Different Slants

Robert M. Katzman’s Amazing Story: www.differentslants.com/?p=355

© August 7, 2015

I built this fire pit out of stone and bricks in my Wisconsin back yard. Not a large yard, but encircled by tall pine trees. If the wind is calm, I can smell the leaking pinesap.

Also, I have three older dogs—my last dogs—a laid back black/tan/white coated Beagle with fragile hips, Betsy; an annoying and irritable miniature black Shih tzu named Chewy because with its hair hanging over its black eyes it resembles a miniature Chewbacca; and Jasmine, a tall skinny mixed breed Labrador-Spaniel, with reddish-brown hair, inquiring wolfish eyes and a desire to be on the same level you are when you are speaking to her. She is the youngest and dominant. Betsy, at fifteen will be the first to go, and Chewy, an inherited creature, daily tests my intent to always be compassionate with animals. They all sleep on our bed, separately.

Using twenty heavy circular footpath stones as a foundation, overlapping one row upon another in the shape of a flower, I placed twenty more oversized paver-type bricks on top of them, also in a circle, leaving a little space between each brick to ventilate the flames. After two more rows were in place, on the west side of the fire pit, I went up three more layers in a triangular pattern, to block the wind.

The pit resembled a miniature Roman coliseum, in ruins. In the center of the circle, about six feet across, I place a large flat stone as a floor to the pit. The stone would retain and reflect a large amount of heat, even as the fire diminished to coals. A very attractive quality for a fire pit to have, especially in the winter. Watching the dependable pallet of fiery colors against a surrounding backdrop of fresh snow is visually exciting, and the heat lets me linger in the cold.

I used no cement. I’m in Wisconsin. People here aren’t savages.

Inside of our older home, in a basement corner, there was a built-in floor to ceiling triangular cabinet that took up about eighty-four cubic feet. It was ugly in a special way. I decided it had to go. Telling my old complaining muscles that I would be rewarded for my efforts with eighty-four cubic feet of useable space convinced me it was worth doing.

Late one evening, using a hammer with a wooden handle, which I prefer, and an electric drill to reverse the endless number of steel Phillips screws, it gradually disassembled and became an ugly pile of heavy wood, but now at least moveable. It was going to be fuel for the brick fire pit. To me, turning an ugly cabinet into bright flames shooting up sparks into the night sky, is recycling in its most poetic form. Sunlight trapped in wood finally escaping.

Dragging the oversized shelves and walls up the basement steps, I fetched my electric saw with its lethally gleaming new blade from the garage, and also two steel sawhorses. I zipped through the wood effortlessly further reducing the cabinet’s components to useable-sized firewood. At that point, the wood became attractive to me.

The following evening when I came home from work, my three dogs were hysterical, as usual.

I am certain they believe that when my wife and I leave in the morning, we will never return. They will starve. They will die of thirst. Each night was like this, even though we always come back, it is as if we have returned from the dead and they are saved.

I can see why there are dog psychiatrists.

Cats?

Cats don’t care if you ever come home. People are such a bother. They prefer to have the home for themselves.

The three dogs tear out of the door in a panic the minute my key is removed from the lock and the handle is turned. Oh God, they must be thinking. Look! The yard is STILL there!! And they do what they must do. After that, and some food, they relax. We are home and they are safe. Until tomorrow, when we will coldly and cavalierly abandon them again, never to return.

There is a cedar swing facing the brick fire pit. It has a newly installed cedar canopy looming over it to protect a romantic couple sitting under it to be safe from the rain, but only if the rain is cooperatively falling straight down. In our brief tenure in rural Wisconsin, this is more of a poetic ambition than a reality. Rain here is a serious thing, a tangible and flowing force of nature and not to be underestimated.

I decided it was dark enough for me to benefit from the prior night’s labors. About a month earlier, I’d constructed a tall woodpile crammed into the rigid black steel frame of a log holder, about eight feet wide and six feet high. It is filled with an assortment of wood from old split logs, scavenged furniture left on curbs, scraps from small local lumber mills who are glad to give them away and fallen tree branches, both ours and others. I have never bought wood to burn.

Under the elevated bottom of the woodpile’s steel frame, to keep the bottom wood dry in the event I ever use up enough wood to get down that far, is a closed flat plastic box filled with dry newspapers. I don’t need a lot, but even with abundant twigs lying on the grass, a little dry newsprint is an essential element in the creation of a fire in my brick fire pit. I have a small lighter I carry with me.

