As the season changes over and the temperature begins to cool, I once again initiate my annual fall tradition of acquiring a fire pit. My first as a married man, but more importantly my first as a “more domesticated man.” Meaning I didn’t simply dig a hole in the ground and throw some bricks around said hole to use as a loose suggestion on where to contain fires.
Instead, I went to a store and bought a quaint fire pit using real money, a travesty of many proportions. I don’t know if this is more a homage to my wife for taming me further from the caveman like persona I portrayed when we met, using 2×4’s as furniture and disregarding central heating and air. Or the fact that I actually know my landlord instead of renting a run-down house from a 3rd party that could care less as long as my 200-dollar rent is paid. Either way, my fire game is going to be quite week this winter compared to the legendary standards I set in college.
Here is where I was planning on transitioning into a narrative about all the memorable fires I had made. Starting from burning paper with my brother on our back porch before school, and climaxing on the time when I was pretty confident that the fire department was going to show up to my house. Causing me to frantically extinguish our contained burn for deniable plausibility purposes after filling my neighborhood with smoke.
However, as I began to write out each instance, I came to the realization that every story is essentially the same. I start a small fire and then grow it larger and larger utilizing logs and other wood like substances. With the occasional deviation from this base model, adding in copper for pretty colors, or synthesized complex carbon chains to increase the fires rage. Either way, concluding with flames that shoot higher than my stature and smoke billowing into the bottom layers of the atmosphere. Of course, concluded with the stipulation to not try this at home because I am what you call an “expert.”
Instead I am going to use this moment as a disclaimer to all my Michigander friends to stop spuriously using the word bonfire to represent any small fire in a backyard. Maybe it’s because I graduated from Texas A&M,
or maybe it’s a history of pushing the limits of a controlled burn. Regardless of the root, whenever I hear bonfire I think, “better get a permit or else the police and or fire department are going to show up uninvited.”
Y’all can call backyard fires whatever you want, but if you don’t want me to show up with a pickup truck packed down with wood accompanied by a structural plan on how to build the stack. Then think about using verbiage such as sitting outside around a candle, or the yule log movie from Netflix. Help me help you manage my pyrotechnic talents, otherwise I may have no choice but to show you what the word bonfire really means.
This concludes my public service announcement.
As always make good choices, share if you like what I said, comment if you have something to add, consider subscribing, and I will see you on Tuesday.