Hearth and Flame a Memoir
. The orange and gold leaves are falling, days are shortening, a little more
everyday.
The chill in the air and brisk wind tells us to prepare for the cold. Daddy makes
grumbling
children gather the firewood onto the porch from the wood shed. Brother makes us
get
enough for the week so we don't have to get the wood in again till the next week.
The
splinters are the worse part of carrying wood to the house, spending time with my
brother,
Robbie, is the best. Robbie is four years older than me, and much wiser, secretly he
is my
hero, though I would never tell him that piece of information; he would use it against
me and
his ego is already big enough!
First thing each morning, we all gather around the fire after our parents get it
burning; rooting in like hogs to the teat to get the middle spot. The middle spot gets
heat on
three sides, and also was the center of attention. As the flames rose and kissed our
cheeks
a rosy hue, it was then that we had to turn to our back side to prevent permanent,
scorching to the face and clothes. Little times in life, such as these,
stand out to me as I get older, and make my memories sweeter. The people who
loved me,
not the accomplishments in my job nor my talents, warm my memories today.
The heat source was really important in our home, as you can see, in more ways
than one; the heat we all seek and need for survival, but also a camaraderie
developed
between siblings watching the burning logs and seeking warmth. My eyes saw the
flames, tall
and short, red and yellow. Charcoal embers radiate the red glow, as they become
ashes that
are poured out on the ground, which was also a chore of the children, with much
grumbling
and complaining...
Today I stand by the hearth with my new family, watching the embers turn the
wood
black then red and into grey ash dust. I feel the warmth and remember my childhood;
it is a
fond memory. The heat is needed and welcome on aching joints. The flame grows
higher and
becomes alive before my eyes, dancing. I remember a bush that was not consumed
by the
fire. This wood is being consumed slowly before my eyes. Memories are alive like the
flames;
memories become written stories to pass the time and keep my sweet memories
alive in time.
Copyright © Doris Culverhouse | Year Posted 2010
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