A few years ago, we had a huge ice storm here in New Hampshire. Thousands of trees were split and shattered, and power was out in our neck of the woods for about two weeks. We lost a few trees, including one 200’ tall, 30” diameter white pine, which came crashing down in a rush and a roar that launched both Tracy and I out of bed. It sounded like the end of the world.
Well… It wasn’t, thank goodness, but it did leave a big mess of pine boughs, branches and tangled remains of all the little trees that it took with it in the fall. I spent two weekends cutting up the remains of most of the pine and the little trees that were on the bank or in the garden, and I built a big brush pile. Once the snow arrived, we spent a family afternoon burning brush.
The snow covered a lot of the remains, and there was such a tangle, that after the initial cleanup triage, I let the rest of the mess lie. I planned on cleaning it up in the spring. And that’s what I did. Over the last 2 years, during moments here and there, I dragged limbs and branches up to the corner of the yard near a stone wall, where the pile would be masked by the small trees, the bank, and the garden. The pile also turned into a repository for all things wood. Garden baskets that had lived their life, an old wooden bench whose legs had rotted, the board ends from countless back yard building projects. What started as a small place to drag a few branches began to have a life of its own, layers of the seasons work stacked in a mound. And as it happened, we had somewhat of a droughtish summer, so the wood dried to tinderbox quality.
Shift forward to this December Christmas vacation. We had our first substantial snowstorm here in Westmoreland on the day after Christmas. Not a blizzard of huge proportion, really, just the normal snowstorm of years past, and about 15” of white, dry, fluffy snow covered the ground. It was beautiful, and the winds, which accompanied the storm and that remained for days after, sculpted the snow around the house into all kinds of interesting lunaresque landscapes. The wind also blew all the snow off what now was a very substantial, and very visible, brush pile in the barren back yard.
I decided on Tuesday that if the winds subsided a bit, I would burn the brush pile, along with all the paper bags full of Christmas wrapping paper and cardboard gift boxes that filled the garage. Around noon time, it seemed like the winds had dulled to an occasional light breeze, so I began hauling up some of the bags and boxes. I lifted some of the limbs that stuck out from the unruly mound and began inserting the combustible materials. I pushed them deep into the mound, to make sure they would ignite the entire body, and when it all seemed ready, I lit a match. And another. And another. And another. This wasn’t going to be as easy as I thought. It was going to take a little more manipulation get anything going. The paper and cardboard would slowly catch, then in an instant, erupt into a huge flame, licking the limbs and penetrating deep into the pile, but once the fires had consumed the more easily combustible materials, it left the rest of the pile smoldering but un-finished.
I’m not someone to give up, once I’ve decided to do something, so back to the garage I went for the remaining paper and cardboard, and this time I began to strategically place it where the smoldering limbs seemed most receptive to burning. As things began to burn, I pulled at the mound and draped dry limbs over the flames, to let them lick at the the branches, and slowly, but surely, the fire started to take hold. As luck would have it, the winds began to pick up again, and the fire began to heave and puff, like a living organism. The winds would slow and the fire would lick high, then delve deep as a new wave of pushed into the mound. Then, with only little warning, the pile began to make a rushing sound, and with a roar, the entire mound heaved upward and burst into flame.
The heat generated was enormous. Where moments ago, I had my face and hands close in the brush, working to get the pile to ignite, I now had to back off at least 20 feet to avoid being scorched. The flames roared and reached high above the mound. Dry beech leaves and hemlock needles, 30 feet above the ground crackled and disappeared in smoke. All I could do for a while was let the waves of wind and flame consume the body of wood and tinder.
It seemed like an eternity, but in reality, the burst probably only lasted a few minutes. Soon the fire had taken most of the pile and it began to collapse on itself, although still burning fiercely. As the the heat began to subside a touch, I inched forward to gather stray limbs and push them deep inside the infernal heat… I wanted total consumption. The coals were glowing white and hot enough to easily melt glass. The day was cold, maybe 20 degrees outside with a fairly strong wind blowing now, but the heat from the fire created an envelope around me and I felt nothing but warmth. When heat of the fire ebbed, I would dart in, grabbing whatever I could, and push it back in toward the flame. Not without consequence. Most of the hairs on my fingers and wrist and a few eyebrow and mustache hairs writhed and melted in the process. My cheeks and fingers began to cook with a healthy red glow.
This went on all afternoon, a frantic dance to keep the wind, the fire and the wood working together to an ultimate finish. As the afternoon closed, and it started to get dark, the fire finally began to wind down. I could now sit down and bask in the glow and relax. Tracy brought me out a cup of coffee, and I sat down on the stone wall, with the woods and cold wind at my back and the fire in my face.
And here was my moment. I had been listening to seventies tunes on my iPod all afternoon as I worked. Now as I sat to sip my coffee and stare at the fire, “The City of New Orleans,” by Arlo Guthrie, began top play. I experienced something. The biting wind and cold on my back, neck and ears; the heat of the fire still burning red on my cheeks and hands; the delicious oxygen laden, crisp air coupled with the aromatic smoke and resin of burning pine; the bluesy sadness of the music playing in my earphones, while I happily danced inside and hummed the tune. Between verses, I could hear the cold winds alternately rushing and whispering in the pines above me. I had simultaneously a feeling of solitude, sadness, oneness and euphoria. I wanted to cry and laugh at the same time, but the flames and hot coals drew me in once again, and I could only stare. My thoughts disappeared, my mind quieted, and my spirit vibrated and hummed a tune of joy.
I sat sipping my coffee, kicking my feet in time to the music, and humming until the coffee was gone. The fire was all but a few larger limbs now, burning slowly in the huge bed of coals.
I stood up, and with a last look at the pile that was my world for the afternoon, took a deep breath and walked across the darkened yard toward the inviting warmth and glow of my house.
I love the early morning air. I love the cold crisp chill on my cheeks. So, here it is the 27th of November, and this morning the air is frozen. Ok…its not really THAT cold… the temperature is about 30 degrees, but there is a fairly steady breeze and it chills the extremities. 
other than that… just the sound of the wind and my feet crunching on the gravel. At this point, even my mind is quiet, just footsteps and air, the breeze and breath.
I round the corner on Butterfield Hill Road and push on over the last down hill section past the Cemetery. Yes, our village does have a cemetery, too, and although most of its inhabitants moved in around the mid 1800’s, there are a few newcomers every now and again. There is a big stone crypt with a wooded plank door that is always ajar, and the kids like to peek in and scare themselves… Zombies, vampires and ghouls might inhabit this place… you can feel the energy of long dead souls, but I believe they are friendly and wish only to say hello to the newest neighbors.
Howdy folks! As you probably have noticed, my blog posts have been few and far between of late. I’m sorry, if you look forward to reading them; and you’re welcome, if you have enjoyed the relief from them. 
Last but not least, we grew a few pumpkins. I put in three kinds, little pie pumpkins, little hull-less seed pumpkins and a French variety. Its an heirloom also… Musque de Provence. 
