[pct-l] camp fire

[jomike@snowcrest.net (JoAnn M Michael)]

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Thank you for sharing the poem.

I was raised car camping. But, my father never went where others went (he t=
aught me the difference between 'clean' dirt and 'dirty' dirt!) and he had =
all the broken oil pans on our Chevy station wagons to prove it.

We'd leave in the very early morning, before day light. My mother would hav=
e the back seat lowered and have our sleeping bags ready for my brother and=
 I to climb in and go back to sleep. Later, as we'd begin to wake, my fathe=
r would start to sing. As he aged and the unknown cancer in his lungs began=
 to grow, he could sing less and less but he'd sing Go Tell Aunt Roadie, Go=
od Night Irene, She'll Be Come'n Around The Mountain and many patriotic son=
gs.

Later, after arriving at camp (not without the Chevy dragging bottom, my mo=
m hollering, and the inevitable broken oil pan) I'd follow my father around=
 with the pegs as he set up the family size canvas tent. As the day went by=
, he'd take me fishing, and with his skills, he always saw to it I caught a=
t least one. And now looking back, I find my beginnings as a hiker; I'd fin=
d deer trails and follow them as far as I could before fearing being lost a=
nd turning around.

After dinner, there was always the evening campfire. I remember so very muc=
h about the campfire. Another brother, much older than I, would recite from=
 memory, The Shooting of Dan McGrew and The Cremation of Sam Magee. My fath=
er would play his harmonica.

And of course, there were the marsh mellows roasted on the end of a twig. B=
eing the youngest, I usually managed to cause mine to burn jet black and wo=
uld scream for my father to blow it out. He'd then show me where the best c=
oals where and how to hold the white tipped twig in just the right spot for=
 the most perfect golden brown mellow.

It was around the campfire that I saw so many things that never existed. Tr=
ees became mean looking men, rocks moved mysteriously, the tent no longer l=
ooked inviting, and our car, in the distance took on the appearance of this=
 huge, sharp edged monster!

The warmth of the fire created a kind of flush quite like nothing else.  Ta=
ught to slowly move in a circular motion, so that "all sides" stayed relati=
vely warm, became an art form I worked on for many a summers.

It was while camping, in the evening around the fire, as a child I was cert=
ain nothing in life could be better. While around a campfire with my family=
 there was always this strange combination of feelings. There was always th=
e fear of "what is out there" in the dark, yet there was always an even str=
onger, fervent force created from the flush of the fire. It was the absolut=
e certainty, certainty of that of only an innocent youngster, that I would =
be safe forever beside my father and the campfire that I hoped would never =
go out.

JoAnn Michael
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