WIWAB - Smoke Gets In Your Eyes

Back at camp, Dad takes the fish down to the river and dumps the few remaining minnows from our bucket into the second one. By the time he's back I'm in my dry clothes, and they feel good.

"Had to tie the big fish to a tree," he said. "He was too big to fit through the neck of the live-net. I hope the turtles or snakes don't get him over night."

Snakes?

Dad strips off his waders and puts on his shoes. He's crumpled up probably an entire Sunday edition of newspaper on the ground then piled a few handfuls of twigs over it. He pulls a box of matches from his pocket and strikes two together on the lighting strip. They flare and he holds them to some of the corners of the newspaper.

"Your grandpa always said he could burn down city hall if he had enough newspaper. ... This stuff's gotten wet in the dew though. Can't get it to go."

The paper would flare briefly as he held the match to it but die to an ember once he pulled the match away. "Dog gone it. Go get me some more paper from the car, boy." A stack several inches high lay in the trunk of the car. I brought a handful back.

He crumpled up several sheets, added them to the pile. He twisted a final sheet into something resembling a torch and lit it. He used that to start on fire the mound of paper. The new dry sheets jumped into flame. He added small twigs and watched as they began to burn.

"Can't put too much on at once. Smothers it. Few at at time, putting bigger stuff on as you go."

Pretty soon a campfire blazed under the trees. He put a couple of the bigger logs on. I reached to put two more on myself. "Whoa, boy. No need for all that. Remember what the Indians said about the American settlers: 'Indian build small fire, sit close, keep warm. White-man build big fire; keep warm gathering firewood.'"

He pulled up a couple logs closer to the fire and sat down on them. "That's better. Lot a' walking today. Feels good to sit. Go get me a beer and the radio, eh?"

I walked to the car and pulled the battery operated radio -- only slightly smaller than a shoe box -- from the back seat. On the way back toward the fire I pulled a beer and a cola from the water that now filled the ice chest. A couple forlorn pieces of ice floated in the cooler, knowing their minutes were numbered.

Turning on the radio he said, "White Sox may be on. They're playing on the West Coast." and he began fiddling with the radio moving it back and forth, twisting the antenna left and right, trying to get a signal. The low hills forming the river valley must have interfered with the reception. Finally a static-backed voice came out of the tiny speakers, "Hoyt Wilhelm pitching tonight. It's humid here in Los Angles, perfect for the knuckle-baller." Dad sat back on his logs, stretched his legs toward the fire, sighed and opened his beer. I sat a few feet away, sighed, and opened my cola. Lightening bugs flew in the darkness outside the circle of the fire. We heard an owl from up the river, "Who who whoooo."

I took a sip of cola and looked at the flames. I picked up a longer stick from behind me and gave the fire a poke, moving a twig that wasn't quite burning into the flames. Another poke and a larger stick that had been poking above the heat of the fire was now burning fiercely in the embers. I broke my stick in two and threw the pieces on the fire. Not quite where I wanted. I reached behind me for another stick.

Just then the smoke that had been rising straight up into the trees seemed to bend as though touched by an unseen hand -- bent parallel to the ground and right over where I was sitting. My eyes started to sting. I stood up and looked at the fire. I picked up one end of the log that I'd been sitting on and dragged it around to the other side of the fire. I walked back into the smoke, got my cola, picked up another stick, and walked back to sit on my log again -- opposite the smoke.

A tinny voice said, "... was a passed ball if there'd been a runner on. He's having a devil of a time catching that knuckler tonight even with that over-sized mitt. ..."

Then I was in smoke again. What? I coughed and rubbed my eyes. Now the smoke was bending a full 180-degrees from where it had been before.

Dad said, "I don't know why it does that. Used to follow your Uncle Bert the same way. Could never figure it out. You might as well sit down. It's going to go where ever you go. Besides it keeps the bugs away."

I stood up and moved my log out of the smoke. Sat again. In a few minutes, the smoke was flowing all around me. Dad sighed and smiled.

"Stee-rike three. He's out and we're tied zero-zero here in the bottom of the first inning here in Anaheim."

I poked the fire with my stick. The smoke was drifting Dad's way now.