The dogs, arranged artfully around me, the swing and the pit, their six dark eyes never leaving my every action, are lying quietly on the grass. I am home. Life is good. They are calm and content. Even the neurotic and antagonistic Chewy.

I assemble the ingredients for a back yard fire: loosely crumpled newspaper pages, thin strips of wood and twigs in a small pile, larger thicker branches and cut wood strips, then logs or in this case, the transformed ugly triangular basement cabinet. At each level of ignition, quickly burning newspaper raises the temperature of the twigs swiftly enough so that they begin to burn before the newspaper turns to grey ash. Sometimes, if it is damp or windy, I add a little more paper to insure that the twigs and kindling keep burning. That is stage two.

The twigs and kindling, visibly burning with small and fragile blue and yellow flames, flames offering virtually no heat and easily extinguishable in a sudden burst of evening wind, are ready for stage three.

Carefully, quickly, I arrange the larger branches, thin scrap wood and bits of old furniture sometimes with metal drawer handles still attached, all around the small fire, protecting it, boxing it in, sides and top, trapping the heat and the fire. This is a key moment.

Before the larger pieces of wood or branches can ignite, they have to be roasted for a while in order to char their outer surfaces and invite the small flames in to begin on a larger meal. By creating a teepee-shaped triangular wooden “jacket” around the young fire, I allow it to grow and singe the larger pieces. This takes longer than the newspaper burning the twigs. A successful campfire or backyard fire operate on the same principle; Protect the small flames and they will create a high enough temperature to cause the next level of wood to catch fire.

After that, when the fire is really going and too large to be blown out by a sudden gust of wind, the fourth stage is arranging logs, chunks of two by fours or whatever heavier material is on hand, both hard and soft wood all around the branches to recreate the same earlier situation again. After that, all the fire-maker has to do is maintenance. Whether the purpose is cooking, light or heat, wood is added for whatever the objective is. I wanted heat and light. Softwoods would get me what I wanted. I added more of that to the hungry fire, which is demanding more and more wood to keep it going.

The three dogs are mesmerized. I see the orange flames reflecting on the wet surfaces of their dark eyes. If it is cool out, they creep warily closer to the fire, both craving its warm comfort and fearing its danger at the same time. Each dog chooses its own spot near the roaring fire, and at whatever distance from it is most acceptable to each of them. Older dogs need more warmth to keep them comfortable. Younger dogs like to prance around the fire and tease it:

“Come and get me, Fire! Oh, yeah? Well, just try and catch me. I’m way too fast for ya!”

 As the fire wound down, I decided to place a flat piece of cabinet wood over all the other pieces to see what might happen. When you hit your sixties, simple things can be riveting.

The fire flickered, white swirling smoke poured out from all sides as the smothered fire gasped for breath, the heavy flat piece of wood too thick and heavy to burn away. But I didn’t intervene. I knew that a guerilla action was developing beneath the crushing weight of the oppressive plank of wood. In my imagination, the wood was the Roman army, once an overwhelming power, long ago.

I waited, the billowing smoke continuing, the once free now oppressed fire was beginning its rebellion. Free flames will not be crushed!

Then, in the gathering darkness, I saw a tiny flame thrust itself through the center of the thick wooden plank. Merely a salient, nothing to concern the supremacy of the Roman plank. Then, all of a sudden as dramatic as a Hollywood movie, a fist of flame burst through the plank, like Spartacus’ gladiators escaping from their prison, running in all directions! Free! Free! Free!

The fire had superheated the back of the plank, only a matter of time before a weak spot would give way. The moment that tiny flame burned its way through, greedily sucking in every breath of air it could consume, it caused the wide flame beneath the plank to explode through it with a re-energized force. The moment fresh air was theirs for the taking, the defiant orange, red and blue flames instantly consumed the plank as if it were mere newspaper, reducing it to coals and ash before my eyes.

Whatever you may think of my imagined historical drama, it was pretty damn exciting to watch.

The dogs? Probably snored through all of it.

I waited until the fire was grasping its last moments of life, the slight wind causing the coals to glow brightly, then subside back to black, then glow again. Over and over, disintegrating with every breath. Watching the death throes of a fire is dramatic and sad, the snuffing out of beauty just moments away.

When it was over, and I awoke from my reveries, leaning forward and pressing both of my palms on the stone to feel the warmth of my brick fire pit, the fire gone, but not forgotten.

Rousing Jasmine, Chewy and Betsy from their warm slumber, we all lumbered back into the house for the night. The light show was over. Time for all the weary mammals to sleep.

And we did.