Writing With Fire

Photo by Dave Merwin

For a couple of weeks each summer, my cousins and I would visit my grandparents in New Hampshire. They had 40 acres on a hill in the southern New Hampshire forests. It was land that was growing a second forest after being farmed at the turn of the century and was charming as hell: old barns, stone walls, ponds around every corner. You couldn't help but love being a kid in New England in the summer.

Days consisted of baking with Grandma and getting into trouble with Pop. He'd let us use tools, shoot rifles, and swim and fish to our hearts' content. In the evenings, we'd fire up the grill and roast hot dogs and hamburgers., I only remember a few meals from that time. They had an entire acre of wild blueberries, so we'd pick them every day, and then my grandmother would make a blueberry cobbler. And we roasted hot dogs on a stick and ate them with cheap white hot dog buns that were magic. So my summer meals consisted of blueberry pancakes, blueberry cobbler, and hot dogs—everything a kid could need.

We had endless hours to explore and get into trouble. We'd play in the ponds when it wasn't raining. There were springs on the property that had frogs and newts. When it rained, we'd explore the ancient house that was supposed to have treasure buried under the massive fireplace. If it rained for two days in a row, we'd be off to town looking through all the antique shops. Start 'em early. The shops seemed to go on forever, and they had every sort of trinket and piece of junk that you could imagine. My grandparents knew better than to take us to an actual antique shop.

A grove of Japanese Knotweed grew behind a stone wall and had a sizeable dead apple tree in the middle of it. We could create alleyways and rooms by breaking the knotweed off and building walls with what came down. Or we could use the knotweed as swords or guns to hold the aliens at bay.

All the cousins worked together to build, but I don't know that we were all making the same thing. We just happened to agree that a room should go here, and space should go there. To me, they were a command and control center and a prison room. To my sister, they could be where bears lived. So we occupied the space together but at different times and universes.

Being an old farm, the property had various sundries to discover. Ancient bottles, rusted bits of brace, or a misshapen tool. These all provided fuel for our imagination and made it possible to dream anything.

All these years later, it feels like a cocoon. It was a safe space—a place set apart from the world. My grandparents were always that for me. They created a space where I could go and be safe from what was clawing at the door. Violence, pain, the larger world was not a kind place. But my grandparents were a wonderful refuge that I got to experience. They taught me how to care for myself in small ways that still resonate today.

One night we ate dinner late., My grandfather dragged the Weber grill to the south side of the house which, being on a hill, had been cleared to open the view. You could see to the horizon, and on the horizon was Mount Monadnock. A granite peak, bare of trees and sharp against the horizon. Local legend had it that the top had been burned off to kill a pack of wolves and had never recovered. So it remained barren. This story conjured visions in my head of angered villagers brandishing torches, a burning forest, and a terrified pack of wolves. It's strange; standing and watching a tragic fire happen is something that we do as humans—feeling powerless and unable to turn away.

Fire entranced me. The same way you feel when you stand on a cliff's edge and wonder what it would be like to jump. It captivated me and was a forbidden yet completely present and useful part of my life. I had seen the destruction caused firsthand by a chimney fire in a family member's home and a fire in my mother’s home. I suppose I was just a normal boy, fascinated by things that could hurt me.

With the coals hot, we cooked our hot dogs and made smores. When we were done eating, dusk was upon us, and the fireflies emerged. They lit up in the clearing to the south, and we watched the flickers of light across to the horizon. And then my grandmother did a strange thing.

Without saying a word, she stood up, picked up her roasting stick, and shoved it into the fire. She waited till a large part of the stick's end was a red ember, and she pulled it out and began to write in the sky.

She spelled our names, drew simple pictures, and created things I had never seen before. The light from the stick in the night blurred as it passed. Making a momentary neon sign that disappeared as soon as you knew what it was. It was beautiful. And she finally pronounced, "That was fire writing."

She had us grab our roasting sticks, heat them up and then begin writing in the air. If you spun them fast enough, they would create holes in the air. A slow cursive meant you created a word that faded across time. Now, as an adult looking back, I see four kids waving sticks of fire around in the backyard, oblivious to safety concerns and my grandparents hoping that they don't catch the yard on fire.

To this day, my family still writes with fire. My kids have done this around the campfire since they were little. Sometimes the people who are the safest will be the people who want you to play with fire.