At 62…The Power of a Fire

It’s the simple things that surprise me. Tonight, I made a fire in the wood stove.

It’s a much bigger deal than it sounds.

Mike and I grew up in the same small Arkansas town. We were friends since we were small kids, but our upbringing couldn’t have been more different. Mike grew up outdoors, hunting and fishing, hiking, helping his dad with horses and cattle, operating tractors and boats and four-wheelers and motorcycles. Yes, he liked to read, but Mike wasn’t an inside kid by any means.

I, on the other hand, was practically forbidden to go outside. Mama redefined the term “over-protective mother”. If I sat on the ground, it was on a quilt. I wasn’t allowed to make mud pies, couldn’t get dirty, playing ball was out of the question, and running was frowned upon – it was a very long list of restrictions. Finally, at ten years old, I was allowed to ride a bike, and I was darn good at it. Roller skating was encouraged, and amazingly, I stayed mostly upright. I could swim like a fish and had an almost perfect dive, thanks to Daddy’s coaching. Those were the extent of my outdoor skills.

After graduation, I moved to Houston. In the heat and humidity of America’s fourth largest city, I was hermetically sealed inside air-conditioned venues for the next 42 years. I worked in broadcast facilities and offices. My hobbies were reading, crafts, antiquing, writing, making jewelry – all inside activities.

And then Michael came back into my life. I was more than ready to break out of my shell, and MIke exploded it into small bits. Things I would have previously found inconceivable, I took in stride. If Mike told me it was safe, I followed without question. And I wanted to learn to do everything that he knew how to do.

Mike loved teaching me what he called “country girl skills”. Pretty soon, I was driving the four-wheeler, raising and caring for chickens, learning to operate power tools, and so much more. In Alaska, Mike taught me the very basics of driving the boat, how to hook up propane tanks, to blow out water lines and winterize the cabin, to catch and clean fish – I discovered something new every day. And I learned to build a fire – in the fire pit, in the wood stove, in the fireplace – I learned to make fire and to keep it going. I loved being out of doors, and I loved my life.

I did the gross stuff, too – fishing the dead rooster out of the water barrel, cleaning out the truly disgusting cabin our winter renter left behind, and disposing of the half-decomposed animals brought home by Gus, our blue heeler. Gloves, bleach, and a long sturdy stick allowed me to do wondrous things.

And then Mike died, taking all of my confidence in my new life with him. I was fine for awhile. I carried on for most of 2019, continuing to learn and to grow. But the combined avalanche of grief, pain, hip replacement, retinal detachment, and recovery finally overwhelmed me. With Covid lockdowns, my world condensed to my chair, my desk, and my bed. I rarely spent time outdoors. My new-found confidence vanished, depression took over, and it was just easier to let Catlin do it.

But that’s not what I want out of life. Several months ago, I decided to start reclaiming my life in a myriad of ways. A dear friend told me this week that my voice is different on the phone. I asked her what she meant. She said that I sound strong and vibrant again – I don’t sound sick anymore. And that took me aback, because I thought I was the only one who knew how broken I had become.

I loved that woman that Mike awakened. And sometime this winter, she blasted out of her hiding place. I don’t know why or when it happened, but I know she’s back.

Maybe it’s because I’m physically feeling better and stronger. Maybe it’s because I’m busy, working on interesting projects, getting out of the house, and making plans for the future.

Or maybe it’s that Mike gave me a figurative boot in the butt from the great beyond – just like he would do if he were here in person. He would simply tell me that enough is enough – it’s time to get back to the business of living.

Mike always told me before I set off to do anything on my own – “Go, girl. Make us proud.”

And so, today, I made fire. And in one way or another, I will continue to do so – at 62 and beyond.