Covid Journal, Day 138: Campfire Smoke

63 this morning, a cool night with windows and doors open, and no AC. What a pleasure.

We had firepit time this evening, after a dinner of our first corn, tomatoes, cucumbers, and a medley of green beans, new potatoes, onions, squash and carrots, all from the garden. The corn is a fitting tribute to the full moon, called the Green Corn Moon by some--green corn being fresh corn as opposed to dried corn stored for winter use.

 

The smell of the smoke brought back a flood of memories this evening, of times spent beside a fire. Times like these:

• picnics with the family when I was a girl, at the Manassas Battlefield Park or a smaller park called Conway Robinson. Mom would pack up a simple dinner, often a pot of spaghetti, or maybe hotdogs or even breakfast foods like eggs and bacon. No matter what we had to eat, there were always marshmallows to roast over the fire. Dad was in his element, hatchet on a hanger on his belt, booted and ready to build the perfect fire. Which he always did. 

                                                                 Mom at Conway Robinson Park, late 50's early 60's. 

• camping with my first four sons. Many weekends when we were looking for a place to move to, we'd take off in our little Chevy van that we had set up for easy camping. We had a big box with our food, all things that needed no refrigeration, and all out utensils. We'd grab the Coleman stove, sleeping bags, eggs and a few other things, and some clean clothes and be out the door in 20 minutes. Then we'd drive to the mountains, usually with a bottle of Boone's Farm Strawberry Hill tucked in my bag. When we found a likely spot in the national forest or a roadside park, we'd set up camp and build a fire. After the boys went to sleep we'd sit by the fire with our cheap wine and watch the stars. Mornings, we'd stoke up the fire and make eggs, fried potatoes and tea or coffee. What good times those were, full of the promise of the future.
• camping here on this land before we got our house built. We built a shed and set up a fire ring for cooking. We'd sleep out under the stars, or if it was raining, inside the shed. 
• New Year's bonfires, which we did for years, and still do sometimes at our son's house. Friends and family, faces around the fire, stories, singing, food, wine...what good times.

                                                         

• storytelling at campfires all around West Virginia. Smoke, rapt faces, ghost stories and ballads. Afterwards my hair and clothes smelling of smoke, but I didn't notice it while I was telling.

• evenings at my friend Kirk's camp at Buckeye, WV on the Greenbrier River. Poets and musicians, wine, moonshine, laughter, stories and stories and stories.
• and of course the many, many fires in our firepit, often just me and Larry, the dogs and the cats, quiet evenings listening to night descend.

All good memories, and there are many more I've forgotten to list. A reminder that even in hard times there are still treasures to be had that need little to be discovered. Just a firepit, some wood, a match, and time. 

Copyright Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.

Covid Journal, Day 96: Firepit Time and Elderflower Wine

60 this morning, foggy and drizzly but eventually cleared off to a beautiful day.

The days seem to go by so quickly! I was surprised to realize this morning that we hadn't been out since Sunday. The week has been a blur--gardens, gravel, refrigerator, hauling the lumber from a neighbor's torn-down garage, cooking and baking. We have been making time most evenings for firepit time, and it's been good for us. We can both keep right on working up to dark if we don't make ourselves stop. While it gets things done, is it really worth wearing ourselves out? Especially now, when there are no real deadlines for most of our projects anyway.

The firepit patio. Such a nice place to spend a long evening.

The learning to slow down has been one of the main lessons of this pandemic, at least at our house. There are many others, certainly--learning to let go of income possibilities that require being out in public, to not see friends and family for long periods of time, to wear a mask when out among people, hand-washing and sanitizing if we do go out...the list is endless, it seems. But for us, taking downtime is a big change.

Today we had to go out, but we stopped at a little park along the Ohio River, and just sat in a swing there, watching the river roll by, birds darting and fish jumping, a few boats passing. To do nothing but sit and look is a new skill I'm taking a liking to. There is so much to see in this world, and so much beauty all around us.

On the way home I spied a patch of easily accessible elderberry bushes in full flower. Yes! I've been keeping an eye out for some because I want to make elderflower wine. I used to make it back in the 70's and remembered its golden color and unique flavor, and was thrilled when I stumbled upon the An English Homestead blog and found the same recipe that I used to make! I ordered some wine yeast and it came very quickly, and made sure I had all the other ingredients on hand--water, sugar, lemon juice, and raisins. All I needed was the flowers.

So now my batch is brewing. We'll see how it comes out, and if it is as good as I remember. I even went online and found the old book I used to use (mine fell apart), Homemade Wines: How to Make Them by Peggy Hutchinson. Maybe I'll try a few more recipes this summer, after I see how this one turns out.

Copyright Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.

Listening for Spring

I’m waiting to hear it. Sometime around dusk as we sit around the firepit resting after a day of garden work, we will hear his voice, and hers responding. They will probably be far back in the woods that surround our house and their call will echo from hill to hill.

Whip-poor-will! Whip poor will! I have always wondered what poor Will did to deserve a whipping, but that sober thought doesn’t detract from the music of the Whippoorwill as he calls to his love and she responds in kind. Closer and closer they come, their songs also coming closer, until at last they are singing in unison. Ah, yes. Spring has definitely come. For when we hear the Whippoorwill, we can be fairly sure that the killing frosts are behind us. Of course, the birds can be as wrong as the weatherman in their predictions, but I have found them more accurate, at least at predicting when we can plant the tender crops.

There are other spring sounds I listen for too. The surprising day when I realize the wind is actually rustling the leaves on the trees is one. Winter’s winds sear through the trees creating ghostly howls and even screeches as the branches whip about. And then one day, I will notice a softness in the breezes and a quiet rustle in the woods. The leaves have grown large enough to make that sweet sound, and even to cast a small shade on the ground.

Even earlier in the season the bees will be about their work. The maples in the yard will be budding and the honeybees will be hard at work gathering nectar to replenish their supplies of honey that dwindled during the cold months. Even in winter we might see them out on one of those warm, sunny days that surprise us in mid-winter. But when the maples and the daffodils bloom the bee are out in force, and I am happy to hear them because I know then that they’ve come through the cold season one more time.

One sound I do not look forward to, however—the lawn mower. It has to be done or we will be living in a brush patch but the first roar of that motor foreshadows months of trying to keep ahead of the growth. I think the old-timers might have been on to something when they tethered sheep to do their mowing. It certainly had to be quieter.

The early morning sun will be greeted with a symphony of bird calls, from the rough grating of the nuthatch to the beautiful melodies of wood thrush, brown thrasher and cardinals. In the trees, loud chirping will announce the arrival of nestlings in the many nests around our house. It is quiet here in the country, but it is a quiet that is filled with music, and each season has its own melodies.


The songs of spring are the harbinger of hard work, but also of the promise of another season of beauty and plenty. 

Copyright Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.