The First Fire of the Season

Fall has finally arrived in North Carolina. Sort of. It's mid-October, and the outside temperature has finally dipped below 70 degrees. Is this really cold enough to justify a trip to the woodpile? Not in Minnesota, it isn't. But we're not in Minnesota any more. It's October in the South, and even though there isn't even a hint of color in the foliage, we're enjoying carmelled apples and the crackle of the fire.
As Garrison Keillor puts it, "There are no simple changes in this life. You divorce Minnesota for the California coast [or the North Carolina Piedmont!], a rational move, and all is well for a while, but then October rolls around . . . and suddenly you miss fall. Terribly. You miss the delicious sadness of a fall day, the blazing yellow birches and aspen, the red and orange and yellow maples, the red sumac, the oaks turning orange, the air smelling of old horses and potaoes and wood smoke and rotting logs. The great monument of trees, the sweet air, the keys to memory, to your story. You've become an occupant of a house, a credit-card holder, an insuree, a face on driver's license. October is the connection to when you were eight years old and the splendor in the woods, the pageantry of trees, red and gold and ochre, and the sweetness of the chill air. You long for it." (In Search of Lake Wobegon, 116)
Yes, we do. But at least we've got the wood smoke. Better go open the flew a tad more...