Winter denies Northerners of their sanity. I went to work, feeling the usual thrill of Friday, and thought, wow, it’s snowing again. Imagine that. I felt like I was living in a constant winter-land…

Truly, it is hard to remember what heat feels like. A spring jacket? Short sleeves? What’s that?

My Dad gets wild ideas. Tonight, he yelled up the stairs, “Kids! Winter cookout! Andrea, can you get the onions and condiments together, please?” I don’t like the word condiments. Normally, I don’t like the words ‘winter cookout‘, either… but I’ve learned from past experiences to just smile and get the condiments.

“Sure, Dad.” I had been sleeping deeply, and went back to that happily. There’s something about needing to get up that makes sleep sound even better.

When my brother Jon and I shuffled out there, we were delighted to see that my Dad had shoveled a path way through the backyard, leading to our cozy campfire. The knee-high walls of snow seemed cool somehow. It took me back to a time when my brother and I used to try to make forts. But this, tonight, was the coolest fort of all times, and it even involved fire.

Lawn chairs surrounded the fire pitt, and my Dad eagerly told us we each had a log to put our feet on.

“To keep your feet from getting wet!”, he explained happily.

My Dad is happiest around a campfire. I’m not exactly sure why. I think maybe it has something to do with ‘child hood memories’ or something inspiring like that. He told us mid-bite of charred hot dog, that he used to make winter-campfires as a boy, and he can still remember sipping hot chocolate, and biting into a fruit-filled cookie. He would look out on the lake, and keep warm by the fire. Even as he told us the enchanting story, his eyes stared deeply into the fire as though there was a little boy in there. Jon and I said nothing, but kept twisting our sticks of hotdogs, trying to keep our knuckle hairs from singeing off.

Warmth. There’s an issue there. The fire was hot, no doubt about it. However, I have learned that all fires in cold weather have a curse. One half of you is always cold. That is the curse of the campfire. The minute your legs feel like they’re about to roast and enter an edible state, your back is an ice-prick of wind and dampness. Then, you turn and the situation reverses itself. You could almost get exercise trying to keep yourself warm. The exercise alone might warm you, but then again, the exercise could violently land you too near the fire and do away with you all together. Not the desired experience at all.

My Dad makes corny jokes when he’s happy. I set myself up comfortably. I had a mug of milk stationed in the snow. The thought of its’ ice-coldeyness makes me shiver even now. After roasting my first marshmellow and creating a chocolate-melting phenomenon of a smore, I stuck my long fork in the snow to cool it down. When my Dad borrowed mine, he melted off the snow by putting it in the fire.

“Look at that snow!” he said, clearly delighted at his power over the stick. He pointed to the marshmellow and joked, “Look, that bit of snow won’t come off. My goodness that snow has resilience! It’s amazing! Jonathan, Andrea, look. The snow’s not melting!”

“That’s marshmellow, Dad,” I said, my voice monotone and unimpressed. I kept my marshmellow turning rapidly in the fire because I fear I am not the patient type.

“It’s snow!” he said, his undeterred eyes blazing a light of their own.

Jon remarked, “Look. Wow. Andrea’s snow is on fire.”

That’s the great thing about marshmellows. They catch fire really easily, and on more than one occasion I’ve watched people make a dramatic affair out of it. “Oh!”, they cry, looking about to see if anyone’s watching, and then they say even louder, “My marshmallow’s on fire!” duh. Then they wave the stick bravely through the air, grimacing just in case the fire travels up the metal and bites their hands off. While every one jeers, the person blows spit wads by the thousands about the campfire, to put the thing out. Then, there is silence. Smoke. Then the sound of crunching burnt marshmellow in someone’s mouth. In the end, it’s no big deal. Thus was the reason why I calmly blew the thing out (avoiding all the other brilliant steps) and glared victoriously at my brother.

He threw a snow ball, remarking calmly on what great packing-quality it was. I threw it back, taking it personally. My Dad kept staring happily into the fire.