Oct 17, 2016 3 min read

As hay season winds down, we typically head to the pastures to work at the never-ending battle of clearing banks and fighting invasive plants. We often claim small victories, occasionally larger ones, but the battle never ends.

We know how to have a good time at it, however. Chainsaws, tree pruners, the skid steer, a winch and brute strength all combine to make an overgrown area look like a park. Brute strength used to be my forte, but a hand injury prevents my grip from being classified as strong anymore.

Now, I build the fire. It is done with as few papers and cardboard as possible, though this weekend’s wood was damper than I like it to be, therefore requiring more. Once the fire is going, we sit together and watch its flames rise and fall, knowing that we accomplished this thing together. (Well, my husband and I relish that part; I think the kids watch it knowing that s’mores are forthcoming.)

After dinner is over, we stoke the fire again, adding whatever branches and twigs remain in the area. Once it seems safe to leave it, we head to the house. Many times, there are enough coals left the following day that we pile it up again and cook something different for another dinner in the woods. It is one of my favorite times of the year.

The fall weekends are bittersweet, though. The darkness creeps in earlier, and the chill in the air is more pronounced, as winter is stretching her fingers over the land, looking for a place to grab hold.

The early darkness makes the second building of the fire a slightly dangerous operation. The kids drag branches, brambles and rotten logs toward the fire, sometimes unaware of the length of the path they are making.

Such was the case this weekend, as my son dragged a limb toward the coals. The end of the limb, only an inch or two in diameter, scraped across my back as he lumbered along. Perhaps it was the surprise of it, but it really hurt. I made quite a fuss about it, much to the dismay of my son, who couldn’t stop apologizing.

When I had my husband look at the area in question by the light of the UTV’s headlamps, he told me there was no mark. Knowing there had to be a scrape – if not a fist-sized bruise – I had him look again. Nothing.

The pain intensified with this new, invisible blow. (No, wait, that new pain was to my pride, I think.) By the following morning, it had appeared. A tiny red welt, smaller even than the diameter of that tiny limb, had developed overnight. Vindicated, I pointed at it in the bathroom mirror.

“Haha,” I yelled.

“Still tiny,” my husband replied. “Far smaller than one would have thought from the ruckus you made.”

True story. I’m a wuss.

But we got the bank cleared, and that’s what counts. With school nights not permitting us to build and burn through the week, I’ve got at least five days to heal up before our next venture.

Just between you and me, I need it.

Laura Zoeller can be reached at zoeller5@verizon.net.