I want a bon fire, baby!
It's bon fire season and although I haven't been able to participate in one yet this summer, I am anxiously anticipating throwing on an old college sweatshirt soaked in bug spray with a roasting marshmallow in one hand and a cold beverage in the other. I'm going to the lake for the fourth of July and by lake I mean my lake, Blue Dog Lake. It has been the site for more family gatherings and summer morning, days, and nights than I can remember. But there are some lake memories, particularly bon fire memories, that are pretty unforgettable.
There is something about a bon fire that seems to put people at ease. Maybe it's finally feeling cool for the first time all day. Maybe it's the beer. Maybe it's the deet. Most likely, I think that it's because everyone sits together in a circle. Throughout the day people are scattered playing yard games, going on boat rides, and driving to the gas station to get more ice. When it's finally bon fire time, everyone sits down and stays put. And then the stories begin.
My dad excelled at all things bon fire from starting the fire, to readjusting the logs with his 'fire stick', to smothering it before heading to bed. He was also pretty great at telling stories. At a fire years ago, when my little red headed cousin was still drinking out of a sippy cup (she can drive now!), my dad proclaimed that there were two requirements to every bon fire: "drink beer and burn wood." Though we thought she was asleep in her dad's arms, Kayla's red head popped up and said, "Drink milk and burn wood." It was either because of the surprise of her comment or the fact that anything she said was adorable because of her messy red hair, but there was an eruption of laughter that lasted at least 2 minutes. It was a story that has been told and re-told many times over.
We often had guests at our family fires as well. My dad was notorious for inviting people, especially after the annual Waubay street dance and especially after a long night of "celebrating." My mom would ask, "How many people did you invite this year?" and he would say, "Only 200 of my closest friends." We never had that many people, but we did get some unfamiliar faces prompting puzzled looks and whispers to each other asking, "Do you know who that is?"
Then came the stories. There were stories from our neighbor Larry about seeing aliens in the eighties and stories about my parents and aunts and uncles before they had kids and mortgages and responsibilities. There were stories about adventure and tragedy, things we had experienced or heard from someone else. We reminded each other last names of people who we used to know or the year that someone died or we went on that vacation. At one bon fire, my parents told my friends who were visiting from Aberdeen where exactly I was conceived. That's embarrassing, but everyone else thought it was funny.
Just like I'm learning about life, all good things must come to an end, and this goes for bon fires too. Kids fall alseep and adults decide to retire for the night. The group eventually disbands leaving my dad and his fire stick. He would smoother the fire until just the cinders burned and every time we would agree that it looked like the lights of a city from an airplane. My mom would want to pour water on it before going to bed, but my dad would reassure her that it would burn out on its own. And it usually did.
I miss all of the parts of a good bon fire but especially the stories and especially the people. Especially my dad.
There is something about a bon fire that seems to put people at ease. Maybe it's finally feeling cool for the first time all day. Maybe it's the beer. Maybe it's the deet. Most likely, I think that it's because everyone sits together in a circle. Throughout the day people are scattered playing yard games, going on boat rides, and driving to the gas station to get more ice. When it's finally bon fire time, everyone sits down and stays put. And then the stories begin.
My dad excelled at all things bon fire from starting the fire, to readjusting the logs with his 'fire stick', to smothering it before heading to bed. He was also pretty great at telling stories. At a fire years ago, when my little red headed cousin was still drinking out of a sippy cup (she can drive now!), my dad proclaimed that there were two requirements to every bon fire: "drink beer and burn wood." Though we thought she was asleep in her dad's arms, Kayla's red head popped up and said, "Drink milk and burn wood." It was either because of the surprise of her comment or the fact that anything she said was adorable because of her messy red hair, but there was an eruption of laughter that lasted at least 2 minutes. It was a story that has been told and re-told many times over.
We often had guests at our family fires as well. My dad was notorious for inviting people, especially after the annual Waubay street dance and especially after a long night of "celebrating." My mom would ask, "How many people did you invite this year?" and he would say, "Only 200 of my closest friends." We never had that many people, but we did get some unfamiliar faces prompting puzzled looks and whispers to each other asking, "Do you know who that is?"
Then came the stories. There were stories from our neighbor Larry about seeing aliens in the eighties and stories about my parents and aunts and uncles before they had kids and mortgages and responsibilities. There were stories about adventure and tragedy, things we had experienced or heard from someone else. We reminded each other last names of people who we used to know or the year that someone died or we went on that vacation. At one bon fire, my parents told my friends who were visiting from Aberdeen where exactly I was conceived. That's embarrassing, but everyone else thought it was funny.
Just like I'm learning about life, all good things must come to an end, and this goes for bon fires too. Kids fall alseep and adults decide to retire for the night. The group eventually disbands leaving my dad and his fire stick. He would smoother the fire until just the cinders burned and every time we would agree that it looked like the lights of a city from an airplane. My mom would want to pour water on it before going to bed, but my dad would reassure her that it would burn out on its own. And it usually did.
I miss all of the parts of a good bon fire but especially the stories and especially the people. Especially my dad.
I have really been commenting a lot on your blog but I don't even care. How could I NOT comment on this post. I had completely forgot about your Dad's fire stick but I have a distinct memory of him standing there like rafiki with the specially chosen stick. I have only experienced 2 lightfield bon fire's but it was enough to make me want to come back for more!!
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