“There’s something about sitting around a campfire,” he says, “It’s like you have a friend.” And I know exactly what he means.
There have been times in my life where I have crossed paths with people who simply make sense to me; we connect, and understanding is easy. I can’t really explain it. I can’t reason it to light. It just is. My dad is one of those persons.
We sit around the campfire, warmly embraced in its familiar glow, and carelessly talk on whatever comes to the surface. Stories of his youth, things he’s never told anyone; like abandoning his friend who busted his nose when riding a calf they weren’t supposed to ride; and trying to float a canoe loaded with three grown men up the Green River by the lacking force of a makeshift motor. We laugh, and I enjoy his reminiscing, while I urgently try to store the moment to memory, to hang on to him while I have him.
So we laugh together at the stupid things he did as a kid, and I capture his face in my mind while he’s laughing. And I laugh when he wanders up to me along the edge of the lake while I’m mid cast with a sheepish grin on his face. I’m puzzled as he extends his pocket knife to me. But then I see his Rapala tangled in his sweatshirt and I understand. And I capture the moment in my mind. I store it away somewhere special, somewhere sacred.
We relish in the outdoor cooking that has always been his specialty. I request sausage, pancakes and eggs for breakfast. Not because this is what I usually eat (believe me, it’s not), but because it is how I remember him and our time together from when I was a kid. It is a memory, one that I can still enjoy as a reality. So I enjoy it and store it away. I tuck it somewhere deep inside and it tastes good.
The stars linger above us as we wonder at them. Satellites whip by and inspire conversations of conspiracies. Always conspiracies. It makes me laugh.
Stories of time spent with Grandpa Winn, the desert, old mountain men, conspiracies . . . this is how our evening passes. And I take it all in. I don’t usually like to be smothered in the smell of a campfire, but for this . . . gladly. And I store it all away, tucked somewhere deep inside, somewhere special, somewhere sacred.
Even in my ignorance, there are certain things I know in life. I will never have enough time with this man. This I know. So I tuck him away somewhere deep inside, somewhere special, somewhere sacred and hope for more time.