thou wilt not be punished?

*One word upon your lips, another in your heart, this is what men always find with you.

*The race of old men practices no restraint; and their testiness makes it hard to check them.

(I guess old men have always been grumpy.)

*Better is it not to win a discreditable victory, than to make justice miscarry by an invidious exercise of power.

*Women ought to smooth over their sisters’ weaknesses.

Teenage Rebellion Averted

Today at the grocery store, I noticed a young couple with two adorable little girls.  The younger, who was being carried by her dad, gave me a very sweet smile every time I passed them.  The older girl was full of energy and running around her parents while they shopped.  They ended up in the check-out line right ahead of me.  I, therefore, overheard conversation between the older girl (who was probably about 4) and the check-out clerk as to who was going to drink the beer that was being purchased.

This brought to mind my 3 or 4 year old self sitting on my Dad's lap while he drank beer with his friends at our kitchen table.  I asked if I could have a taste and was given an emphatic "No!"  I suspect that I was an abnormal child, and that most kids wouldn't react this way, but I remember being furious and indignant.  I thought, "Huh...he sits here and drinks more than one bottle, and he won't even give me a taste.  That is UNFAIR!  If it's not good for me, how can it be good for him?" 

It is probably a very good thing that my Dad gave up drinking alcoholic beverages when I was 7 years old.  I can only imagine how my attitude would have escalated into open defiance, if this "injustice" had continued.  Also, I would have eventually figured out that there was a correlation between the alcohol consumption on Friday night and the entire Saturday being wasted sleeping on the couch.  This lack of ambition when there were things to be done distressed my Mother.  Sooner or later, it would have distressed me too.

I did not understand the significance at the time, but when my Father decided to quit drinking, a celebration of sorts occurred, and my brother and I were allowed to pour the remainder of his stash down the toilet.  I have a distinct memory of this and the foam in the toilet bowl.

I have wondered many times as an adult what kind of problems I would have had and would have created for my parents as a teenager, if my Dad hadn't made some major changes in his life.

So today, I am thinking about those two sweet little girls and wishing the best for them and their parents.

What is Wrong with This Picture?

Yesterday with my husband at the wheel, we rounded a corner and came upon three boys on skateboards in the middle of the street.  They were smack dab in the center of our lane, but they were focused on the on-coming car in the other lane.  My husband had to brake and had to use the horn before they even realized we had come up behind them.

A few blocks later as we approached an intersection, I commented that there were more kids in the street ahead of us…but….when we got closer, we realized they weren’t kids.  A couple, who appeared to be in their 50s or 60s, was crossing the street.  Actually it was hard to tell their ages.  The man walked erectly and seemed sturdy, but the woman was unsteady and her back was bent both forwards and sideways.  With great effort, she was pushing a shopping cart which had one wheel wobbling around at an awkward angle.  In the cart were two 24 can cartons of beer.

“Oh,” I sighed, taking in the wobbly cart, the abundance of booze, the frail woman doing the heavy work as the man sauntered along, “What is wrong with this picture?”

“Everything,” my husband sadly replied.