The Fireplace

A little over a year ago a massive snow storm had blanketed northern California. The kind of storm that hits the area about once every ten years. Upwards of three feet of snow had fallen in the area around my parent’s home in Yreka, stranding holiday motorists in the metropolis of Yreka because the pass over the hill to Oregon, the Siskiyou summit, was closed. After the roads had opened, my dad decided to check on our cabin outside of the small hamlet of Etna. My dad was always active. Not in that hyper way that shouted out that he needed attention, but in the manner of someone who must have woken up some morning and thought “gee there’s a lot of good stuff to do!” So before my dad left to head over the Forest summet to our cabin, he halled in some logs and kindling from outside, crumpled up newspapers, and set our fireplace ready for a fire. He didn’t light a fire, he just set it up in case my mom or sister might want to start a fire to keep warm.
A year ago today, my dad never returned to light or find a lit fire. He had a heartattack when he arrived at our cabin. It’s a cliche to say it, but there’s not a day that I don’t think about him. My dad was, in many ways, my spiritual mentor (certainly one of the reasons I am not a religious person.) In my parent’s home (my home) until today, we never lit that fire my dad set ready.
Today, as you can surely imagine, was destined to be a tough day for my mom. So she had a brunch with some our close friends and she decided, after a year, to light the fire. At first I was sad for the loss of the symbol of my dad’s love for his family. And then I began to laugh. A good laugh straight from the belly. Because I thought: while many men’s fire goes out the day they die, my dad cheated and his fire got an extra year on life.