Fire

 I'm sitting in front of the first fire of the season. The first fire has always held a special place in my heart: the end of summer and the beginning of winter. Fall has never been a season to me, just a jumping off point from one life to another. The transition between water to snow. Those times are past me now. These days it's become a merge down the on-ramp from mowing the lawn to the highway of (in the words of my friend Mike McAuliffe) "goddamn snow management." But still, it's my favorite time of year. The Credit Card Captains have had their boats put up, the flats are empty Monday thru Friday, and the package store isn't quite as busy. It's always been a time to be out there on the water and do what I do in honest silence. A time to get back to where I came from and appreciate where I am now. 

I throw more wood on the fire as my father is upstairs in what Jill and I call the "Lincoln Bedroom." I carried his bag upstairs a few minutes ago and as I got an extra blanket out of the closet was suddenly awash in memories of going back to the farm in college and my twenties when he would do the same for me. Walking down that long hallway from the garage to the kitchen, past my old bedroom, the smell of birch in the woodstove, sunset over the lake, pizza on the table, a beer extended from one hand and a hug from the other. My favorite memory of going home. For those first few minutes, there was nothing else but family. Tonight, Jill and I reciprocated. Drinks on the patio looking out on the pond as the sun dropped behind the pines, pizza in the kitchen and stories and current events from back home in front of the fire. 

Now I sit here as everyone has retired for the night. Jackson Browne, John Prine, the Allman Brothers and the Eagles on my set list, just like it was when I would sit up on the farm in front of the fire when everyone else went to bed. In those moments I wrestled and reconciled with where I was, where I was going and where I came from. Comfortably grounded by what has always been while anxious about tomorrow, the next step and the unknown ahead. That's what going home should be. 

I'm a short distance from turning another year around the sun. I've gone from everything to nothing and back again more times than I care to remember. In all of it there's been a constant source of strength, a light to guide me home. In my house tonight, in front of the woodstove, sitting next to my dad I was awash in that light again. Home.

Call your dad. 

Littles Pond

23 September 2022