The weather was great and I wanted to go camping (despite not really being “up to it”.) So I announced to Mrs. Curmudgeon “I’m going to go set some shit on fire” and sauntered out the door. This caused absolutely no drama. She’s used to me. I have a genuine forest that’s all my own. It had rained recently so it wasn’t high fire danger. Given pretty much unlimited campfire wood and a place to use it… why not have a campfire?
Ten minutes later I was sitting in a lawn chair next to a very tiny fire. A storm knocked down several trees, some in my yard. I’ve been beavering away at one of them, processing firewood in tiny increments. (I call it my “workout routine”.) The place it fell made for a fine little clearing amid other shading trees. My coming and going (hauling the debris away) had cleared it fairly well.
I didn’t want to damage any tree roots so I parked a Redcamp Wood Burning Folding Camp Stove on a hefty chunk of wood. (Don’t fret, it didn’t burn into its base, which will become firewood in due time anyway. I was merely sparing root damage on already stressed trees.)
It wasn’t cold. Logically, I didn’t need a fire. Psychologically, I did.
I had incomplete ideas about cooking brats but I wasn’t hungry. I just basked by the little fire. My dog loves camping. She defines it as me sitting by a fire and cooking treats she’ll get to sample. She rolled in the leaves; happily picking from the pile of firewood I’d gathered and chewing her selections to bits.
That’s all it took; sticks, a match, a chair, a dog. It was a good day.
Mrs. Curmudgeon eventually texted “If you’ve got a campfire, I’d like to join you. Where?” I texted “in the yard”. Imagine our strange technological world. We send mini-telegrams halfway around the world, to get snooped on and archived by our own government, only to land not 100 yards away. I wandered to the garage, gathered a spare lawn chair, and returned to my post; monitoring the little fire.
Even after decades of marriage I don’t always pick up the feminine vibe. Mrs. Curmudgeon can sense a mosquito from 20 miles, swears it will find her immediately, and often explains to me that this is unacceptable. I hardly notice bugs… because I trained myself not to. Mosquitoes are like rain or lightning, things that happen in our turbulent planet. Things happen with or without us and that’s all there is to it. Approval by over-clocked apes with awesome power at their command and mind control devices in their pockets is neither sought nor required. I take measures about mosquitoes but if I get bit, so what? (Another thing about which I should be thankful, malaria isn’t endemic where I live.)
I gradually realized Mrs. Curmudgeon expected more than a chair. I setup my Gazelle G5 screen tent and mostly ignored it. I also had my little shortwave radio playing (just FM). By the time I’d gathered a second pile of sticks for the dog to wreck, Mrs. Curmudgeon was there.
She brought food! Holy shit! Food delivery to a campfire?!? How sweet is that? We ate in the warm breeze while the dog begged indiscreetly and got more treats than any dog needs.
Now I had momentum. If there’s a screen tent and it’s warm, why go back in the house? I dragged out my cot, mattress, and a cheap sleeping bag (no need for a “good” bag in such mild conditions). The sun was about to set. Mrs. Curmudgeon detected a mosquito and disappeared in the house, trailed by the dog. I was alone.
That’s enough typing for today. Stay tuned for Part 3.
