Too large to be intended for the fire, cut sections of trees served as resting stools for more than one annual trip to the familiar river bottom. Without confirmation, each has in intended occupant. Time has a way of etching routine without formality. The unceremonious act of who takes their place in cadence is stamped in time.
It seems one always has “one more thing” to sort out and put in its place. The last to take his place in line. The last to turn out the lantern. Beyond the reach of the campfires shine clattering of assorted gear indicates the restlessness. All, except this one, have gathered at their appointed places amongst the bark covered thrones.
“What are you doing out there? You gonna come on or what? We ain’t gonna wait all night.”
The strings are tuned and the whistles are wet. We wait momentarily.
“Well, are ya coming?”
From the darkness and damp, with clarity comes a chuckle and reply.
“In a bit, perhaps, you old codger, In a bit.”
The usual banter and ribbing of “always late” and “it’s gonna be daylight soon" offers a familiarity to the situation. We know we are going to have to wait. A round with flask and a dirge of song pushes the hour past.
The shifting of logs and flicker of flame, upward the embers struggle to rise. The glow still strong but not quite as bright, the warmth still surrounds us all. The sweetgum stump, awaits in quiet with sounds from just beyond. It seems the clatter is not intense as it was some time earlier.
“The music is old and bellies are full, if you’re coming on, then ya gonna have to do it soon. Not sure of the duration with this routine of fun.”
A chorus of laughter votes in favor of wit, but certainty not at all certain. Waiting for a reply I sit suddenly quiet as I listen for anticipated answer.
“In a bit, perhaps, when I finish. In a bit.”
The campfire out, the reminding ashes, what’s left of the mighty oak, a reminder that dawn is near. The river fog cloaks the forest near and water still between the banks flows. The cold ashes swirl about and, with a grin, I answer the wind’s invitation ; “are you coming”.
“In a bit, perhaps, you old codger, In a bit.”
..
...wow...
ReplyDelete"Time has a way of etching routine without formality." Indeed. Your friend...I think of your buddy. Memories. The campfire. Lucky you...to have had so many.
ReplyDeleteSounds like some folks I know..thanks for coming by and leaving me a comment sometimes..I am honored by them.
ReplyDeleteDid ya call them girls???
glenda
It's hot summer and I love it, but you made me wish I was sitting at a campfire.
ReplyDeleteTime by the campfire is limited. It soon turns to embers.
ReplyDeleteWhen we used to go camping in the Colorado mountains decades ago, my favorite times were sitting by the campfire, especially when the flames had turned the logs to red, and listen to my husband play his guitar. This reminded me of that. Glad you're back a spell, Glenn!
ReplyDeleteI tend to linger a bit when I start thinking. I can see myself in that situation. Those are moments when I "get me" better.
ReplyDeleteWatching the embers of my time as I sit vicariously at the campfire you lit here. We'll all answer the invitation in a bit. Thanks for the reminder.
ReplyDeleteIt's all tradition and rhythm, isn't it? A very deep in the bone pleasing one, it seems. Beautiful writing, glenn.
ReplyDeleteThey wait on you:)
xo
erin
I don't know who you are talking about, but clearly it is someone special.
ReplyDelete