Wasn't It Yesterday: Campfire flames

J.D. Francis

You have to wonder, who comes up with these sorted alternate uses for various products, and how do they arrive at the end results? A can of coke cleans battery cables, windex kills wasps and bugs, or one I can relate to, a can of beer (if you can refrain from drinking it) will loosen rusty bolts and clean gold jewelry. Vics’ vapo-rub (if regularly applied) will remove stretch marks, now there's a Tallboy I need to invest in.

Tonight isn't going to be one of my typical campfire, camping nights. I came prepared with the "copper pipe" recipe, another one of those alternate uses for a product.

In accordance with the simple directions, I threw my copper pipe into the campfire and anxiously awaited my "starflight" ride. In minutes, the fire burst out into mystical, colorful images like I’d never seen before. The flames individually whipped, waved, and twisted in magical rainbow reflections, like the saw-toothed, ragged edge of a dragon's tail.

It's impossible to glare into an open fire for very long, without getting lost in the waves and cascades of the hypnotic flames. I was baptized by the melody of the crackling embers, and off on a journey to where the warm brilliant colors led me...a campsite of long ago. As I recall, it was the first time I’d ever slept outdoors in a tent.

My brother Frank, two cousins Gary and Daryl, and myself, mapped out an area in the freshly mowed back yard. With a sledge hammer we commenced to pounding the stakes into the ground of our future canvas mansion. This was a tent of pipes and poles so there was some obvious assembly required. With one pole into the next, it didn't take that long to finish. It took even less time to fill it with all the required camping necessities, sleeping bags, pillows, flashlights, extra batteries, and of course the transistor radio.

Taking all necessary precautions for a mosquito-free environment, we zipped the tent up, down, and sideways making sure there were no gaps in the screens to allow for any unwanted tenants. Though it wasn't a "brick and mortar" job, the stage was set, and it was going to be home for the evening. We all crawled into our warm, cozy, sleeping bags, and watched the dark of night fall across the tent. With the lantern down low, we shared an evening of jokes and schoolyard stories, and listening to the half-tuned songs the radio did its best to bring us. One by one the conversations dropped off until I was, as typical for me, the last one coherent.

It was an eerie, scary feeling, for a wide-eyed 8-year-old to face the night alone. I flinched at every typical sound of the darkness, never heard or noticed in the comforts of my own bed.

A gust of wind rattled the zipper clasps of the canvas, but somehow, I heard the chains clanking on the gates of Christmas past. Moon shadows splashed through the limbs of the old oak tree, but I seen reflections of monster's claws ripping and tearing at the fragile canvas. I heard an echo of a dog barking way off in the distance, but in my mind, it was a vicious, hungry, wolf roaming and prowling as close as our scent away. I rose at the sound of a hoot owl softly calling out, who, who, who, followed by the shaky voice of an old man crying who, who, who stole my golden arm. I clenched my sleeping bag, covered my face, dug in deep, and found myself back at a "copper pipe" campfire, starring at the most beautiful, brilliant-colored flames I’ve ever seen. It's impossible to glare into an open fire for very long, without drifting off and getting lost somewhere in the waves and cascades of the hypnotic flames.

J.D. Francis is a businessman and developer living in Waverly who also writes a monthly feature called "Teacher Feature" He can be reached at [email protected].

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