(re)production of a writing from my grade school days… spelling, grammar, and punctuation (sometimes) corrected.

Hope those of you still in the joys of winter and snow and hibernating by the fire are enjoying some contemplative relaxation.

@pamdragonfly

Winter Treat

I stuff the last piece of newspaper under the black, ash-covered grate that sits amidst old, forgotten soot and ashes that have never been shoveled out. I reach for the box of blue-tip matches kept beside the fireplace tools that stand on top of the red and brown brick hearth, neatly hidden behind the wooden crate which houses the tiny kindling. The tools are hidden with good cause: only the hearth brush still has a wooden handle on the top; the poker has a silver shaft, rather than black, thanks to excessive use; the shovel’s edges are bent and disfigured, most likely the reason why the ashes hadn’t been removed from the bottom of the fireplace.

I shake the box to make sure there are matches in it. The shooka-shooka noise informs me that at least a few are still left. That meant I did not have to hunt for any, which was always an endless task, because we never have matches anywhere but by the fireplace. I push on the right side of the Ohio blue-tip match box causing the left end to open with a whish, so that I can rummage through the contents until I find the perfect matches. This kind of selection isn’t the best, of course, because all the matches are basically the same, and – in the end – I must use all the matches. I choose three or four adequate matches and toss the box back to its place. I pick a match from the pile on the hearth. The light blue tip that rests on top of the darker one seems to anticipate its pyral contact with the brick. I scratch the match against the hearth with a flourish.

It didn’t light.

Once more, and it didn’t light.

I break the match in a forceful attempt to light the resistant stick.

I throw the broken pieces of wood aside and grab another match. Luckily for the match and my sanity, it lit on the first try.

Flame hissed from the tip of the match and quickly spread towards the end of the edge of the the tip, and my fingers, scorching the very beginning of the match wood, turning the blue-tip to a greyish, black one. Quickly I light the edges of paper before the flame starts to burn my fingers. I light my third match by the fire already spreading through the paper, the way a sponge absorbs water. After the other side of the paper pile is lit, I watch the kindling and larger twigs catch fire from the burning paper. Standing up, I close the metal curtain and glass doors to encourage the fire.

I stretch my legs briefly and thump upstairs and saunter into the kitchen. I snatch the bag of marshmallows from the cabinet and hunt for a fondue fork to hold my marshmallows over the fire. Sticks burn and clothes hangers leave a foul metallic taste, so these I never use. Upon finding a fork, I leap down the stairs, skip over to the fireplace, and plop down on the huge pillow in front of the hearth. Leaning over, I open the glass doors and protective metal curtain. A strong, yet agreeable smell of burning wood and a hazy smoke fill the room, the signs of a perfect condition to roast marshmallows.

I rip open the plastic bag, take out a marshmallow, and skewer it with the fondue prongs. I move to the hearth for better access to the fire and look around for the best place to toast my gooey sugar cube. The smallest, bluest flames usually do the best at getting the marshmallow a rich brown and not burnt a charcoal black, if I hold it in the right place.

Staring at a fire can mesmerize anyone, hypnotizing you from reality. The orange, crimson, and rich blue flames danced against a black backdrop, bricks forever colored with carbon deposits. Oh, how I love to stare at fire, letting it absorb me.

A snap in the fire brings me back from my dream and to the fact that I’m not a flame in the Ballet of Fire. I check on my marshmallow to discover that my beautiful white goo is on fire! I yank my hand, and thus bring the marshmallow out of the fire, frantically blowing and waving the fork  to put out the fire.

Oh well. The first one always burns anyway.