We burned our brush pile today. Finally. It was sitting in the exact spot where I wanted to place our much-awaited, hand-me-down pool we’ve inherited from my parents. Needless to say – after unrolling the pool and wrestling with the pool and a garden hose in an attempt to clean said pool – I think burning the brush pile is going to be the easiest part.
I love fires. Not the type that leave destruction and broken hearts, of course. But the ones that you inevitably gather around to do nothing but hang out by the fire. The best part of burning brush is the sitting, the waiting, the endless poking of the fire and grabs for flaming sticks and always, always, nearly incinerating your eyebrows. After everyone else tired of the fire, I was still out there, in the twilight, beer in one hand, a book in the other. Birds were darting overhead, an owl was hooting in the distance, and the intermittent crack of early holiday fireworks rumbled in the distance. I had pulled up a little corner of heaven on the outskirts of Bangor, Maine. Then the COOLEST thing happened.
I looked up from my book to check on the fire to see the teeniest little deer face I have ever seen staring me down. It was smack in the middle of a patch of red clover and daisies, clearly enjoying itself and clearly not afraid of me. If this is one of the same deer that keeps eating my garden, oh well. It was to damn cute to worry about the tops of my tomato plants. After five or so minutes of grazing, it meandered toward the woods, white tail up, but certainly in no hurry. As sad as I am to not have pictures, I’m so grateful that I was paying attention and realizing that moment without spending my time digitizing an image.
Later on at least five more came out, but it was dark and I was tending the fire. They fled quickly once they realized I was there, but now that I am inside (writing instead of folding the enormous load of laundry sitting next to me), I am sure they’re right back at it. I just hope they leave my cabbage alone.