October is an undependable friend.
Sometimes it's a good host, and we enjoy unseasonable warmth for a few days. The trees turn slowly; the last week seems to be holding November at bay. Other years, it gets bored halfway through and hands it off to winter: "Here, you take it over, I'm done." Folks 'round these parts still talk of the Great Halloween Blizzard. They were still finding trick-or-treaters in the receding snowbanks in April, all brightly wrapped and hard, like Jolly Ranchers.
However this one plays out, right now it's time for sitting by the fire in the evening, if you have a backyard. There are a few options.
A Chiminea, which sounds like a Mary Poppins lyric. "Chim-chiminey Chim-chiminey Chiminea for you / no heat will you feel, it goes up the flue." I stoked that thing like a locomotive, and it was like sitting next to an unplugged space heater.
A wood fire pit. I had one of those. Trouble was, it originally was a gas fire pit, but one day I turned on the gas and heard a hissing sound. Snake? Unlikely. You could shrug and proceed to light it, but your eulogy would contain the line: "He left this world like he entered it: screaming and wet, surrounded by doctors." Or you can be sensible and turn off the gas.
Thereafter it was used for wood fires, which are the best. (Obligatory note: Unless you are sensitive to the smoke and particulates, of course.) You feel hardy when you smell of smoke, as though you've portaged a canoe for six miles and just ate beans out of a whittled bowl.
The snap of the wood, the tendrils of smoke rising from a sullen sodden log, the brief flurry of hope when you poke the ruins and the flame rises again for a minute, the sudden cinder in the eye — you are involved with a wood fire. You tend it, nurse it, coax it, all the while imagining the dim shape of Smokey Bear at the end of the yard, shovel in hand, an impassive look on his face, hoping you remember to put it out.
"Only you can prevent forest fires. Also garage fires. Forest, and garage fires. Only you."
