THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Monday, January 30, 1995 TAG: 9501280013
SECTION: DAILY BREAK PAGE: E1 EDITION: FINAL
TYPE: Column
SOURCE: Larry Maddry
LENGTH: Medium: 76 lines
SOME THOUGHTS while sitting by a fire:
In a fast-paced, computer-driven world, it is mighty pleasant now and then to ``log on'' to a fire.
There's nothing better on a winter evening when ice freezes the pond and the wind is as sharp as a wolf's tooth.
I don't think anyone is really alone in the company of a fire. The fire brings in visitors: memories so faint they have paled to ashes begin to glow again in your head.
I remember the roaring fire in the living room on Christmas morning as a boy. And the flames reflected in the sparkling handlebar chrome of a brand new bike. . . and the excitement in the eyes of my own son as he emptied his bulging Christmas stocking filled with treasures right down to the toe growing warm from its nearness to the blaze.
Everyone loves a winter fire. Sometimes when my dog and I walk the winter beach in late afternoon, quick-stepping in the cold, we watch the fiery red reflection of a setting sun in the clear panes of cottage windows. Then every 50 feet or so, we sniff the dry-sweet fragrance of burning wood, pushed our way by a stiff wind that flattens the smoke as it whips over chimneys. I wonder if sailors in boats far from shore have been surprised by the wind-borne aroma of wood smoke brushing past the sails to their nostrils.
When pre-historic people discovered fire, it changed humankind forever. Fire meant warmth in winter and cooked food. In short, survival. A fire wasn't a passing pleasure. It was life itself. Imagine a cave dweller in such times, twisting sticks and striking flint for the spark of life. Those fires that cast long shadows inside the cave walls must have had a magical quality. And the lighting of one was surely a deeply religious experience.
I don't think I see as many fires today as when I was a boy. Coal and wood-burning stoves seemed to be part of every grocery and hardware store then. And the hotel lobbies were showcases for fires: huge fireplaces with massive logs ablaze on great andirons capped with brass balls so large they could be fired from a brass cannon, it seemed.
My belief, and I cannot prove it, is that the enjoyment of a fire is diminished in direct proportion to the number of people sharing it. At night, fires can be very romantic, but I remember large fires at college that seemed wanting. Bonfires. When you get 2,000 students around a fire, for instance. And all shouting ``Beat Dook! Beat Dook!''. . . well, it loses something.
But in smaller groups fires have a civilizing influence. An intimacy develops in ways hard to explain. Maybe lights are usually lowered in the presence of fires and those bathed in its flattering glow feel less conscious of wrinkles in skin or clothes. Maybe it's just the relaxing warmth that spreads around. I don't recall many arguments beside fires. They seem to gentle people in a primitive way.
Many of my fireside memories are not romantic. My grandmother used to tell me stories by the fire. But I associate her with fires more because of a short and humorous poem she wrote. She set up the reader of the poem by describing some old love letters she found in an attic trunk. The poem described the handsome, well-dressed young man who had written such tender sentiments to her. In rhyme she described the tossing of each into the flames and watching the blackened pages fill with air and sail crazily around the fireplace before a draft sucked them up the chimney, ``twirling, charred, and free.'' She concluded: ``And they seemed just as silly. . . as you always did to me.''
Again, I suspect but do not know, that solitary fire-watching ranks right up there with watching cloud shadows drift across the floor of western canyons and the undulating blueness of the sea as inspirers of deep thoughts and creativity. Charles Dickens, arguably the finest novelist to use the English language, was a certified, card-carrying fire-watcher. There's something about the crackle, the sudden shift of logs, the spitting sparks, flaring of red and blue flame that does it.
Peasant or prince, the joy is the same. A couple of friends, a little wine, a pleasant fire and an old dog sprawled at your feet. It doesn't get any better. by CNB