Something therapeutic about a burn pile
FISHTRAP HOLLOW, Miss.—From the computer this morning I learned that taking too many “selfies” can be detrimental to your love life, which leaves me in good stead. Not only do I not take photographs of myself, I hide whenever anyone produces a camera.
And then there was a bit about Donald Trump saying he doesn’t really care much about golf, a shame because every head of state needs a passionate outlet that doesn’t involve war or interns. I think golf has served this country well, dis- tracting many of our presidents and keeping them relatively sane. I personally think Trump needs to play more golf.
Another story said that Pope Francis prefers the world not blow itself into smithereens and has suggested a third party, like Norway, mediate the crisis between the U.S. and North Korea. Not a half-bad idea, but I’m glad the pope left his new friend Bill O’Reilly out of his proposed peace plan. Then there was yet another story about a famous designer’s decision not to dress Melania, which sounds inconsequential but must be a real crisis of conviction if you’re in the business of making big money by showing off your dresses on mannequins. I went outside to burn sticks and leaves. I know it’s deemed bad for the environment, but I admit to loving a burn pile. I’d say it’s in my top three of guilty pleasures.
I can’t start my day unless I make my bed, a rule my mother drilled into my brain at such an early age that I’ll be tucking and fluffing when Norway fails and Armageddon arrives. The rest of the bedroom can be in awful shape, with dirty clothes on the floor and dust on the furniture. But the bed will be made unless I’m dead.
Burn piles are the made beds of the yard. Nothing tidies up a yard like a fire. I have a huge yard full of trees, many of them dangling gumballs. Every morning there’s a new supply of sticks and leaves and those thorny balls, and the disarray bothers me.
Nothing is better than striking the match that makes the mess disappear. The ritual of raking the unburned leaves toward the flame is therapeutic.
Burning helps me think. Several years ago, I spent several months in drought-ridden Colorado and almost went crazy from the burn ban. You couldn’t even light a charcoal grill, much less tidy up a fire blazing on the lawn.
I’ll have to admit that hiatus from burning was one reason I knew I could never commit to living in Colorado full time. I couldn’t think, except about coming home. My one trip to Lake Tahoe was much the same. Residents with fireplaces were assigned colors and could use them only on alternate days. “Ah, the greens can strike a match and keep warm today!”
Maybe the attraction is a residual of my teenage years. Back in the day, going to a bonfire was code for attending a make-out party. Everyone knew a hay ride and bonfire ended in young love igniting.
My mother had this innate sense of when romance was in the air. She was against it. I never was allowed to go on church hayrides, or to their bonfires, much less those outside of Baptist supervision.
Maybe that explains why I’d rather be poking at a pile of sooty limbs in this dark Mississippi hollow than eating caviar on a Caribbean cruise. Whatever lights your fire.