Cookout

I am still suffering rather greatly from a fever and cold and I think I'll write about a happy thing from when I was about 5 years old...

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Dad loved a cookout. He had created a picnic area by clearing out the foundation of an ancient collapsed farmhouse. The two walls that remained provided shelter for the pile of rubble he called a firepit and the stacks of gray wood he deemed benches and tables.

The ritual would start with some mumbled orders. "MW get the ax". "Joe get some plates". He would rumble off to the woods. My mother would roll her eyes and quiver as crashes and obscenities echoed around us.

He would emerge snorting, dragging a complete tree behind him. "MW, start breaking branches. Joe, hold the tree trunk". He would lever himself on to the largest branch and start jumping. My mom would blink back tears of laughter and look solemnly at us kids.

My dad would go sprawling when the branch broke, coating himself with dust and grass. My mom would hold her hand to her mouth, covering a cough that sounded suspiciously like a giggle.

He would pick up the enormous branch, and with a spin would smash it in to a foundation wall. Rock and wood shrapnel would pepper the area. My mom would squeak as he wound up for another blow.

Eventually the branch would break, whipping around to rap him in the knuckles or bash into his legs. With a grumble he would toss the wood in the pit.

Pain would cause him to glare around. Spotting the tree would give him a target, and he would wrap his arms around the trunk, strain for a while, and then step back for us to admire his handiwork.

We would look goggle eyed at the sight of a thirty foot tree draped across a three foot firepit.

As my dad lit the tree, my mothers control would crumble, and howls of laughter followed the flames into the night...