Fire
"Man is the animal that has made friends with the fire."
- Henry Van Dyke
"Ah, fire! Scourge of Prometheus! Toaster of marshmallows! Eradicator of dead wood."
-- Sideshow Bob, The Simpsons
Man, the master of elements, the creature most adapted to Earth's fickle climes, the toaster of marshmallows, owes his versatility, his longevity, his knowledge, and his wealth to fire. Though the wild beasts fear it, man is entranced, even soothed, by its sight, smell, and feel. The good servant and evil master is entwined in his past as well as his destiny. For the family from whence I come, fire is almost another sibling. This year marked the point in time for which my high school graduation was half a lifetime ago. The memories of the first half of my life are often tied to fire and the labors that provided fuel for winter fires.
When we lived in Paragonah we had a huge fireplace that could have heated three houses, or so it seemed. I remember the stonework around the fireplace. It was made of green, flat stone that must have come from the pile behind Grandpa's insurance office in Panguitch1. To the left of the fireplace was a hole in the wall to allow heat to flow into the room Steve and I shared. (That hole also worked as a portal for two boys in the months when the fire wasn't burning.) The fireplace itself seemed larger than any other I recall. I think the next size up must have been the "Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednigo" size. I remember how much heat that fireplace would produce. I'm sure it put out more heat than a small nuclear reactor2. I even remember Dad having to repaint portions of the fireplace with a special paint that came in a very small bottle because the intense heat had diminished the finish.
I don't remember how old I was, but I recall toasting marshmallows in that fireplace for s'mores. When the door was open it was easy to become almost hypnotized by the flames within.
Though I am sure we went into the hills to get wood for that fireplace, I don't recall doing so until we moved to Panguitch. I do, however, recall that it was my job to bring in wood from the back porch every night to feed the monster fireplace. It was during my evening chore that my only sister at the time decided to help me. Since we moved to Panguitch when I was ten Shanon couldn't have been more than two. I recall handing her a small log, then another. The second one must have knocked her off balance because she fell over and one of the logs smashed her finger. I felt awful. I felt worse when she had to be taken to the hospital. The whole time she was gone I felt like it was my fault the she was hurt. When she returned home, she staggered around the living room like some Irishman on St. Patrick's Day. It should have been hilarious, but I still felt guilty. The worst was when the tip of her finger turned black and fell off. I was responsible for maiming my sister. Fortunately, the end of her finger (including the nail) grew back, and I finally got over the guilt. Besides, aren't things like hard work and losing fingertips supposed to build character?
Those familiar with our house in Paragonah might realize that the fireplace was in the section of the house that was added on later, which begs the question, "How was the house heated before the addition?" I, for one, know there was a propane wall heater3. Once, after having a bath, I was standing in front of the heater trying to get warm. In order to get the most out of the heater I exposed as much of myself to the warmth as I could. (To the unimaginative, that means my bare butt was near the heater.) Ever one to push a good thing too far, I got closer and closer to the heater until...
I leaped forward in the same moment my backside touched the hot metal. I would like to think I didn't yelp like scared puppy, but I just can't recall. Dad said something like, "My poor boy. Are you at all injured?" Actually, he uttered the immortal words, "It doesn't take him long to check out a hot stove." I think it was meant as a metaphor. Future generations will carve those words into marble buildings. Fortunately, I would not be the last of my siblings to use their backside as a thermometer.
In addition to the fiery furnace of Paragonah, we had a wood burning stove in our new house in Panguitch for several years. One of the duties of summertime was to gather, cut, haul, stack, and split wood for winter. Though the work of getting wood could be tedious and exhausting, it was also enjoyable in its own way.
A typical trip to get wood took most of the day. If Dad's homemade (and in retrospect, rather ingenious) racks were not already on the old red Chevy, he and I would lift them in place. Then the hefty chainsaw box would be loaded in the back next to the spare tire. After snacks and people were crammed into the cab we would be off. (Later trips involved a second vehicle, often the old van.)
Mom and Dad would pick a spot in the hills far enough along a rough road to ensure we were properly nauseous once we arrived. Once we shook that off, it was time to get to work. We would haul logs to the truck, often in teams. As we got bigger, we would carry logs over a shoulder by ourselves. When Dad thought Steve and I were big enough, we were allowed to handle the chainsaw. Though it may sound strange, these things were a measure of our progression to manhood. The work was exhausting, yet it brought a sense of accomplishment and independence.
Of course the work wasn't done when the wood was loaded in the truck. If the logs hadn't been cut before they were loaded in the truck, they had to be cut at home. The larger logs had to be split into smaller pieces using an ax and boy-power. (I do recall the use of a log splitting machine once in Paragonah, but I'm sure that was discontinued because boys needed work to do.) Then all cut and split pieces were stacked in an orderly fashion.
Splitting wood was something that was often done well after the day-long trips to get wood. It was a solitary act, yet one requiring a certain amount of violence. The nearest act to it that I can describe is a boxer or martial artist practicing on a punching bag. It was a way for the angst of adolescence to find a physical outlet.
I recall one time Steve, some cousins, and I were unloading wood. It had all been cut to size on the mountain, so we formed a human chain to unload and stack it. I stood in truck and tossed each log to the next person, who tossed it to the next, etc. The last person in the line would then stack it on the pile. After some minutes of this Steve, who's life ambition at the time was to become a professional wrestler if I recall correctly, said something like, "Do you know how huge we would be if we did this every day?"
The last trip to get wood that I recall was just Steve and I. It seemed to complete a circle. We had the knowledge and maturity to do it on our own. It wasn't long after that trip that Mom and Dad replaced the wood burning stove with a natural gas stove.
Were all these things the only roles fire played in our lives it would be significant, but we also had our campfires. Every member of the family seemed to have the instinct to gather wood for fires as soon as we arrived at a campsite. We also had the instinct to add too much wood to the fire until taught otherwise. Around the campfire we talked and cooked and ate. We did those things together that make families what they are. In the movie Thunderheart a tribal elder says, "We will smoke the pipe and there will be no lies between us." Perhaps sharing the smoke of the same fire allowed conversation among us that wouldn't be had at home in rectangular rooms among the clutter of everyday living.
There must be something magical to open fires because Dad built a fire pit near the little house even though a well thrown rock from the kitchen could strike the fire pit. Cooking outside near the house in the summertime is not a necessity, but a pleasure. Like the campfire it allows for good conversation. It also allows time to sit and ponder our vast surroundings and reflect in a way that few people probably do anymore.
As our lives move with the technological tide, it seems we spend less and less time with fire, and some part of us recognizes that something is missing. I am glad our parents acquainted us with this form of magic, and I'm glad my children know it too.
1. I don't know where that pile of rocks came from, but I do remember getting hit in the head by one of those rocks thrown by a cousin. I couldn't say which cousin since it was long ago and, well, I had been hit in the head by a rock. Alas, that story has little to do with the fireplace in Paragonah.
2. Author's estimate.
3. I assume it was propane fueled. I didn't notice such things back then. What follows the noted sentence is for posterity only. I derive no pleasure from telling the tale.
