Fire building — I've heard it called an art. If so, he's a master — like his Dad. We still joke that his Dad's fires "could melt your eyeglasses." We remember leaving the room to cool off at times, but his Dad loved tending a roaring fire. He does, too; and I love seeing him do what he loves! Our weather at Shenango was on the cooler side, which made the roaring all the more welcome. We made s'mores, and my marshmallow caught fire. Mmmm, burnt, just the way I like it — like my Mom.
The echoes of beauty you've seen transpire,
resound through dying coals of a campfire.
— Ernest Hemingway
